Part 6

As quick in action as in thought, Jill darted into the house and soon returned with her Bible in her hand. For some minutes she turned over the leaves of it unsuccessfully, then an under-gardener passed her.

Now this young man was a local chapel preacher, and Jill had heard some of the servants call him "a shining light." She looked up at him inquiringly.

"Tom," she said, "what is the very goodest thing to do when you want to be really good?"

Tom scratched his head.

"'Tis God's Word will tell 'ee, Miss Jill. There be that sayin' of Apostle James--'Pure religion an' undefiled is to visit the widows and fatherless in their affliction, and to keep oneself unspotted from the world.' 'Tisn't many that get beyond that!"

"Thank you," said Jill in delight. "Please show me the verse in case I may forget it."

So Tom took her Bible in his hand and found it for her, then went on his way; and Jill began to formulate her plans with great rapidity.

"'Unspotted from the world' means, of course, not to tumble down and dirty my frock on the way to the Golden City. That I'm trying to do hard, but I haven't visited any widows, and I know there are two or three in the village. That will be a lovely way of doing good. I will go at once."

But alas for Jill! Mona was calling her to come and pick some flowers for her.

For a minute she thought of running away, then her conscience told her--

"That will not be running in a straight road," and she reluctantly obeyed her sister's call, and picked flowers till the bell rang for the school-room dinner.

She was not free from lessons till four o'clock. Then, without saying a word to any one, she put on her hat and ran out of the house and down the long drive as fast as her legs could carry her. She knew one old widow by sight, but she had never been inside her cottage. She was rather shunned by her neighbours, as she was a very dirty, thriftless woman, and earned her living by collecting rags and bones.

Jill knocked at her door eagerly and breathlessly.

The old woman poked her head out and looked at her crossly.

"What do 'ee want?"

"I've come to visit you."

"Don't want no visits from plaguey children!"

The door was banged in her face.

Poor Jill retired discomfited. Then she thought of another widow who had lately lost her husband, a very respectable farmer. She lived at a farm some distance off, but distance was no detriment to Jill's purpose.

Away she went; across fields and down lanes; getting more tired and heated every step she took.

She found the young woman at her wash-tub.

"May I come in and visit you?" asked Jill meekly.

"Come in and welcome, miss. I think you be one of the little ladies belongin' to Miss Baron?"

"Yes, I am," said Jill, seating herself on a low stool with a sigh of relief. "I'm glad you will let me come in. Old Mrs. Jonas wouldn't!"

"That old cat! Why, miss! you be never tryin' to visit her?"

"I'm visiting all the widows I can find to-day," said Jill solemnly. "The Bible tells me to."

Young Mrs. Drake put her apron to her eyes.

"Aye, dearie me! My poor, dear husban'! To think that I be called a widder along wi' that old good-for-nothin' Mrs. Jonas! Oh, 'tis a cruel, wicked world, and hard on me that has allays done me duty an' attended church reg'lar!"

"Don't cry, please," said Jill, only dimly understanding the drift of her words. "You can't help being a widow, you know. That's why I've come to see you. And I've come to see your children too, because it says the 'fatherless!'----"

But at this Mrs. Drake began to sob afresh, and so violently that Jill felt quite alarmed.

"So they be! 'Fatherless.' An' only last Wednesday three weeks he were a dandlin' of 'em on his knee. Oh, 'tis hard, 'tis cruel hard on a poor, single woman!"

A hard-featured woman put her head in at the door.

"Why, Polly, what be 'ee makin' such a moan over?"

Then seeing Jill, she stepped forward.

Mrs. Drake sobbed the louder.

"Little miss have been mindin' me that I'm a lone widder, and my chillen fatherless. So they be, the poor critturs, but 'tis hard to have it thrown up agen me! Ah, my poor dear husban'! Oh, Jim, Jim! why did 'ee leave me?"

She began to beat her hands to and fro, and seemed to be hysterically inclined.

"Run away," said the hard-featured woman. "You won't do no good here, missy. Poor soul! she has been well-nigh distracted, and I were hopin' she were gettin' over the worst of it, and now she be so bad as ever!"

Jill crept out of the house feeling her visit had been a failure.

As she gained the high-road again, she met Sir Henry Talbot, whom Bumps still called the "keeper."

He was very good to the children, and stopped directly he saw her.

"Hulloo!" he said. "Are you having another truant day? Are you all alone?"

"I'm not truanting," said Jill. "I've been looking for widows. Do you know any, Sir Henry?"

He laughed.

"I do. Now, what the dickens do you want widows for? Tell me, and I'll help you."

Jill hesitated.

"You won't laugh at me?"

"On my honour, no."

"I'm trying to be double-good to-day, so I'm visiting them, like the Bible says we must."

Sir Henry did not laugh. He only stood and looked at her.

"And what do you say to them when you see them?"

"That's the difficult part," said Jill. "I don't quite know what to say. I've been to one widow, and she wouldn't let me in, and I've been to another, and made her cry."

"And now you're looking for a third. Well, I will help you. Do you see that big house behind the trees over there? A widow lives there, and her name is Mrs. Beresford. Go and see her, and make her cry if you can."

"But I don't want to make them cry,' said Jill. 'Will she like to see me?"

"I should think she would. I should, if I were a widow."

"Has she any children? I want to visit some fatherless."

"Happy thought! Come home and have some tea with me. I'm a fatherless creature. My father died when I was an infant."

"I think," said Jill slowly, "the Bible means poor widows and fatherless. You aren't in affliction, are you?"

"No," said Sir Henry. "I can hardly say I am."

"Then thank you very much, but I shall have to look for some really poor people."

And nothing that he could say would induce her to accompany him home.

She plodded back to the village, but before she reached it, she came upon a little party of tramps who had drawn up their pony and cart by the roadside, and were eating their evening meal.

They were not prepossessing in appearance. Two women, both of whom seemed careworn and down-trodden, four children, ragged and dirty, and a sullen, bad-tempered looking man. Jill looked at them with interest. One of the women had a rusty piece of crape on her bonnet. It was that which prompted Jill to speak.

"Are you a widow?" she asked.

The woman stared at her, but the elder one of the two gave her a nudge, then answered for her.

"Yes, little lady, she be, indeed; lost her por husban' a few weeks ago, an' leaves 'er with three chillen under four year. 'Ave you a copper, miss, to give 'er? for she be on her way to the 'ouse."

"I'm afraid I haven't any money," said Jill, "but I'll sit down and talk to her. It's what I came out to do--to visit widows."

The man eyed Jill up and down in a way that she did not much like, but she was a fearless child, and was so full of the part she meant to play that she did not think of anything else.

"I suppose you are in affliction," she said, gazing sympathetically into the woman's face. "I'm so sorry for you. Do tell me which are your little children."

The woman looked at Jill with dull, curious eyes. She indicated her little ones by a backward movement of her thumb.

"And what house are you going to?" asked Jill.

"There be only one 'ouse for the likes o' me," the woman responded bitterly; then she turned her head to watch the approach of a carriage.

Jill enticed one of the small children to come to her. She heard a carriage pass, but did not look up, then she was startled by her name being called, and sprang to her feet.

Mona was calling her, for it was she and Miss Webb who were driving by.

Mona's disgust was great at seeing a party of the lowest class of tramps sitting by the roadside, and her little sister in the midst of them. She spoke very sharply--

"Come here at once, Jill! What do you mean by disgracing yourself and us so?"

Jill turned to the woman politely.

"I'm sorry I have to go," she said. "Good-bye."

She insisted on shaking hands, then came up to the carriage-door, looking a little defiant.

"Get in at once, and we will drive home. How is it, Miss Webb, that even with this immaculate Miss Falkner these children are for ever getting into scrapes?"

Jill climbed into the carriage, feeling very uncomfortable under her sister's scrutiny. She was conscious that she was very heated and untidy; Mona's fresh daintiness made her feel her own deficiency in neatness.

"Give me an explanation of this at once, you naughty child," said Mona peremptorily.

Jill's eyes flashed.

"I'm not naughty," she said indignantly; "I've--I've been visiting widows."

Miss Webb scented amusement. She sat up straight, and tapped Jill's knee with her pince-nez.

"That's very interesting," she said. "Of course, visiting widows is not a sin. But who told you to do it? And why did you pick out a family of tramps to work off your energy upon?"

Jill shut her mouth firmly. She keenly resented Miss Webb's tone of ridicule, and determined to say no more.

Mona gave her a long lecture upon the dangers to which she had exposed herself in making friends with tramps, and when they reached home she was delivered over to her governess with a sharp injunction to punish her for running away, and keep her in the school-room for the rest of the evening.

"So that's what I get for trying to be double good!" said poor Jill when she was in bed that night. "I never will try it again!"

"Perhaps," said Bumps with wisdom beyond her years, "it wasn't quite the right way to be it!"

X

A PAPER CHASE

Sam Stone did not hold out very long. Jill pursued him everywhere, and was never tired of dilating on his selfishness and greediness, in refusing to give up a tenth of his weekly wage.

She was beside herself with delight one day, when he came to her with a two-shilling piece.

"That be my portion for that there scarlet bag, missy," he said. "I'll stick to it for a bit an' give it reg'lar every week, but if-so-be that I be wantin' of it, well I must have it. That's all I can say, an' I hope fayther won't miss his comforts through it!"

"You must _never_ go back from it," said Jill looking up at him solemnly. "It's a vow! You can't break a vow, it's a much more solemn thing than a promise!"

"But I don't mean to make no vow!" said Sam.

That would not suit Jill at all. She talked away to him, and finally threatened that she would get Miss Falkner to come and see him and explain it to him.

"She'll make you see you ought to do it."

"I'll do my best, missy, but 'tis the prayer you say I must make, stumps me. I've been a-looking through the chapter, an' Jacob he spoke up very certain-like about the Lord being his God. I don't set up to be a religious man myself, and I don't want to make no promises that I bain't a-goin' to keep!"

Jill insisted upon getting her Bible and reading the verses through to him.

"Jacob doesn't promise anything wonderful, Sam. He only says if God will be good to him and take care of him, he will make Him his God, and give his tenth to Him. Why the Lord is your God, Sam, isn't He?"

"I don't know what the words mean rightly," said Sam dubiously.

"They just mean that you must belong to God, and He will belong to you. You do belong to Him already, Sam, you know you do!"

"I bain't so sure."

"Oh, Sam! God made you, and keeps you alive every day, and Miss Falkner says it isn't only what God does for us, but Jesus died for us, so that ought to make us belong to Him doubly sure!"

"Well," said Sam after long thought, "I'll come to 'Bethel' to-morrow."

So the next day saw him go through the little ceremony with great feeling and earnestness of purpose, though the effort cost him a good deal.

"I've done it fayther," he said when he went home, "I've tooken the vow for good and all. I thought it were a kind o' game when Miss Jill first brought it up, but I've been readin' the Bible, an' it do seem very plain, an'--an'--well--we do be ungrateful creatures to the good God!"

The scarlet bag grew heavy with coppers as time went on. Norah and Rose Beecher came over to tea one day, and were persuaded to join "Our Tenth Society!"

Jill got to calling it grandly the "O.T.S." and soon had the satisfaction of enrolling Annie the school-room maid as one of its members.

Then came talk of summer holidays. Mona came into the school-room one evening to consult with Miss Falkner about it.

"I suppose you must go home?" she asked. "You would not be able to take the children to the seaside?"

"I am afraid not," said Miss Falkner. "I have a mother who lives quite alone, and who looks for me to come to her whenever I can."

"Ah," said Mona with a little sigh. "You have something that I have not."

Then she added in a different tone--

"I don't know what to do with the children. They play such pranks, and they're too old for nurses. Jack and Jill are quite beyond them."

Miss Falkner could offer no suggestion. Mona went on--

"Miss Webb has offered to look after them, but I want her to come abroad with me, and she cannot do both."

"I suppose you will have to leave them here for their holidays?"

"I see the look in your eyes, Miss Falkner! You think me a selfish wretch for letting my claims on Miss Webb come first. Perhaps you are like Mrs. Errington, who at once saw a solution out of the difficulty. 'Take them to some comfortable farmhouse and look after them yourself!' I told her I should be worn out in twenty-four hours. I often wonder how you can stand it!"

"It is my life-work," said Miss Falkner quietly. "But I am so fond of children that they do not tire me."

"Well," said Mona giving an impatient sigh, "my life-work at present is to amuse myself. I find it hard work sometimes. But as you won't make it easy for me to carry off Miss Webb I suppose I must leave her behind."

And so it was settled. Miss Webb resigned herself to her fate. Mona went to some of her numerous friends, and Miss Falkner took her departure.

The children hovered about her as she packed the day before she went, and hindered rather than helped her.

"Just tell me what your mother and your home is like," said Jill. "I'm going to shut my eyes and pretend I see you. Make yourself saying 'How do you do,' to her."

Miss Falkner smiled.

"Shut your eyes then. A narrow street, and a terrace of small houses with little balconies above. A cab stops at the door, and a young woman--shall I call her?--hurries up the narrow steps. Some one has been watching at the door. A gentle, sweet-faced woman with a bright smile and tired body, comes forward to greet her. Then she takes her to a little upstairs drawing-room, which is full of sweet-smelling flowers, and a canary bird and a big tabby cat--both the best of friends--are also waiting to greet the home-comer. Tea is waiting. A little rosy-cheeked maid brings the kettle in. The windows are open, but the small balcony is full of flowers, and the scent and sight of them makes one forget the narrow, dingy street outside. Can you see my home, Jill? Can you see me sitting down by my mother's side, and saying, 'No more lessons, and no more children for six weeks'?"

"Yes," said Jill with tightly closed eyes, "I can see you; but, oh, Miss Falkner," and here she flung her arms round her governess's neck as she was stooping to put some things in her travelling trunk, "promise on your word and honour that you'll come back to us!"

"Indeed I hope to do so, dear."

"And don't, _don't_ like your mother better than us!"

Miss Falkner could not help laughing. When the very thought of her mother brought a light to her eye and a lump in her throat; when the anticipation of her mother's kiss and greeting was now the first waking thought, how could she explain to a motherless child the strong tie between an only daughter and her mother!

"You must be a good child, Jill, whilst I am away. Let me find you when I come back steadily going forward towards the Golden City. God will help you, darling."

Jill nodded soberly.

"And we'll go on filling our bag. And perhaps the mission church will be built by the time you come back."

Miss Falkner did not damp her hopes. She parted with her little pupils with sincere regret. Bumps sobbed audibly when she wished her good-bye, and Jill crept up to her room to have her weep out in secret. Jack appeared stolidly unconcerned, but when the carriage had taken Miss Falkner away, he went straight to the stables, a forbidden resort.

"Here, Stokes," he called out to one of the grooms, "I've come out here because it's so beastly dull, and I don't care who finds me here; for there isn't a person left in the house that I care about at all!"

For the first few days the children missed their governess very much, then the delights of the holidays took full possession of them. Miss Webb was valiantly trying to do her duty. She took them for drives and for picnics in the woods. She went into the nearest town and bought them outdoor games and story-books; and if she saw them safely to bed at the end of the day without any serious mishap having taken place, she heaved a sigh of relief and said--

"One more day got through safely!"

Jack was her greatest trial. Jill was really trying to be good, but Jack's spirits were hard to restrain, and whatever he did, and wherever he went, Bumps was sure to follow.

One afternoon after their early dinner, Miss Webb retired to her room with a headache. It was a hot, sultry day in August. She left her charges playing a game of cricket on their lawn, and hoped they would stay there till tea-time.

Jill was the first one to give up cricket.

"I'm going to write a letter to Miss Falkner," she said. "You go on playing without me."

"Bumps can't bowl," complained Jack; "she throws the ball up into the sky as if she's aiming at the sun."

"I'll bat," suggested Bumps cheerfully.

"Yes, and I'll put you out, first bowl. There you are, you little stupid!"

Bumps stared blankly at her wicket, then at Jack.

"What shall we do next?" she inquired.

"We'll have a paper chase," suggested Jack, who was never at a loss.

"And where shall we get the paper?" asked Bumps in great glee at the prospect.

"Oh, come on into the house. We'll find it somewhere."

Jack was not particular where he got his paper. Miss Webb's waste-paper basket was first seized, then _The Times_ of the day before and sundry magazines in the drawing-room, then the library was invaded and various papers and circulars abstracted from the writing-table.

"I shall be hare, of course," said Jack as he sat down on the floor with Bumps, and rapidly began to tear his various papers to pieces. "You must give me ten minutes' start, Bumps, by the clock, and then you must follow the paper, and never stop till you catch me up."

"You won't go twenty miles away?" said Bumps very anxiously.

"Of course I won't! And get Jill to come with you. It will be much greater fun if she comes."

Tearing the papers up kept them quiet for a good half-hour, and then Jack started, first taking off his jacket, and making Bumps promise on her honour not to look which way he went.

She waited her ten minutes and then went to Jill.

"Jill, do come and be the other hound. Jack has gone, and oh! he has gone through the thtable, I thee the paper!"

Bumps was too excited to wait. Jill was lying flat on the grass and hardly turned her head. She murmured, "It's too hot," and went on with her writing.

The afternoon wore on. Miss Webb was roused by the tea-bell and went down-stairs congratulating herself upon the quiet behaviour of the children. She found Jill deep in a storybook.

"Where are the others?" she asked.

"Paper-chasing," said Jill. "Aren't they stupid, this hot afternoon?"

"But I hope they have not gone far?"

"I don't know. The last time I did it, I was the hare, and I climbed a wall, and fell through a greenhouse the other side, and I was ill for three weeks; the gardener said I might have killed myself."

This was hardly comforting. Miss Webb looked anxiously out of the window.

"If they do not come soon, we must go and look for them. I hope they have not gone outside the grounds!"

"Oh, they mayn't be back till bed-time," said Jill.

"You ought not to have let Bumps go," said Miss Webb sharply. "She is far too small. You ought to have looked after her better!"

Jill did not appear moved in the slightest. She ate her tea and wondered at Miss Webb's concern; but as time went on, and there was no sign of the hare or hound, she began to share Miss Webb's anxiety.

"I'll go and look for them."

Out she ran, and Annie was made to accompany her. They followed the paper down the drive out into the road and across two fields, then it went through a farm-yard up into a loft, down again, and out at a small back gate. The farmer's wife came out and said she had seen both the children, for Bumps had tumbled down in the yard and grazed her knees.

"An' I took her in, an' gave her a piece of plaster, but she were dead set on following the young gentleman."

After going up the lane and going through another field, Annie said she could go no further.

"'Tis getting dark, and they'll most like be home by this time. Come back, Miss Jill. Master Jack ought to be ashamed of himself leading us this chase!"

So they turned back, but when they came in they found that Miss Webb had ordered the gardeners and grooms all out, for they had not returned.

Jill's bed-time came. It grew quite dark, and then at last voices were heard in the hall and Miss Webb rushed out. It was Bumps in the arms of a big farmer.

"I found her in a ditch," he said; "my mare shied as I were-a-drivin' home, and I seed somethin' white by the roadside, and then I seed it were a child. She have hurt her foot, poor little 'un. She must have failed a-tryin' to get over a fence above!"

"Is she dead?" cried Jill, pressing forward, for Bumps hung a limp and apparently lifeless bundle over the farmer's arm.

"Bless 'ee, no! Her be faint an' exhausted, but put her to bed an' she'll be all right in the mornin'. Leastwise if her foot be not injured!"

So poor Bumps was put to bed, and her little swollen foot bathed and bandaged, and after a good deal of petting and feeding, she was able to look up and speak.

"It wath my short legs," she said sadly, and somehow or other this old excuse of hers, which was always brought forward when she had failed to do what the others did, brought the tears as well as a smile to Miss Webb's face. Not a word of blame or reproach was uttered. But when she had dropped into a sound sleep, Miss Webb left her, and her thoughts were now centred on the missing Jack.

The gardeners and grooms failed to trace him, and returned to the house between ten and eleven that night without having found any sign of him. Miss Webb passed a sleepless night, and early in the morning the search was continued.

But Jill was the first in the field. She got up at six o'clock, and with determination in her small face, she trotted off following the paper track.

Over the same ground as the day before she went, but now in the sunshine it was a different matter, and though in some places the paper had disappeared, her sharp eyes tracked it out again, and she went on with renewed vigour.

At last she came to a standstill. The paper was to be seen close to a private plantation. And then it went no further. Jill climbed a low fence in spite of a board with "Trespassers will be prosecuted," and looked in every direction for signs of more paper. But none did she find.