Chapter 4

Elsie and her mother travelled all night, and reached Edinburgh early the next morning. This time it was only a third-class carriage, crowded by very ordinary-looking men and women--a very different journey from the one with the wicked "fairy mother;" but the unhappy child, tired out with all she had gone through, leant her head against her mother's shoulder, and slept through the night with a sweet sense of safety and protection to which she had long been a stranger.

They found Duncan still slowly mending, but looking a mere shadow of his former bonnie self. Elsie was so overwhelmed at the sight of his poor little wasted figure, and cried so bitterly, that the nurse promptly ordered her out of the ward.

"Tell Elsie I'm quite well now," he said anxiously to Mrs. MacDougall. "She needn't cry, because we are going home; aren't we, mother? You did say we might."

"Yes, well all be happy again together soon, little lad," Mrs. MacDougall replied.

"Perhaps they hurt Elsie," Duncan continued, still anxious for Elsie. "They were bad people, mother;" and the little fellow shuddered.

They were obliged to calm him and turn his thoughts away. One of the worst points of his illness had been the fits of terror that came over him when a recollection of the Fergusons or the Murdochs passed through his brain. It had been feared that his mind was seriously affected by the fright he had undergone.

He was not yet fit to be moved, so Mrs. MacDougall decided to take Elsie home, and come again to fetch Duncan when he was ready to leave, as she had barely money enough left to take her to Dunster. Duncan was, however, convalescent, and in a fair way of recovering.

It was only now that Mrs. MacDougall, the more pressing cares of her mind relieved, had time to remember Elsie's curious statement before the magistrates. "What did you mean, child, by saying that you didn't rightly know your own name?" she asked. "Surely you were dazed with the strange faces all round you. I feared you had lost your reason."

Elsie hung her head sheepishly. Although she had heard nothing from any one on the subject, she had somehow a conviction in her mind that she had been very silly. It was easy to talk grandly to Duncan, but quite a different thing to tell the story to Mrs. MacDougall.

"I don't know. I did think that perhaps me and Duncan were the babies of Aunt Nannie's what Uncle Grosvenor sent you to take care of," Elsie stammered, growing very red.

"Good patience, child! What do you know about your aunt Nannie's babies?" Mrs. MacDougall exclaimed, in amazement. "Who have been tattling to you about what don't concern them?"

"Then we _are_ those babies!" Elsie cried, with a flash of excitement.

"You!" cried Mrs. MacDougall; "that you are not. What could make you think such a thing? Whoever told you so much--an' I reckon your foolish old grannie was the person--might as well have told the whole story, which, however, it was my great wish should be kept quite a secret. Robbie was your poor Aunt Nannie's bairn."

"Robbie!" Elsie exclaimed, slowly; "but there were two babies, mother."

"There were twin babies, but one died the next day after it reached me, poor bairn. It was a girl baby, and the one the father took an interest in; but it died, and he cared little or nothing about Robbie, so I kept him my own self, for he was but a poor little lad, and could no bear a rough life. Often I've been tempted to let the child go back to his own flesh and blood, but I hadn't the heart, knowing there was none that would look after him with the care he needed."

"Is Robbie better than we are, mother?" Elsie asked, with the old jealousy cropping up once more. "Uncle Grosvenor is a grand laird, is he not?"

Mrs. MacDougall laughed. "He's just a well-to-do tradesman, though he had mighty fine airs when he used to come to Dunster; but I never liked the looks of him. He broke his poor wife's heart, and never believed it till she lay dead, and then he was sorry, and tried to make some amends. He was a bit touched when he saw his motherless bairns, and did a kind deed when he sent them to me; but he soon grew blithe and gay again, and troubled his head no more. I've never heard from him from that day to this, except that he sends me payment for the babies still. He doesn't even know that the little one died, for he has never written; and I don't know where he is; but any day he may come, and just take it into his head to fetch poor Nannie's bairn away from me: but I hope he won't, for now that he's married again and has many children, as I am told, poor Robbie will be ill-welcomed among them."

What a different tale this was from the one Elsie had concocted in her own mind! How utterly foolish and ashamed she was feeling. She would tell all, and would so ease her mind.

"Mother," she said, speaking quickly, "it was all through a letter I picked up and read, and because I always thought Robbie was your favourite more than me and Duncan. I thought he must be your little boy, and that we were not. You did buy Robbie more things, and never sent him for the milk."

"Ye're right enough, Elsie," Mrs. MacDougall said, with a sigh. "There's many a time, when I've been sore pressed, I've been tempted to take the money that Robbie's father sent to buy the clothes you and Duncan were in need of; but I've always stood against it, and never spent a penny of that money for any other purpose than the right one, and I've taken care of the child more jealously than if he was my own. But the Evil One himself must have put it in your heart to be jealous of that poor little lad. With all my care, I doubt that he'll ever see manhood. And as for the letter, I think I know the one you mean. If you found it, you'd no call to read it."

"But I read it, and I kept it," Elsie confessed, seeing that her mother had quite failed to comprehend all that she had tried to tell her. "It was for that I wanted to run away--to go and find who I thought was our own father--and I took Duncan with me. I thought it would be easy. I didn't mean to hurt Duncan."

"I will be no harsh to you, Elsie," Mrs. MacDougall said, sorrowfully. "It's a sore thing for a mother to think of; but God has taught you His lesson in His own way. I doubt you'll never do the like again."

It was only by degrees that Mrs. MacDougall heard the whole history of the children's wanderings, or Elsie fully understood the terrible dangers to which she had, by her own act, willingly exposed herself and Duncan. Never had she fully realised what the word "home" meant until returning to it, after having been homeless, lonely, and outcast, she was received with the glad welcome that no one else in all the wide world would have extended to her.

Mrs. MacDougall was, like many of her race, a woman of few words, and not given to demonstrations of affection, yet with a deeply-rooted, fervent feeling of attachment to her own flesh and blood that nothing could destroy, that was only equalled by her strong sense of religious duty. In that terrible week of suspense, when she received no tidings of the missing children, her hair had become grey, and her face aged by many years. In seeking them out, she had spent unhesitatingly the hardly-scraped savings of years, laid by for the decent burying of her old mother and herself. These facts spoke more strongly than words. Even Elsie knew well enough the terrible degradation an honest, respectable Scottish woman would feel it that any of her birth and kin should fall upon the charity of strangers.

Elsie had been ever a tiresome child. She was what people call clever--that is to say, she had from an early age the power of thinking for herself, and forming her own ideas on many subjects. This very activity of brain often overwhelmed the better feelings of her heart, which was not really bad. It was her own supposed cleverness that had led her into such a grievous error concerning that unfortunate letter she had found, her restless curiosity that had led her into the temptation of reading it, whereas Duncan's slower brain would have allowed his heart time to speak its protest against an action that he had been trained to regard as mean and dishonourable. Cleverness is a dangerous gift, apt to lead into very stray paths, unless there is firm principle to weigh it. Lucy Murdoch was extremely clever. Better for her to have been without one talent than to have used all ten to her own utter ruin.

Mrs. MacDougall gave Elsie no bitter reproaches. She explained to her how grievous a sin she had committed, and what sorrow she had brought on those who had always shown her the truest kindness. She would allow no one to speak to Elsie about it, except the good old minister at the manse, who had known her from her birth. Farmer Jarrett greatly desired to give her a good talking to, but Mrs. MacDougall said, in her true Scottish fashion, "Nay, neighbour; the Lord had pointed His own moral, an' we can no better it. She has the little brother she loves always before her eyes to warn her." And this was true enough. Duncan had never recovered the effects of the fever. He seemed to have lost all his old robustness and vigour, taking little interest in anything, only caring to sit quiet and undisturbed before the fire. No words could have affected her more than that most pitiful sight. Mrs. MacDougall often caught Elsie's eyes fixed on the child with a wistful, sorrowful expression. She and Robbie waited on him continually, with patient unfailing tenderness, and both the children vied with each other as to who could be the more kind and thoughtful for him.

Mrs. MacDougall from that time changed her treatment of Robbie, and moreover, explained to all three children the circumstances of his birth. She believed that she had erred in practising even this well-meant deceit, intended for the good both of Robbie and her own two children, which had, however, resulted in the very jealousy she had tried to prevent. Robbie benefited by the change, and was certainly far happier. He grew less babyish--stronger both in mind and body. The old jealousy died away, and Elsie liked him far better as a cousin--yet treated in every way like herself--than she had done as a brother.

For several years no one dared to mention in Duncan's presence the sad experience he had lived through. His terror and excitement were so intense at the mere recollection of it, that the utmost care was necessary. He could never go out alone, for if he met a person who seemed to his morbid fancy to resemble either of the Fergusons or the Murdochs, his shuddering fear was shocking to witness. He and Robbie had quite changed places. It was he now who needed all the anxious, watchful care that in former days Elsie would have called petting.

If no one reproached her, it is certain she reproached herself, more and more bitterly as she grew older, and understood how grave a misfortune she had brought upon Duncan, the one person she was most fond of in this world. She had turned his very trust in her into the means of sacrificing him. Sometimes she was so tortured by this thought that she could hardly bear it. "I will never leave him as long as I live," she often said to herself, as a sort of reparation for what he had suffered. "I will take care of him till I die."

But there is a hope that in course of time, after he has passed the years of boyhood, he may recover his old strength, and in this hope Elsie lives.

THE END.

LITTLE PAPERS FOR LITTLE ART WORKERS.

IVORY MINIATURE PAINTING.

We all know the beautiful miniatures that grandmammas count as some of their greatest treasures, mementoes of the friends of long ago. Some of those little bits of ivory are now worth, over and over again, their weight in gold. The names of Nicholas Hilliard, Isaac and Peter Oliver, Samuel Cooper, Nathaniel Hone, and Richard Cosway, are well-known in connection with the art of Miniature Painting. Photography now supersedes all other modes of taking portraits on a small scale on account of its rapidity, but no photograph, however carefully coloured, ever did, or ever will, equal the exquisite little gems left to us by the men we have reason to honour whose names I have mentioned already. I should, for my part, be glad to see the art, which has never gone quite out of fashion, restored to its old popularity.

The choice of a good piece of ivory is important. You can get the pieces of various sizes from any good artist's colourman, and you must look out for one that has as little grain as possible in the centre, because the space the face will occupy should be free from streaks that would be detrimental to the painting. The remainder of the ivory is not of so much consequence, as in representing the drapery and background the grain can generally be hidden. Large sizes can be obtained, but I should not advise you to begin on one of them; a piece about 3-1/2 in. by 4-3/4 in. does very well for a first attempt. Ivory can be cut with a pair of scissors, but it is a risky operation, and it is far better to get a professional worker to cut it for you if you need the shape or size altered; then, too, if you want an oval shape you will be pretty sure to get a true oval, which very possibly you could not manage yourself. Red sable brushes are used, and you should select those that will come to a good point. You will not require more than three or four, a medium size for washes, a smaller for stippling, and a very fine one for finishing-touches. An oval china palette is also needed; the small slabs sold in ordinary paintboxes are not serviceable for miniature painting, as many colours and tints are necessary. Use the best water-colours if you wish to succeed, and you will find those in pans or half pans are preferable to the dry cakes, as time is not spent in rubbing them down. These are the most useful colours:--Cobalt, French ultra, Prussian blue, carmine, or pink madder, Indian red, vermilion, light red, sepia, burnt umber, burnt sienna, Indian yellow, yellow ochre, ivory black, and Chinese white. I do not consider more than these requisite for an ordinary palette. Then you must have a firm drawing-board, and a bottle of clear strong gum. Some pieces of old linen should be kept at hand for cleaning the palette; if anything else be used for the purpose fluffy particles will be left on it that will get mixed up with the colours, and that we must do all in our power to avoid. I want to impress upon you the importance of choosing a good light for your work; for one reason you cannot get the delicate tints which are the great charm of ivory miniature painting if you sit in a bad position for seeing well; and for a second reason the work is so fine that there is the danger of trying your eyes too much if you are not careful in this respect.

You must never continue the work if your eyes feel tired. Some person's eyesight is so much stronger than that of others that you must judge for yourselves whether or no it is harmful to you to produce such fine paintings. It is best to sketch the portrait first correctly on paper; not many amateurs will be able to do it direct on the ivory without some guide, and as few alterations as possible must be made on the ivory. If the sketch be tolerably dark it may be laid beneath the ivory, and so traced off with a brush filled with light red. It is far easier, of course, to work from a photograph; if you do this you need only to place the ivory over it, and thus you have the features, and the principal folds of the dress, ready to mark off with the brush on the semi-transparent ground. You must be so very careful not to let the ivory slip in the faintest degree out of place, or the likeness will sure to prove a failure.

When you have all the principal points clearly defined, fix it by gumming it at the top to a square of writing-paper, which must be white. At the back of this lay three or four more squares of paper, until the ivory thus mounted looks opaque. Bristol board is used sometimes instead of paper, but it is liable to warp when exposed to heat. The ivory must only be gummed at the top, for if gum were allowed to run under the face the flesh-tints would be darkened; the papers also must be gummed together at the top, and they should be somewhat larger than the ivory. It must be placed aside until dry pressed in a book with a piece of clean paper over it. Lay on the first flesh-tint evenly with a large brush, leaving the whites of the eyes untouched. Light red, or Venetian red, to which the slightest touch of yellow has been added, forms a good tint to work upon; for dark complexion a little more yellow will be requisite.

When the right depth of colour in the lights of the face is properly secured, the shadows may be put in with a good-sized brush. It is a great mistake ever to use very small brushes when larger ones can be equally well employed. In every style of painting we should strive to work as far as possible in a broad manner, and large brushes help us to do this. So, too, we should whenever practicable lay on our colours in washes; if we begin with stippling our drawings they will be "niggling," and will be sure to look poor and "spotty." The shadows differ in shape and in colour on all faces, and to render these accurately is by no means an unimportant part of taking a likeness; the expression depends greatly upon the shadows, and we need to study nature closely if we would represent all the delicate gradations faithfully. As a shadow colour, cobalt, Venetian red, carmine or pink madder, and a suspicion of yellow, will make a good foundation; but the tint must be varied as occasion demands. Under the eyes, the shadows are blueish, whilst those under the eyebrows and nostrils are warm in tint; Indian red serves well for warming shadows. Beginners will very probably fear to lay in the shadows too strongly, but when they see the effect produced, they are likely to go to the opposite extreme and smear in the shadows heavily for the sake of giving character to the likeness. The happy medium is what we must strive to secure; we do not want our paintings to be weak, but neither do we want them "dirty" in tone. The shadows on the throat should be rather grey, but not so much so as to appear livid and unnatural; here light red and cobalt will predominate. On the neck they will be of a soft blue tone. They must all be clearly washed in without reaching too far into the lights, as lights and shadows must subsequently be softened into each other with the lovely demi-tints that afford the pearl-like appearance of the natural clear complexion. These half tints are formed of cobalt and light red, or of French ultra and carmine; pink madder may take the place of carmine if preferred, for though not so brilliant it is more lasting. A fair child's complexion will require more vermilion and less carmine than that of an adult. To keep the form of the lips true to nature is another point that demands our strictest attention. Blue eyes are put in with cobalt, toned with shadow colour; grey, with a mixture of blue and red. There are many varieties of shade in brown eyes, and you must find out by experiment what is best to use for them, as you may have, at one time or another, to depict hazel, chestnut, and deep brown eyes that are called black. You will find burnt terra sienna and shadow colour useful, and in the case of the darkest brown shade, the employment of lake and sepia will be necessary. The pupil is put in with sepia.

On no account must black be used in painting the eyes. Now we come to the eyebrows and eyelashes. These are of the same colour as the hair, but usually darker in tint. Do not try to make out the separate hairs, or hardness, which is very undesirable, will ensue. Sometimes in finishing the eyelashes you will improve them with a few fine strokes after the wash of colour is laid on. The hair must be painted broadly in large masses, and its natural fall on the forehead, its tendency to curl or wave, must be truly rendered. For black hair use neutral tint, and a little indigo for the lights; for the local colour, indigo, lake, and gamboge. For brown hair, sepia, but should it be very dark add a little lake. Burnt umber will give a beautiful chestnut brown if mixed with lake modified with sepia. No part of a miniature should be finished off until all the rest is close to completion; for one colour affects another considerably when they are placed side by side, and so it is impossible to judge of the strength of a tint until all its surroundings are brought near to an equal state of finish. Select a colour for the drapery that will suit the complexion and hair; one that will heighten the effect of each, and produce a pleasing harmony. Nothing is more charming than white for a young girl, who possesses a fair complexion; the ivory itself forms a soft creamy white ground that needs only the shadows and reflections to be thrown in, and a little Chinese white is employed for the lights. If the dress is coloured you should manage to introduce some white lace around the throat. Black velvet is also extremely becoming; the lights are put in with Chinese white.

Brilliant colours for draperies should always be avoided, as there is so little space in a miniature to be given to the accessories that they must be kept low in tone if they are to be subordinate to the likeness. A small quantity of gum is required in the background, and in the draperies just a drop is mixed in with the colours for finishing off the dress. The harmony of the whole will depend greatly on the tint chosen for the background. It may be as dark as you like, only you must not let it be heavy. A neutral tint of grey or brown is easy for a beginner to manage, and a warm red-brown is admirable for the purpose. A soft blue sky with fleecy-white clouds makes the best background for a fair girl in a white dress. Wash in the background colour to the desired strength, then stipple it to get it smooth.

With a few general remarks I must end these suggestions. "Stippling" is the filling in with a small brush, but not too fine, of any spaces left when the colour is washed in. The polished surface of the ivory will not take the wash as paper does, and it requires a great deal of working up before it appears level and smooth. Any touches may be put in with a trifle of gum added to the colour. You will use sepia for the dark touches on the eyebrows and eyelashes, carmine and sepia for those about the mouth and nostrils. The spot of white in the eye must not be forgotten. The lights are always left, not taken out afterwards. Any hairs that may be found on the ivory after a tint is washed in must be removed with a needle or the extreme point of a clean brush. Lay in your colours with decision, and always try as far as you possibly can to work in a broad free style.

FAITHFUL TO HER TRUST.

Far away in the mountains of Westmoreland there is a lonely ravine called Far Easedale, and here was once a cottage called Blentarn Ghyll, where a man named Green once lived with his wife and six children.

One day George Green and his wife went to a sale of furniture at Grasmere. Before starting they spoke kindly to their eldest girl Agnes, who was then only nine years old, and begged her to take special care of all her little brothers and sisters.

"We shall be home to-night, dear," said Mrs. Green, "but you'll be a little mother to them whilst we are away, won't you?"

Agnes promised gaily, thinking it would be rather fun to be left in charge.

All went well till towards evening, when a terrible snow-storm came on. The white flakes fell so fast that the door was blocked up; worse than this, the snow made its way through the windows.

Having put the baby to bed, Agnes and the other children sat up till midnight, hoping that their parents would come, but not a sound was heard, as the snow fell silently thicker and thicker.

In the morning the snow had stopped falling, but it lay so deep that Agnes dared not venture out.

The children were miserable, and Agnes, child as she was herself, forgot her own trouble in trying to cheer and comfort them. Then she boiled what milk there was in the house, to prevent its turning sour, and made some porridge for breakfast, eating very little herself, for she feared the little stock of meal might fail.

After breakfast she asked her two brothers to help her cut a way from the door to the shed where the peat was kept, and they carried in as much as they could. Then they closed the door till night came and they forgot their troubles in sleep.

The next day a strong wind had blown away so much snow that Agnes determined to try to find her way to Grasmere. It was a difficult task, for there were brooks to cross; but the brave girl was urged on by the memory of the little ones she had left behind, and made her way there.

Here she found that her father and mother had started for home on the first night. As they had not since been heard of, she had little doubt that they must have fallen into some hole or brook and have perished in the snow.

Still faithful to her trust, the poor child returned to the cottage, where she carefully watched over her brothers and sisters, until kind friends found new homes for the little orphans.

E. M. W.

A MORNING VISIT.

Darling mother! not to see her For a whole week and a day! It was hard; but she is better, And at last nurse says I may Carry up her morning tea.

Only one wee, tiny minute Must I wait to kiss her cheek, And to whisper how I missed her Every day this long, long week, And to ask if she missed me.

Often, while they thought me sleeping, Did I lie an hour and more, Crying--when the house was quiet-- Softly at her bedroom door, Where she could not hear nor see.

Oh, it was so dull without her! Every one was grave and sad; But I think, now she is better, Even the little birds look glad As they hop from tree to tree.

MAGGIE MACDONALD.

GOING TO SEA IN A CAGE.

AN OLD SAILOR'S STORY.

Aye, aye, sir! I've seen a good many queer things in my time, sure enough; but the queerest thing I ever saw was a bit of work aboard the old _Mermaid_, when we were homeward bound from Hong Kong and Singapore. Would you like to hear the story? Well, then, if you'll just come to an anchor for a minute or two on this coil of rope, I'll tell you all about it.

The very first day out from Hong Kong I took notice of one young lady, who was lying on a kind of basket-work sofa, on the sunny side of the poop-deck. She had the sweetest face I ever saw, but it went to my heart to see how thin and pale she looked. And well she might, poor thing! for it seems she had something wrong with her back, so as she couldn't walk or stand up, or anything; and she was going to England to see some great doctor or other, and try if _he_ could cure her.

All the passengers were very good to her, I will say _that_ for 'em; and as for us blue-jackets, every man Jack of us would have jumped overboard only to please her, when once we knew how it was. But she was too weak to talk or read much, and the chief thing she had to amuse her was a little grey Java sparrow, which she had with her in a cage. Whenever she came on deck, the bird's cage was brought up too, and put close beside her; and it was Bob Wilkins, the pantry-boy, who always had the carrying of it.

It was a pretty little thing that bird was, and as sensible as any man; fact, it was a deal more sensible than many men that _I_'ve met. When she had a headache (and terrible headaches she used to have, poor lass) that bird would be as quiet as a mouse. But when she was well enough to stand it, she'd have the cage brought to her, and open it with her own hands, and out the little fellow would pop, and flutter on to her shoulder, and eat out of her hand, just as natural as could be. And then she used to stroke its feathers with her poor thin fingers and smile such a strange, sad kind of smile, that many a time I've had to go away in a hurry for fear I should cry outright; and I can tell you I wasn't the only one, neither.

But fond as we all were of that bird, there was somebody else that was fonder still, and that was the captain's big tortoise-shell cat: and to see the way it kept its eye on that Java sparrow, and watched for a chance to get hold of it! you never saw the like.

Well, the captain was a kind man, and didn't want to hurt the poor cat, specially as it was a great pet of his wife's; so he tied it up to keep it out of mischief. But of course it took and squalled all night, till nobody could sleep a wink for the noise, and he had to let it loose again. So then he says to me--

"Thompson," says he, "just keep your eye on that cat, and if it ever comes on to the poop-deck, drive it off again."

"Aye, aye, sir," says I, and I kept a bright lookout, sure enough. But one day that cat _was_ too sharp for me, after all.

It was getting towards afternoon, on our second day from Port Said, and Miss Ashton was lying on her couch on the poop-deck, with her bird's cage hanging from one of the lashings of the awning, close beside her. I'd just been down to fetch our third officer's telescope; and as I came up again, something brushed past me. I saw the cat spring up at the cage, the cord snapped, and down went bird, cage, cat, and all, slap-dash into the sea!

The next moment there came a big splash, and there was our pantry-boy, Bob Wilkins (the one that used always to carry the cage up on deck, you know), overboard after 'em. And as if that wasn't enough, Bill Harris the carpenter (who was a special chum of Bob's, and happened to be standing by at the time) catches hold of a life-buoy, and overboard _he_ goes too. So there they all were, the cat after the bird, Bob after the cat, and Bill Harris after Bob.

"Man overboard!" sang out half a dozen of us.

"Stop her!" cried the first officer. "Stand by to lower the boat! Cast off the gripes! let go the davit-tackle!"

You should have seen how quick that boat was lowered, and how the men made her fly along! When we picked 'em up, (though they were a long way astern by this time) Bill was clinging to the life-buoy, and Bob had got hold of it with one hand and the cage with the other. The bird was fluttering about and looking precious scared, as if he didn't like going to sea in a cage; and the cat was sitting on Bill's shoulder, and holding on with every claw he had. The passengers sent round the hat for Bob Wilkins, and a pretty deal of money they got; but I can promise you he thought more of the thanks Miss Ashton gave him for the job than of all the money twice over.

But I was just going to leave out the best part of the whole story. They say it's "an ill wind that blows nobody good," and so it came out that time, sure enough. When the young lady saw Bob jump overboard, and thought he was going to be drowned in trying to save her bird, it gave her such a fright, that _she_, who couldn't even sit up without help, jumped right up on her feet and looked over the side after him! Well, sir, from that day forth, to the end of her voyage, she was always better able to move than before; and the great London doctor who cured her afterward (for she was cured at last) said that "nervous shock," as he called it, had been the saving of her, and that he'd had just such another case already. Now, that's as true as I sit here; and if you don't believe it, here comes Bob Wilkins, and you can ask him.

DAVID KER.

LITTLE MARGARET'S KITCHEN, AND WHAT SHE DID IN IT.--XII.

_By_ PHILLIS BROWNE, _Author of "A Year's Cookery," "What Girls Can Do," &c._

Many were the consultations which Margaret and Mary held together trying to decide what was to be made at the last Cookery lesson. The last lesson! something wonderful must be accomplished; but what was it to be?--that was the question. Margaret felt as if she should like to take advice on the subject.

"What should you make if you were going to cook something, and were allowed to choose for yourself?" she asked her friend, Rosy Williams.

"I should make some toffee," said Rosy.

Toffee! Margaret had never thought of it, but of course it was the very thing. She had been picturing to herself roasts and broils, and stews and soups, but toffee was worth everything of the sort put together. If only Mary would agree.

Mary was like Rosy, however: she decided instantly.

"And, as it must surely be very easy, why should we not try to make it by ourselves, without mother?" said Margaret. "We might get to know how, and then do it without any help at all."

"Of course you might," said Rosy. "After all the lessons in cookery you have had, I should think you could make a little toffee. Toffee is so easy to do. If you think I could help, I should be very glad to come: if Mrs. Herbert would let me."

"Thank you!" said Margaret; "you are kind."

"My brother Tom could come too," continued Rosy. "Tom is very clever at making toffee; he is quite accustomed to it. Whenever cook goes out for a holiday Tom makes toffee."

So Margaret asked her mother to consent. At first Mrs. Herbert looked rather doubtful; then she glanced at the eager little faces looking up at her, and she smiled. The children at once clapped their hands. They knew what the smile meant.

"Yes, dears, I think you may do as you wish. Only promise that you will be careful not to burn yourselves. There is one thing in our favour: toffee is best made over a slow fire, so there will be less danger. You can make your toffee this afternoon if you wish, and I will tell cook to put everything ready for you."

Punctually at the time appointed Rosy and her obliging brother Tom appeared, and all the children went off to the kitchen, Tom taking the place of master of the ceremonies.

"We shall want a simple brass pan," he said. "Yes, that is just the kind," he added, as cook handed to him a small saucepan, which was so bright inside that it shone like gold. "Now we must weigh out a quarter of a pound of butter, let that melt, then put in half a pound of raw sugar and half a pound of treacle. We stir this over the fire, and when it has boiled a little we add two table-spoonfuls of vinegar, and keep on boiling till it is ready."

"That is very easy," said Mary. "Shall I weigh the butter?"

"Yes," said Tom. "You weigh the butter, I will weigh the sugar, Rosy the treacle, and Margaret measure the vinegar. It is such an advantage to have so many helpers; we get the work done so quickly. There is a proverb which says 'Many hands make light work.' It is quite true."

"How clever your brother is, Rosy!" said Margaret.

"Please, had we better not divide the work, then?" said Mary, "and take it in turns to stir?"

"Yes, we will stir by the clock: six minutes each."

"Who is to begin?"

"Shall I begin, as I understand how to do it? Then Margaret can follow, then Mary, then Rosy."

"But how shall we know when it is boiled enough?" said Margaret.

"That is just what I was going to tell you. We cannot say exactly how long it has to boil, but we must try it. When a little of the toffee which has been dropped into a cup of cold water makes a crackling sound, or breaks clean between the teeth without sticking to them, the toffee is done."

"Which of us is to try whether it is done, though?" said Margaret.

"As we are all going to make the toffee, I should say we had better all try it. We can have four cups of water and four spoons, can't we, Margaret?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Margaret. "Will you fetch them please, Mary?"

Mary went off as requested, but she was away so long that Tom and Margaret had finished stirring, and they were ready for her to take the spoon when she returned, looking hot and excited, but bearing the four cups of water and four spoons on a tray.

"Aunt Bridget wouldn't let me have four cups at first," she remarked on entering: "she said it was too many; but I got them at last."

"That's right," said Tom. "Shall we try if the toffee is nearly ready?"

"We had better not try too soon, because if four of us taste very often, we shall eat so much before it is ready that there will be very little to divide after it is ready."

"Quite true," said Tom; while Mary stirred enthusiastically until her six minutes were gone.

"Now for my turn," said Rosy.

"I think we had better try whether it is done enough yet," said Tom.

"Tom, how unkind you are!" said Rosy. "Everybody has stirred but me, and just as my turn has come you want to try it. Besides, how can I try it when I am stirring?"

"Very well, we will wait," said Tom good-naturedly. "Don't cry, Rosy;" and Rosy's face brightened, while all the children watched the spoon as it went round and round, while the toffee gradually became darker and darker in colour, and an odour more strong than agreeable filled the kitchen.

At length the hand of the clock reached the point which marked Rosy's six minutes. All four cups were brought forward, all four spoons were dipped into the foaming liquid, and then emptied into the water. The toffee fell to the bottom in a dark cake, which hardened almost instantly, and which, when broken between the teeth, snapped without sticking at all, and tasted--ugh!

At this moment Mrs. Herbert appeared.

"I am afraid you are letting the toffee burn," she said; "we can smell it all over the house."

"It is rather burnt," said Tom.

"It does not taste so badly, though," said Margaret.

"Very likely we shall not taste the burnt part so much when it is cool," said Rosy.

"I am afraid you will have to throw the toffee away, my dears. It is sadly burnt."

"Oh, no, no!" said all the children at once.

"I thought we should have done better as there were four of us," said Margaret.

"Perhaps, after all, it is not an advantage to have so many helpers," said Tom.

"At any rate," said Mrs. Herbert; "you will have proved the truth of the proverb, 'Too many cooks spoil the broth'--I mean the toffee. And after all, in cookery, as in other things, nothing teaches like failure which is made the most of."

"Never mind, Mary," whispered Margaret, as the burnt toffee was carried off to cool. "We have made a good many excellent dishes when we two were the only cooks, and mother was the teacher; we will try toffee again another day, when we are by ourselves."

On that occasion I think we may perhaps venture to predict that the toffee will be a greater success.

THE RIVAL MOTHERS.

Said Mistress Bear to Mistress Fox, "Your girl is very small." Quoth Mistress Fox, "It is not so; Your boy is not so tall."

"My boy is tall and sturdy too," Cried Mistress Bear with ire; "And he's a handsome little lad, The image of his sire."

"His sire! Ha, ha! why, all the world Says, 'Ugly as a bear.'" The very trees with laughter shook, As thus they wrangled there.

"Ho, ho! dear ladies, what's the fuss?" Two waggish bears stray'd by. The gentle mothers told their tale, A tear-drop in each eye.

"Call here the foxes," and they came. One was an ancient sage. "Now place the young folk back to back, And simply state their age."

The dames obey'd, the infants laugh'd; Spoke he, Reynard so wise, "'Tis useless; size and beauty lie In love's fond, partial eyes."

OUR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

SAVED BY A DREAM.

The sun shone brightly down upon the pretty village of Bethlehem, as, from the top of the hill on which it stood, it overlooked the smiling fields below. And how peaceful all looked, carrying one's thoughts back to the old times, when the loving and gentle Ruth, who had come with her bereaved mother-in-law, to cast in her lot with the people of God, went after the gleaners in the fields of Boaz, and humbly picked up the ears of corn, that were so considerately dropped for her! How greatly she was afterwards blessed, and what an abundant reward was hers!

There in that very neighbourhood her great-grandson David quietly tended his sheep, and, in sweetest strains, lifted up his voice, in love and gratitude, to the Great Shepherd in the heavens. What a peaceful life he led amongst his beloved flock! And how his careful tending of his sheep prepared him for that higher care which he was to take of God's chosen people! And how, ages afterwards, when some other peaceful shepherds were watching over their flocks by night, a wondrous light shone round about them, and a bright angel told them the good tidings of great joy which should be to all people! How to their astonished gaze, there suddenly appeared a whole host of beauteous beings, praising God for His love and mercy to mankind, and filling the whole expanse of heaven with melody sweeter than the sweetest ever before heard upon earth!

How, too, only one mile from where the shepherds lay, a happy mother gazed long and tenderly on the face of her newly-born child, who was to be called "The Son of the Highest," who was to take away the sins of the world, and have given to Him the throne of His father David! And those Wise Men, too, that had come from the far East--how they rejoiced when they saw the bright star that had guided them to the land of the Jews re-appear and twinkle over the lowly place where the heavenly Babe lay! What praise and thanksgiving went up from their grateful hearts, as they looked upon the child-face that they had travelled day and night to see!

Truly, it seemed as if, since the days of the fair and virtuous Ruth, the blessing of God had rested upon that peaceful village, that had come to be called "the city of David," and as if no sorrow was ever to visit its soft green fields.

But, as if to draw our thoughts upwards, there is no spot on earth to which, at some time or other, sorrow does not come; and the hitherto peaceful Bethlehem was to have its full share.

A wicked king sat on the throne of Judea, whom nobody loved and many abhorred. He was an old man, and terribly afflicted; and his temper, which was always ferocious, had become more dreadful than that of the wildest lion that had ever rushed up from the swelling of the Jordan.

His father, Antipater, was an Idumean, and a servitor in the temple of Apollo at Ascalon, whilst his mother, Cypros, was an Arabian. He, therefore, belonged to the despised Ishmaelites and the hated Edomites; and the Jews were by no means inclined to look favourably upon him. To please them he professed to follow their religion, but he was not a Jew at heart. He trampled upon their feelings and prejudices, and leaned to the side of the Romans; and they, therefore, mistrusted him, and longed for the time when they should be freed from his misrule.

He had rebuilt their temple, and made it the most noble and magnificent building on the face of the earth; and they gloried in seeing its white marble pinnacles and golden roof glittering in the sunshine. For nine years he had constantly employed 18,000 men in its re-erection, and for upwards of thirty years more he had kept adding to its embellishments, till for grandeur and costliness it stood unrivalled. But when it was completed he set up over its chief gate the golden eagle of the Romans, and at the sight of that abhorred ensign all their gratitude fled, giving place to bitter resentment.

He married Jewish women, which was a compliment to their race; but his unjust and cruel treatment of them roused up all their worst feelings, and made them regard him for ever as an enemy.

The beautiful and virtuous Mariamne, who belonged to the Maccabees, the noblest of their families, he, in a cruel fit of jealousy, ordered to be put to death. Her brother, the youthful Aristobulus, who was High-priest, he caused to be drowned before his eyes in pretended sport. Her grandfather, the aged Hyrcanus, who had once saved the life of Herod, when threatened by the Sanhedrin, he sent tottering to his death. Her mother, Alexandra, fell a victim to his frenzy, and her two sons,--Alexander and Aristobulus, when they were grown up, and had wives and children dependent upon them, he ordered to be strangled in prison, the chief crime of all these being, that they were justly esteemed and beloved by the Jews.

No wonder that his subjects liked him not, and that he sat uneasily upon his throne! No wonder that when the Wise Men came from the east to Jerusalem, saying, "Where is he that is born king of the Jews?" he trembled, for he knew well that should another aspirant to the crown appear, the Jews would only be too ready to take his part.

Insecure as he felt himself to be, he determined on finding out who this new king was, and taking immediate steps for ridding himself of him. So under pretence of desiring to do honour to the young child, he directed the Wise Men to make diligent search for the infant king, and then tell him where He was; that he also might go and worship Him. But in his heart he was anxious to know where the Baby-king was only that he might send some secret assassin to take His life. He had done darker and more difficult deeds than that, and had put safely out of his path far more formidable enemies than a helpless babe. The Wise Men would soon come back, as they had promised, and then in less than a day the dreaded Child would have ceased to live, he would be able to breathe freely again, and unpopular as he was, he would still retain his crown.

But the Magi did not return. Overwhelmed with joy at having at last found the wondrous Babe, to which the strange star had guided them, they lay down to rest, intending, in the early morning, to set out again for Jerusalem. But the great Father above, who knew all the dark secrets of Herod's heart, warned them in a dream not to go back to him; and they returned to their own country by another way.

Herod waited and watched in his palace for the return of the Magi; and his secret executioner was at hand, ready to set out for Bethlehem at any moment. And when he found that they had discovered his hypocrisy and wicked intentions, and that his infamous design was thwarted, his rage knew no bounds; and he vowed to himself that the Child-King should not escape him, and that he would be fully avenged.

From the information received from the Wise Men, he concluded that it was within two years that the mysterious guiding star had first appeared. And a dark and terrible thought came into his wicked heart. If he could not tell which of the many babes in Bethlehem was the long-expected Messiah of the Jews, the great King, whose advent had been revealed in the far east by a bright orb of heaven, then he would kill all the little ones that were two years old and under; and the One that he feared would be sure to be slain amongst them.

To do the dark deed he hastily despatched some of his soldiers; and soon the peaceful pasture lands of Bethlehem, which had so lately resounded with the glad songs of angels with shining wings, rang with shrieks of frantic mothers. For the soldiers of the cruel king entered house after house, and snatching the innocent babes from their mothers' arms, ran them through with their glittering swords; and the bodies of the pretty little things that, but a few moments ago, were looking up with happy smiles into the loving faces that bent tenderly over them, were cruelly thrown on the ground, their red blood streaming along the floors.

Out of house after house the bereaved mothers, wild with grief, rushed into the streets, uttering piercing cries, smiting their breasts, throwing up their arms towards heaven, and calling down upon the committer of the atrocious crime the just vengeance of Him who hears the oppressed.

Never before had the quiet village sent up such cries of despair, or witnessed so cruel a scene! Who could look unmoved upon the poor mothers running frantically about the narrow streets, with wild tearless eyes, dishevelled hair, and, on their blanched faces, looks of terror, that told of the terrible blow that had been struck at their hearts' inmost core? Oh, it was terrible! Yet the ruthless king cared not. His hands were so deeply imbued with the noblest blood of Jerusalem, that the lives of a few tiny babes were nothing in his sight. While the broken-hearted mothers were wildly shrieking, he was rejoicing; assured that the one Child, whose life might perhaps have been something to him, was quieted for ever.

But his wicked design was nevertheless baffled. The great God above, who had foreseen all, had watched over His own Son, and the Holy Child was being borne safely along towards Egypt--that land where so many of his countrymen had found refuge in times of persecution, distress, or famine.

Probably the night before the massacre, whilst Joseph, the husband of Mary, was sleeping peacefully on his bed, a beautiful bright angel appeared to him in a dream, and warned him of the danger to which he was exposed at the hands of the troubled king.

"Arise, and take the young child and His mother," the heavenly visitant said to him, "and flee into Egypt, and be thou there until I bring thee word; for Herod will seek the young child to destroy Him."

The face of the angel was beaming with love, and he had been sent on an errand of mercy. But how his words thrilled through the just and tenderhearted Joseph! Destroy his darling babe, that holy child whom God had given to his good wife to nurse and bring up for Him! Kill the little One about whom such great things had been said; at whose birth a whole sky full of angels had sung for joy; and before whom the Wise Men, who had been guided from the distant east by God Himself, had bowed in humble adoration. Never. "Man proposes; but God disposes." Man may try to hinder the great, purpose of God, by attempting to take the life of the one whom He would raise up to accomplish it. But God can never be baffled. And not all the plans that a thousand Herods, wicked as the one that sat on the throne, could form, could bring His word to nought.

Suddenly, Joseph awoke; and starting to his feet, thought over the dream. That it was sent from heaven he felt sure; and he must immediately obey it.

He must rouse the mother; and under cover of the darkness, they must set out at once. By the time that the bright sun lighted up the horizon it might be too late; for, even then, the dread messengers of the cruel king might be on their way.

Hastily he awoke Mary, telling her of the dream; and soon the God-fearing man was on the road to Egypt, with the loving mother and her precious child safe by his side.

The dark curtain of night had not yet been lifted from the earth; but they went fearlessly along, trusting to the guidance of Him who had bidden them set out. And when the agonising shrieks of the mothers of Bethlehem rent the air and were re-echoed by the astonished hills, Joseph, with his precious charge, was far away. So, though the swords of Herod did a terrible work, they did not take that one life, to destroy which he had commanded the massacre.

Still, Joseph and Mary journeyed along and along, till, at last, the great Pyramids came in view, and they reached the farthest bank of the river of Egypt, and were safe.

There, it is said, they remained two years, living at Matareeh, to the north-east of Cairo, till the angel of the Lord came again to Joseph, in a dream, to tell him of Herod's death, and bid him return to his own land.

Then away they went, back again to the Holy Land, which was to be the scene of Jesus' ministry, thinking as they went, how "The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord," and rejoicing that no plan formed against His people shall prosper.

For even in their sleep He can warn them, by a dream, of the most secret machinations of their enemies.

H. D.

BIBLE EXERCISES FOR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

61. Which of the Psalms gives us a short history of Joseph?

62. Where does St. Paul enumerate the several appearances of Christ after His resurrection?

62. What restriction did Moses lay upon the Israelites with regard to their election of a king, on their settling in the land of Canaan?

64. Where are we assured that the Almighty is not ashamed to be called the God of those who have had faith in Him?

65. What women does St. Paul mention by name in his enumeration of people remarkable for faith?

66. Where is it said that drowsiness shall clothe a man with rags?

67. Where are we told that those who go into great passions shall suffer punishment?

68. Which of the Apostles speak of Jesus as the Shepherd of His people?

69. Which of the three Apostles who witnessed the Transfiguration afterwards refers to it in his writings?

70. Where do we find it said that every word of God is pure?

71. "Then shall come to pass that saying that is written, 'Death is swallowed up in victory.'" (1 Cor. xv. 54.) From which of the prophets does St. Paul quote these words?

72. What king of a heathen nation did God call His shepherd?

ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (49-60.--_See p. 308_).

49. The Wise Men (St. Matt. ii. 1, 2).

50. In Eccles. vii. 19, ix. 13-18; Prov. xxi. 22.

51. Only St. Luke (St. Luke xxiii. 7).

52. Solomon (Prov. xviii. 21).

53. St. James (James iii. 2, 5).

54. The Epistle of St. James iv. 4.

55. In Rev. v. 9, 10.

56. In Prov. xxi. 23, xiii. 3.

57. On his rebuking Elymas the Sorcerer at Paphos (Acts xiii. 8-11).

58. At Gibeon (2 Chron. i. 3-6).

59. Of blue (Exod. xxviii. 36, 37).

60. It is shown in the words, "It is finished" (St. John xix. 30).

LITTLE BAB AND THE STORY-BOOK.

_By the Author of "Clare Linton's Friend," "Mr. Burke's Nieces," &c._

Who is this little girl, I wonder, comfortably seated, and with a great book before her, on which she looks with delight? Her hair is tidily brushed, and her nice white collar hangs over the edge of her dress. She is a sweet, pretty little girl, I think, and yet if I tell you the story of her day, and what had happened before she got that book, you will see that she is not so happy after all. Just hear what she was doing two or three hours before.

She stood at the window with a little white nose flattened against the glass, and two big sorrowful, indignant eyes staring out at them, as the merry party left the house. There was Uncle Jem, whom she _did_ love, and whom she felt might have said a kind word for her; and Aunt Anastasia, who was that sort of a person that no one since she was born had ever thought of diminishing the five syllables by the use of any shorter name given in playfulness or love. No one, till that moment at least, had ever thought of calling her anything but Anastasia; but at that moment naughty Bab, with her little flattened nose and big mournful eyes, broke the spell by calling out, "Anasta-sia, indeed! Aunt Nasty, I think!"

Then there was her Cousin Robert, whom poor Bab honestly believed to be a much naughtier boy than she was a girl, and yet who generally managed to keep out of scrapes; and Selina, demure and well-mannered, but whom Bab's unruly, affectionate little heart had never been able to love; she was followed by Miss Strictham, the governess. And then there was Mr. Beresford, the kind, good-natured friend who was staying in the house; and Bab, just for a minute, felt that she would rather have died than that he should know she was in disgrace.

She watched them all go off under the bright blue sky, and then she turned round, and with her back to the window, faced the rather dingy, dull-looking schoolroom, and burst into a loud roar.

For Bab was only seven years old, and had not yet lost the first intensity of crying with which power every baby is born. She roared for two or three minutes, plenty of tears coming with the roar, after which she felt a good deal better.

"I'm such a little thing to be punished," she said to herself. "I don't think they ought to punish such a little thing as I am. I _must_ be young when people live to be as old as grandpapa, with wrinkles over every scrap of his face, till it looks just like no face at all, only wrinkles."

Then Bab examined her little round, rosy, pleasant face in a mirror over the fireplace.

"Not a single wrinkle," said she. "I must be _very_ young; but if they punish me this way, I shall _get_ wrinkles. I'm sure I shall, because I'm so _miserable_!"

I am afraid poor Bab often deserved to be punished. She was idle at her lessons and extremely saucy, and she was a quaint little thing, so that sometimes she seemed to be impertinent when she really did not intend it, though I must own that at other times she _did_ intend it as much as any other young lady seven years old possibly could. On the present occasion, when her governess scolded her for her idleness, she said she had not been idle, but had been making a charade; and then she began dancing about the schoolroom, and jumping on tables and chairs, and all the time shouting loudly, "Selina, guess--this is the charade--guess, Selina, guess! My first is what nobody should be, my second is what everybody should eat, and my whole is--oh,--Strict-ham, Strict-ham. Why don't you guess, Selina? Oh, why don't you?"

Miss Strictham marched her off in dire disgrace. The picnickers would be absent four hours, and during that time Bab was not to quit the schoolroom. Maria, the housemaid, would bring her dinner, and nurse would look in on her now and then, but she was not to have the younger children with her. She was to be a solitary prisoner in solitary confinement, and she was on her parole. Her aunt made her promise not to leave the room, and having done so, was content, for, as she said to Uncle Jem in rather a complaining way, "It is a very odd thing that Bab never tells a falsehood or breaks her promise. Robert and Selina both do sometimes, and yet they are so much better children. Isn't it odd?"

Having enjoyed a good roar, and feeling wonderfully refreshed thereby--for Bab was too proud to have shed a tear in Aunt Anastasia's and Miss Strictham's presence--the poor little thing got hold of her lesson-books and prepared to learn a French verb, some questions and answers in English history, and to do a sum in compound addition, and write a copy.

"As if it mattered to such a little thing as I am whether King John was a good man or a bad one, or what sort of a thing Magna Charta was!" said she, reproachfully, to her book; "as if it mattered to _any_body, indeed, when it was such an extremely long time ago! Eleven hundred and ninety-nine he came to the throne; and who'd care if he had never been born or never come to the throne? And _we're_ not barons, and _we've_ not got Magna Charta; and it's all nothing at all, but a great pity it ever happened, for if it hadn't happened, poor little children living hundreds and hundreds of years afterwards would not be troubled about it. I call it rubbish!" and with the word rubbish she tossed the little book up, and down it came with a broken back.

Bab picked it up and held it with one corner. When she saw the melancholy scrambling way in which the cover and the pages hung, she went off into irresistible shouts of laughter--for Bab's laugh was as loud and as hearty as her cry. Then she did her sums and wrote her copy, and after that Maria brought in her dinner.

Bab clapped her hands for joy when she saw what the tray contained, and then she began her dinner.

But now the lessons were over, the dinner was finished, and what was poor little Bab to do for the rest of the time?

She went round the room, casting out first her right hand and then her left, touching thus in turn everything in the apartment, but there was nothing more interesting than a pen-wiper, a schoolroom inkstand, or a grammar, so she called out "No, no, no" to everything, and then all of a sudden down came her hand on a big book with scarlet and white binding, and she gave a loud scream, a pirouet, and then said "Yes!"

Yes; I should think so. Why, it was Mr. Beresford's fairy book--the beautiful book he was showing them last night.

Then she seized on the precious book, brought it over with quite a struggle to the school desk, opened it there, and with elbows on table and cheeks on hands, gave herself over to perfect enjoyment. And so it was that we saw Miss Bab when our story began, sitting before the great book enjoying herself.

Such beautiful, lovely pictures went round every page, with a little verse set down right in the middle of the pictures. Fairies gorgeously coloured, all twining together or mixing themselves up with butterflies till you scarcely knew which was which, and not one bit of white paper to be seen through or mid the brilliant creatures--actually a wide border of fairies and butterflies, and nothing else, and the verse in the middle was also in illuminated letters.

In her eagerness, hanging over the book to read it, Bab happened to lean on the end of a pen standing up in art inkstand. She was too much interested to know what it was, but it came spluttering out, and a little speck of ink splashed on the white paper beyond the border.

"Oh, oh!" cried excited Bab; "is it not like some little bad fairy running along to hurt them?"

It was very hot, and Bab's eyes shut after she had said that, and when she opened them again she forgot the bad fairy, she was so shocked to see the splash of ink on the paper. And then she felt the sun warmer and warmer, and she shut her eyes once more.

"Look again," said a very little voice, but very sweet, oh, so sweet!

So she did look again. She saw all the beautiful painted fairies and butterflies had risen up alive from the page, and were dancing and gliding round and round it, never passing off the border to the outside or the inside. It was a lovely sight to see, and little Bab laughed and clapped her hands. Then a very grand and proud-looking fairy slipped out of the dance, and stationed herself in front, where she could take a good look at Bab.

"Little girl, why did you do that?" said the fairy, severely.

"Oh, what, please?" Bab was a brave child, but she did feel a little shaky and nohow just then.

"Brought the bad fairy Blackame to creep in among us and eat up our butterflies."

And had Bab really the power to bring a fairy Blackame over there when she thought it was only a splash of ink? And she looked with a sort of terror on the bad fairy Blackame when she thought she had brought her, and could not send her away.

"Oh, fairy, fairy!" she cried, "do forgive me. But can that wretched little black splashy thing--for you really _can't_ call it a splash--eat your butterflies when there are so many of you to fight for them, and they've got heaps and heaps of wings to fly away with?"

"But how can we manage that?" replied the fairy, sharply, "when we are too timid to fight and the butterflies are too brave to fly away."

"Well, that _is_ inconvenient," sighed Bab; "but don't you think, since the butterflies are so brave--how I do like them for being so brave!--don't you think they might fight a little?"

"Butterflies fight!" screamed the fairy. "Were butterflies ever seen to fight since the first butterfly? What will you say next? I think you are a very disagreeable little girl. First you bring down Blackame, and then you want to set all our dear pretty butterflies fighting."

"It was you who said they were so brave," murmured Bab, half penitent and half injured.

"And pray, is there any reason why I should not be permitted to say that butterflies are brave?" asked the fairy, with a sort of deadly politeness.

"And so much as I used to long to see a fairy!" sighed Bab to herself; "and now I really wish she would go away.

"What are you prepared to do about Blackame?--tell me," demanded the fairy, suddenly.

She made Bab jump, but Bab did not mind that; she was a straightforward child, and liked to go direct at a thing. She reflected, and then she faced the difficulty she had got into bravely, and replied in a grave, resolute way, "Anything you wish."

The fairy looked at her. "Why couldn't you say so before?" she said, very sharply. "It would have saved all this trouble."

Again Bab felt that it was not fair--she thought the fairy was unfairer even than Selina; _but_ she was a fairy, and besides that, Bab _had_ brought Blackame down upon them; so she said instantly, not meekly and humbly; for that was not her way--but in a resolute, hearty manner, that gave one confidence to see--"Just tell me, and I'll do it."

"_I'll_ tell you," said the fairy quite good-naturedly, "and _you'll_ do it. That's quite fair. Well now, the thing to do is this: go out in the evening with a long pole, and knock up high into the branches of the trees, and glance up and down, holding your dress out, and singing:--

'I'm the girl that brought him in, Blackame! What a rout! Little birds that cannot sin. Drive the wretched fellow out, Blackame;'

And then you'll see----" but what she was to see Bab never knew; something touched her, and then rushed with headlong sound through the window. The fairy was gone, and, stranger still, the bright beautiful book, with its butterflies and fairies, was gone too.

She looked lazily round her, and, to her surprise, saw Selina standing at the other end of the table.

"Why are you home so early?"

"Home so early! It's half-past five, if you please. Why, you lazy little thing, you've been asleep all the time!"

Bab looked at the clock on the mantel-piece, and saw it was a quarter to six. _How_ quickly the time passes when you are with fairies! She knew she had not been asleep, because she knew she had had the visit from the fairy, and she was so anxious to know what would happen next. About seven o'clock she thought she might go out with a long pole to the tree; and she supposed the fairies had put the book somewhere, till the birds should come and drive Blackame out of it, and she hoped very much Mr. Beresford would not miss his beautiful book till then, when it would be clear from the black splotch which she now knew was not Blackame.

"Where is Robert?" asked Miss Selina. "He dashed out of the carriage and through here, and he must have gone out by the window. And you _must_ have been asleep, or you would have heard him."

Bab remembered the sound of the rush through the window, and she saw now a spill of ink just by the place where the book had been. But Robert could not have been there, because she was talking to the fairy at the very time, and she must have noticed him, and felt him greatly in the way.

When it was past seven o'clock, Bab slipped away, and took Mr. Beresford's alpenstock out of the stand in the hall, and beat about the branches of the elms and horse-chestnuts, and danced and sang, holding her dress up, and did everything exactly as the fairy had told her to do, and as you will see her doing in the picture.

But she had not been dancing and singing (Bab often recalled the scene, when she was older, with pleasure) more than about twenty minutes before Aunt Anastasia put her head out of the window, and told her to come in.

It was _much_ pleasanter to be dancing for the fairies up and down, with outstretched frock, than to go into the house and find Blackame still on the page, and have to confess she brought him there, and be in disgrace for it.

Mr. Beresford held out a kind hand to her, and drew her to his side.

The book, when Mr. Beresford took it in his hands, naturally opened at the page where it had been lying open that morning so long, and there were all the fairies and butterflies lying flat and beautiful, and the verses in the middle of the page. But there, instead of Blackame, were five or six Blackames perhaps, intertwining together like the fairies and the butterflies, but bearing to mortal eyes nothing but the appearance of a thick smudge of ink.

"Oh, I didn't do that!" cried poor little Bab, and burst into tears.

"Who did, then?" inquired Mr. Beresford, quickly.

"Why, I saw Robert with the book in the hall soon after we came home," cried Selina, on impulse.

"Did you do it, Robert?" asked Mr. Beresford.

"Why does she say she didn't do it, and begin to blubber?" cried Robert, politely designating Bab over his shoulder. "Wasn't she left at home? Who could do it but she?"

"Because I _saw_ you do it," replied Mr. Beresford, and Robert's white face became scarlet--the mean little fellow as he stood there before them, who had committed a fault, and then tried to lay the blame on a girl. "Bab was lying back in her chair fast asleep, and with bright smiles on her face, that showed that she was having happy dreams, when in you ran, jumped over desk, book, and all; threw a little of the ink across the page by a kick with your foot, then looking with dismay at your work, tucked the book under your arm, and jumped through the window with it."

Robert blubbered at this. "I wanted to take the ink out."

"You have been a very bad boy," said his father. "You deserve a flogging, and shall have it. I am very much grieved about your book, Beresford."

Robert almost screamed.

"I think more of his laying the fault on this little girl," replied Mr. Beresford, his hand among Bab's curls, "than of the book."

Bab sidled up to him. He sat at the table looking so kindly at her, and she stood by him, her elbow on it, and with her pretty modest eyes fixed on him. "But it doesn't seem quite as if he did that, does it?" she asked; "he took the book away to make it well. If he had left it with me, _everybody_ would have believed I did it, and he knew that quite well."

"No, he had not laid a plot, but at the moment he put the blame on you."

"That was because he is such a coward. Pray, he couldn't help it; he was too frightened. You were too frightened, weren't you, Robert? You _are_ such a coward!" Bab said plainly.

Robert, still crying, she made his excuses.

"And I am very sorry. I'd quite forgotten; but I did it too."

Mr. Beresford smiled.

"Did what, little Bab?"

"Ah, perhaps you'll be angry, and I shall be so _very_ sorry; but I must tell. I did it too."

She sidled up a little nearer, and looked gently at him.

"Did what too?"

"I spurted a little--leetle ink by a spluttering pen, and it was a bad fairy called Blackame; and another fairy was just telling me how to set it right, when Robert must have rushed in and did it all; but if I hadn't put the book _on_ the desk _near_ the ink, nothing would have happened, and Robert would be happy. Oh, please, Uncle Jem, don't flog Robert."

"Very well; you are a good little thing, Bab. Go to bed this moment, sir; perhaps I may let you off, as your cousin is so kind."

Robert left the room, and his father followed to at least give him a good scolding. Bab was left alone with Mr. Beresford. She stood near him, with a wistful expression about both her face and her figure.

"Will it spoil the book? And it has all happened because I was naughty and couldn't be taken. I think they had better take me next time, Mr. Beresford, whatever I've done;" and a humorous look sparkled into Bab's eyes.

"And the fairies came and talked to you? But do you know it was not really a fairy, Bab? You were fast asleep, for I saw you myself; you must have been dreaming."

"Oh dear! And was not it a fairy? then it was just a common dance I had under the tree. But do you know I'm not quite sorry, for she was not half as nice as fairies are; and that was not really a Blackame, was it? Well, I'm sorry I could call up a bad fairy, only I do wish I had really been dancing for birds."

"I wish you were not so often in disgrace, little Bab."

"So do I; but I don't _think_ I shall be next year. Father and mother are coming home then from the Mauritius, and I shall be an own little girl again."

Mr. Beresford kissed Bab affectionately when she said that, but Bab did not know why he kissed her.

A HELPING HAND.

Frank's road to school leads over ways Where yet no trains approach, And past the Yellow Dragon Inn, Where stops the Dirleton coach: Here the old horses, Duke and Ned, Are daily watered, changed, and fed.

Frank knows them well, and one hot day, As whistling home he sped, He saw the patched old feeding-bag That hung at Neddy's head Fell too far down--Ned vainly tried To reach the yellow corn inside.

No one was near--Ned tossed his head, And strove, but still in vain, Hungry as any horse might be, To seize the tempting grain; Frank checked his headlong homeward course, And then approached the wearied horse.

With quick light hands he raised the bag, And made the strappings tight; Ned hid his nose among the corn, And softly neighed delight. For Frank it was sufficient prize To read his thanks in Ned's bright eyes.

ROBERT RICHARDSON.

SOME FAMOUS RAILWAY TRAINS AND THEIR STORY.

_By_ HENRY FRITH.

IV.--THE CONTINENTAL MAIL AND "TIDAL" TRAINS.

We have to travel in two important trains now, and within twenty-four hours will make two trips, the one by night, the other by day. Hitherto, we have been standing with our drivers in full daylight, looking at the pleasant country, and thinking of many historical events as we pass. Now we have to mount our engine at night, and go all the way to Dover without stopping.

We will start from Cannon Street this time, at ten minutes past eight p.m. We could go at a quarter to eight or ten o'clock in the morning, but it will be quite a new experience for us to travel on an engine by night, and return from Folkestone, on another occasion, by daylight and see the country as we fly along. Now let us start.

What a short train! Yes, it is, but then the Charing Cross portion with the West-end passengers has not yet arrived. Before it comes in we shall draw out to the bridge and back down upon the newly-arrived carriages. Then the train will be complete, and we shall start punctually as possible with "Her Majesty's Mails." Oh, what bags and sacks and vans full of letters have been, and are being, thrown into the mail-train! How roughly our poor little letters seem to be treated; tumbled out on the ground, tossed into the carriage which seems already full, and then hurriedly untied and sorted, by quick-fingered clerks, into the various pigeon-holes, and tied up in the local bags, to be dropped, perhaps, as the train flies past the various stations.

But the engine is waiting. We must turn away from the well-lighted sorting-van, bright even in the gleam of the electric light, which illuminates the great echoing station with its winking glare. On a platform just outside are numerous arms and signals--one arm is lowered; then another. The Charing-Cross portion of the mail is in now. It is thirteen minutes past eight p.m.--no doubt the "official" time for starting--and with a shriek we pass from the brilliant station to the darkness of the river.

The Thames flows sullenly down in the lamplight, swirling under the piers of the railway, and shimmering under the lights of London Bridge as we curve round above Tooley Street; but we do not stop at London Bridge Station on this occasion. We peep through the glasses in the weatherboard and see such a number of red and green signals, that it reminds us of the Crystal Palace devices in lamps, and even as we look some turn green (is it with envy at our speed?) or red (is it with anger at our passing on without saying good-night?) but our engine-driver, who never moves his head or speaks to us, looks in front--we are nearly in darkness now--and we look about us.

We feel warm about the feet and knees--the wind whistles around our waist. We stand near the fireman, looking through his glass, and near a hand-lamp, which shines on a water-gauge glass to tell the driver when the boiler needs replenishing. We rush past Bermondsey all lighted up, and we see in the distance blazing chimneys, down Deptford way, and red lights on the Brighton Railway rushing at us in the air, and white and green lights of engines rushing at us on the rails. We overtake and pass a train whose passengers look nice and warm, and one little boy is flattening his nose against the window, to see us pass, and no doubt thinks _his_ train a very slow one, and _his_ engine-driver a "muff," for being beaten in the "race."

So we leave the ancient "Beormund's Eye" where many hundred years ago was an abbey, and where now are tanneries and many trades with accompanying and peculiar odours. Away we go in a direct line over the Surrey Canal--the river and the ships we cannot see. We get a glimpse of the lighted Crystal Palace and rush into Chislehurst, where the late Emperor of the French and his son lie buried.

Puffing up hill as if it were short of breath the engine goes, and is suddenly swallowed up in a great tunnel! Oh, the roaring, the clattering, the clamp, clamp, clamp, the "dickery-dickery-dock" tune which the wheels play upon the metals and chairs and joints of the line! Suddenly we are out again under a starry sky; all the mist and fog and smoke are gone. The light which surrounded us in the tunnel, the flickering gleam which shone on us from roof and walls, is as suddenly dispersed and hangs now overhead in the white curling steam, as the fireman opens the furnace door, and the gleam dashes along with us like a halo.

From Sevenoaks our speed increases; the driver slackens off the steam, but we rush on faster and faster. Through another long tunnel, then into the open air round a curve, flying along an embankment until we think we _must_ go over it. Rush, roar, and rattle! Speed slackens, bump, thump, whizz, a long whistle; green and red lights above and below, a big station, engines beside us, people like phantoms on the platforms, crash, bang! Tunbridge is passed, and we are running on level ground, in a straight line for full twenty miles, to Ashford. Ah, we can breathe again now. It _did_ seem rather alarming just then.

So on we go towards Folkestone and Dover. Now the salt-laden breeze tells us we are near our destination. The sorting-clerks work harder and faster. The Continental mail-bags, Indian mail-bags, Mediterranean and China mail-bags, all are ready for transmission to the steamer. Into the tunnel through the

"... Cliff, whose high and bending head Looks fearfully on the confined deep"--

known as the Shakespeare cliff, in consequence of that description in "King Lear."

We quickly reach Dover, so well known as the resting-place of Queen Elizabeth's "Pocket Pistol," twenty-four feet long, on which is the legend--

"Load me well and keep me clean And I'll carry a ball to Calais Green."

The train glides down the pier, the carriage-doors are opened, mail-bags and muffled travellers are hurried on board. The lights are extinguished, the engine retreats into the darkness, then we jump off and go to bed.

Next time we meet our engine it is waiting for the Tidal train at Folkestone. This train starts from Charing Cross and from Paris daily, each way, at hours when the Channel passage can be accomplished at or near high water. We shall soon have a still faster service, and eight hours between London and Paris will be the usual time.

The run up to London need not be dwelt upon. The pace is not excessive, but punctuality is well observed, and the train runs in safety. We remember one bad accident, though, to the Tidal train.

It was at Staplehurst in 1865. The Whitsuntide series of accidents which disfigured that holiday season was closed by the terrible catastrophe that happened to the Tidal train on its way from Folkestone to London. This train is an erratic one. It travels at different hours each week, and changes daily. On the 9th June in that year (1865), the railway near Staplehurst was under repair. The men were working, and had taken up two rails when the Tidal train was seen approaching.

The foreman had mistaken the time. There was no chance of avoiding an accident. The express came dashing into the gap, and eight carriages were flung over a bridge into a little stream beneath. The engine and the tender jumped the vacant space of rail, and ran into the hedge, but the carriages toppled over, leaving only two of them on the line at the back, and the engine and luggage vans in front. So the eight other carriages hung down and crushed into each other. Ten persons were killed and many injured.

In the train was the late Charles Dickens, who was travelling to London. He had with him the MS. (or proofs) of a tale he was then engaged upon, and in the preface to the work he mentioned the occurrence. He was most useful to the injured passengers, and with other gentlemen exerted himself greatly to alleviate their sufferings. We need not dwell upon the painful scene of the accident, which created quite a sensation, as it occurred to the Continental express, by which so many holiday-makers travel.

We have not mentioned many accidents in the few papers we have put before you, for there is a sameness in them unfortunately; but we remember one terrible accident which occurred in consequence of a little boy playing on an engine, which ran away and caused a bad collision by dashing into a train which it overtook in its wild race.

Perhaps you little readers of LITTLE FOLKS are not aware that boys begin at a very early age to learn the mysteries of the locomotive engine. These lads are "cleaners" first, and have to rub up the bright parts of the engines, and clear out the fire-boxes. Accidents have happened to the lads, even boys have been killed by going to sleep in the fire-boxes, and when the fire was lighted next morning they have been suffocated. The engine-driver expects his fire lighted and steam got up for him when he comes down to the engine-shed, or "stable." You may, perhaps, have noticed the round houses near the railway--say at York Road, Battersea--those are the engine-"stables." Every engine is placed in its "stall," so that its chimney is just under an opening, or flue. It is also over a "pit," so that the fire can be raked out, or the working examined from underneath before the engine goes into the station next day to take the train away to the seaside, or to carry you to school, or home for the holidays. The engine-driver or the fireman examines the rods, cranks, and all the different joints, nuts, and screws; oiling or "packing," "easing off," or "tightening up" the various parts, so that the machinery may run easily and without heating. One tiny bit of grit may wreck a train.

But our allotted space is now filled, and will not permit us to tell you more concerning engine-boys. So we must say "good-bye" to you all.

"FATHER'S COMING!"

Oh, Father is coming! Through all the long day We thought of him often, When he was away; We knew he was working While we were at play.

He'll be tired, I think; I have set him a chair In his own cosy corner-- He likes to sit there-- And we'll bring him his slippers, His old favourite pair.

I think it's the nicest To watch at the gate; And Dolly sits by us While thus we all wait. He'll be here very soon-- It's so seldom he's late.

See, Baby knows too Who is coming to-night; She is crowing, and clapping Her hands with delight! There's his footstep at last! Oh, hurrah! he's in sight.

THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE.

THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS.

_By the Author of "The Heir of Elmdale," &c. &c._