"Carrots:" Just a Little Boy

If any of you children have travelled much, have you noticed that on a long journey there seem to come points, turns—I hardly know what to call them—after which the journey seems to go on differently. More quickly, perhaps more cheerfully, or possibly less so, but certainly differently. Looking back afterwards you see it was so—"from the time we all looked out of the window at the ruined abbey we seemed to get on so much faster," you would say, or—"after the steamer had passed the Spearhead Point, we began to feel dull and tired, and there was no more sunshine."

I think it is so in life. Suddenly, often quite unknowingly, we turn a corner sometimes of our history, sometimes of our characters, and looking back, long afterwards, we make a date of that point. It was so just now with my little Carrots. This trouble of his about the half-sovereign changed him. I do not mean to say that it saddened him and made him less happy than he had been—at his age, thank God, few, if any children have it in them to be so deeply affected—but it changed him. It was his first peep out into life, and it gave him his first real thoughts about things. It made him see how a little wrong-doing may cause great sorrow; it gave him his first vague, misty glimpse of that, to my thinking, saddest of all sad things—the way in which it is possible for our very nearest and dearest to mistake and misunderstand us.

He had been in some ways a good deal of a baby for his age, there is no doubt. He had a queer, baby-like way of not seeming to take in quickly what was said to him, and staring up in your face with his great oxen-like eyes, that did a little excuse Maurice's way of laughing at him and telling him he was "half-witted." But no one that really looked at those honest, sensible, tender eyes could for an instant have thought there was any "want" in their owner. It was all there—the root of all goodness, cleverness, and manliness—just as in the acorn there is the oak; but of course it had a great deal of growing before it, and, more than mere growing, it would need all the care and watchful tenderness and wise directing that could be given it, just as the acorn needs all the rain and sunshine and good nourishing soil it can get, to become a fine oak, straight and strong and beautiful. For what do I mean by "it," children? I mean the "own self" of Carrots, the wonderful "something" in the little childish frame which the wisest of all the wise men of either long ago or now-a-days have never yet been able to describe—the "soul," children, which is in you all, which may grow into so beautiful, so lovely and perfect a thing; which may, alas! be twisted and stunted and starved out of all likeness to the "image" in which it was created.

Do you understand a little why it seems sometimes such a very, very solemn thing to have the charge of children? When one thinks what they should be, and again when one thinks what they may be, is it not a solemn, almost too solemn a thought? Only we, who feel this so deeply, take heart when we remember that the Great Gardener who never makes mistakes has promised to help us; even out of our mistakes to bring good.

As I have said, the affair of the lost half-sovereign did not leave any lastingly painful impression on Carrots, but for some days he seemed unusually quiet and pale and a little sad. He had caught cold, too, with falling asleep on the dressing-room floor, nurse said, for the weather was still exceedingly chilly, though the spring was coming on. So altogether he was rather a miserable looking little Carrots.

He kept out of the way and did not complain, but "mamma" and nurse and Floss did not need complaints to make them see that their little man was not quite himself, and they were extra kind to him.

There came just then some very dull rainy days, regular rainy days, not stormy, but to the children much more disagreeable than had they been so. For in stormy weather at the seaside there is too much excitement for anyone to think whether it is disagreeable or not—there is the splendid sight of the angry, troubled sea, there are the wonderful "storm songs" of the wind to listen to. Of course, as Carrots used to say, at such times it is "dedful" to think of the poor sailors; but even in thinking of them there is something that takes one's thoughts quite away from one's self, and one's own worries and troubles—all the marvellous stories of shipwreck and adventure, from Grace Darling to old Sinbad, come rushing into one's mind, and one feels as if the sea were the only part of the world worth living on.

But even at the seaside, regular, steady, "stupid" rainy days are trying. Carrots sat at the nursery window one of these dull afternoons looking out wistfully.

"Floss," he said, for Floss was sitting on the floor learning her geography for the next day, "Floss, it is so raining."

"I know," said Floss, stopping a minute in her "principal rivers of northern Europe." "I wish there wasn't so much rain, and then there wouldn't be so many rivers; or perhaps if there weren't so many rivers there wouldn't be so much rain. I wonder which it is!"

"Which beginned first—rivers or rain?" said Carrots, meditatively, "that would tell."

"I'm sure I don't know, and I don't believe anybody does," said Floss, going on again with her lesson. "Be quiet, Carrots, for one minute, and then I'll talk to you."

Carrots sat silent for about a minute and a half; then he began again.

"Floss," he said.

"Well," replied Floss, "I've very nearly done, Carrots."

"It's werry dull to-day, Floss; the sea looks dull too, it isn't dancey a bit to-day, and the sands look as if they would never be nice for running on again."

"Oh, but they will, Master Carrots," said nurse, who was sitting near, busy darning stockings. "Dear, dear! don't I remember feeling just so when I was a child? In winter thinking summer would never come, and in summer forgetting all about winter!"

"Is it a werry long time since you were a child?" inquired Carrots, directing his attention to nurse.

"It's getting on for a good long time, my dear," said nurse, with a smile.

"Please tell me about it," said Carrots.

"Oh yes, nursie dear, do," said Floss, jumping up from the floor and shutting her book. "I've done all my lessons, and it would just be nice to have a story. It would amuse poor little Carrots."

"But you know all my stories as well, or even better, than I do myself," objected nurse, "not that they were ever much to tell, any of them."

"Oh yes, they were. They are very nice stories indeed," said Floss, encouragingly. "And I'm very fond of what you call your mother's stories, too—aren't you, Carrots?—about the children she was nurse to—Master Hugh and Miss Janet. Tell us more about them, nursie."

"You've heard all the stories about them, my dears, I'm afraid," said nurse. "At least, I can't just now think of any worth telling but what you've heard."

"Well, let's hear some not worth the telling," said Floss, persistently. "Nurse," she went on, "how old must Master Hugh and Miss Janet be by now? Do you know where they are?"

"Master Hugh is dead," said nurse, "many a year ago, poor fellow, and little Miss Janet—why she was fifteen years older than I; mother only left them to be married when Miss Janet was past twelve. She must be quite an old lady by now, if she is alive—with grandchildren as old as you, perhaps! How strange it seems!"

"She must have been a very nice little girl, and so must Master Hugh have been—a nice little boy, I mean. That story of 'Mary Ann Jolly' was so interesting. I suppose they never did anything naughty?" said Floss, insinuatingly.

"Oh, but they did," replied nurse, quite unsuspicious of the trap laid for her. "Master Hugh was very mischievous. Did I never tell you what they did to their dog Cæsar?"

"No, never," said both the children in a breath; "do tell us."

"Well, it was one Sunday morning, to tell it as mother told me," began nurse. "You know, my dears," she broke off again, "it was in Scotland, and rather an out-of-the-way part where they lived. I know the place well, of course, for it wasn't till I was seventeen past that I ever left it. It is a pretty place, out of the way even now, I'm told, with railways and all, and in those days it was even more out-of-the-way. Six miles from the church, and the prayers and the sermon very long when you got there! Many and many a time I've fallen asleep at church, when I was a little girl. Well, to go back to Master Hugh and Miss Janet. It was on a Sunday morning they did the queer piece of mischief I'm going to tell you of. They had been left at home with no one but an old woman, who was too deaf to go to church, to look after them. She lived in the lodge close by, and used to come into the house to help when the servants were busy, for she was a very trusty old body. It was not often the children were left without mother, or perhaps one of the housemaids, to take care of them, and very often in fine weather they used to be taken to church themselves, though it was tiring like for such young things. But this Sunday, everybody had gone to church because it was the time of the preachings——"

"The what, nurse?" said Floss. "Isn't there preaching every Sunday at church?"

"Oh yes, my dear; but what we call the preachings in Scotland means the time when there is the communion service, which is only twice a year. You can't understand, my dear," seeing that Floss looked as mystified as ever; "but never mind. When you are older, you will find that there are many different ways of saying and doing the same things in churches, just like among people. But this Sunday I am telling you of, the services were to be very long indeed, too long for the children, considering the six miles' drive and all. So they were left at home with old Phemie."

"Did they mind?" said Carrots.

"Oh no; I fancy they were very well pleased. They were always very happy together, the two of them and Cæsar."

"And of course they promised to be very good," said Floss.

"No doubt of that," said nurse, with a smile. "Well, they certainly hit upon a queer way of amusing themselves. Mother came home from church one of the earliest; she had a lift in one of the farmer's carts, and came in at the lodge gate just as the carriage with her master and mistress and the young ladies was driving up. They all got out at the big gate, and let the coachman drive round to the stable the back way, and mother came quietly walking up the drive behind them. They were talking seriously about the sermon they had heard, and feeling rather solemn-like, I daresay, when all at once there flew down the drive to meet them the most fearsome-like creature that ever was seen. It was like nothing in nature, my mother said, about the size of a large wolf, but with a queer-shaped head and body—at least they looked queer to them, not knowing what it was—and not a particle of hair or coat of any kind upon it. It rushed up to my lady, that was Miss Janet's mother, and tried to leap upon her; but she shrieked to her husband, and he up with his stick—he always took a stick about with him—and was just on the point of giving it a fearful blow, never thinking but what it was one of the beasts escaped from some travelling show, when one of the young ladies caught his arm.

"'Stop, father!' she cried. 'Don't you see who it is? It's Cæsar.'

"'Cæsar!' said he. 'My dear, that's never Cæsar.'

"But Cæsar it was, as they soon saw by the way he jumped and whined, and seemed to beg them to understand he was himself. He was frightened out of his wits, poor doggie, for he had never felt so queer before, and couldn't understand what had come over him."

"And what had come over him?" asked the children eagerly.

"Why, Master Hugh and Miss Janet had spent the morning in cropping him!" replied nurse. "The hair, and he had great long thick hair, was cut off as close and as neat as if it had been shaved; it was really wonderful how clean they had done it without cutting or wounding the poor doggie. They had taken great pains about it, and had spent the best part of the morning over it—the two of them, Master Hughie with the great kitchen scissors, and Miss Janet with a wee fine pair she had found in her mamma's workbox, the little monkey! And such a sight as the kitchen dresser was with hair! For they told how they had made Cæsar jump up on to the dresser and lie first on one side and then on the other, till all was cut off."

"Were they punished?" asked Floss, anxiously. And at this question Carrots looked very woebegone.

"They were going to be," said nurse, "but somehow, I cannot justly say how it was, they were let off. The whole thing was such a queer idea, their father and mother could not but laugh at it, though they didn't let the children see them. And what do you think my lady did? She took all poor Cæsar's hair and spun it up into worsted for knitting, mixing it, of course, with long yarn."

"Did she spin?" asked Floss. "I thought you said she was a lady."

"And that she was, Miss Flossie, and none the less so for being able to spin and to knit, and to cook too, I daresay," said nurse. "But ladies, and high born ones too, in those days turned their hands to many things they think beneath them now. I know Miss Janet's mother would never have thought of letting any one but herself wash up her breakfast and tea services. The cups were a sight to be seen, certainly, of such beautiful old china; they were worth taking care of; and that's how old china has been kept together. There isn't much of what's in use now-a-days will go down to your grand-children, and great grand-children, Miss Flossie, with the smashing and dashing that goes on. My lady had a white wood bowl kept on purpose, and a napkin of the finest damask, and a large apron of fine holland that she put on, and, oh yes, a pair of embroidered holland cuffs she used to draw on over her sleeves up to the elbow; and a lady she looked, I can assure you, rinsing out and drying her beautiful cups, with her pretty white hands!"

"Did you ever see her?" asked Floss.

"Yes, when she was getting to be quite an old lady, I've seen her several times when I've been sent up a message by mother to the house. For my mother was a great favourite of hers; I never went there but my lady would have me in to have a piece."

"A piece?" repeated Floss.

Nurse laughed. "A slice of bread and jam, I should say, my dear. I forget that I'm far away from the old life when I get to talking of those days. And to think I'm getting on to be quite an old woman myself; older in some ways than my lady ever was, for my hair is fast turning grey, and hers had never a silver streak in it to the last day of her life, and she died at eighty-four!"

Carrots was getting a little tired, for he hardly understood all that nurse was saying. To create a diversion he climbed up on to her knee, and began stroking her face.

"Never mind, nursie," he said. "I'll always love you, even when your hair's kite grey, and I would marry you if you like when I'm big, only I've promised to marry Floss."

"Oh you funny little Carrots," said Floss. "But, nurse," she went on, "what did Janet's mamma do with the hair when she had spun it?"

"She knitted it into a pair of stockings for Master Hughie," said nurse; "but they weren't much use. They were well enough to look at, but no mortal boy could have worn them without his legs being skinned, they were so pricky."

"And what became of Cæsar?" said Floss. "Did his hair ever grow again?"

"Oh yes," said nurse, "in time it did, though I believe it never again looked quite so silky and nice. But Cæsar lived to a good old age, for all that. He didn't catch cold, for my lady made mother make him a coat of a bit of soft warm cloth, which he wore for some time."

"How funny he must have looked," said Floss.

"What are you talking about?" said a voice behind her, and turning round, Floss saw Cecil, who had come into the room without their hearing her.

"About a doggie," answered Carrots. "Oh, Cis, nurse has been telling us such a lubly story about a doggie. Nursie, dear, won't you tell us another to-morrow?"

"My stories are all worn out, my dear," said nurse, shaking her head.

"Couldn't you tell us one, Cis?" said Carrots.

"Make up one, do you mean?" said Cecil. "No, indeed, I'm sure I never could. Are they always at you to tell them stories, nurse? If so, I pity you."

"Poor little things," said nurse, "it's dull for them these wet days, Miss Cecil, and Master Carrots' cold has been bad."

Cecil looked at her little brother's pale face as he sat nestling in nurse's arms, and a queer new feeling of compunction seized her.

"I couldn't tell you a story," she said; "but if you like, the first afternoon it's rainy, and you can't go out, I'll read you one. Miss Barclay lent me a funny old-fashioned little book the other day, and some of the stories in it are fairy ones. Would you like that, Carrots?"

Floss clapped her hands, and Carrots slid down from nurse's knee, and coming quietly up to Cecil, threw his arms round her neck, and gave her a kiss.

"I hope it'll rain to-morrow," he said, gravely.

"It is kind of Miss Cecil," said nurse; and as Cecil left the nursery she added to herself, "it will be a comfort to her mother if she begins to take thought for the little ones, and I've always felt sure it was in her to do so, if only she could get into the way of it."

CHAPTER VIII.

"THE BEWITCHED TONGUE."

Do you know how very few those books were? You may have heard it, but I scarcely fancy you have ever thought over the great difference between yourselves and long-ago-children in this respect. Now-a-days, when you have galloped through all the brilliant blue and green and scarlet little volumes that have been given to you on birthdays and Christmas-days, you come with a melancholy face to your mother, and tell her you have "nothing to read." And then, most likely, when your mother goes to the library, she chooses a book for you out of the "juvenile department," and when it is done you get another, till you can hardly remember what you have read and what you haven't. But as for reading any book twice over, that is never to be thought of.

Not so was it long ago. Not only had no children many books, but everywhere children had the same! There was seldom any use in little friends lending to each other, for it was always the same thing over again: 'Evenings at Home,' 'Sandford and Merton,' 'Ornaments Discovered,' and so on.

You think, I daresay, that it must have been very stupid and tiresome to have so little variety, but I think you are in some ways mistaken. Children really read their books in those days; they put more of themselves into their reading, so that, stupid as these quaint old stories might seem to you now-a-days, they never seemed so then. What was wanting in them the children filled up out of their own fresh hearts and fancies, and however often they read and re-read them, they always found something new. They got to know the characters in their favourite stories like real friends, and would talk them over with their companions, and compare their opinions about them in a way that made each book as good, or better, than a dozen.

So there is something to be said for this part of the 'ancien régime'—if you do not understand what that means, you will some day—after all!

The volume that Cecil Desart brought into the nursery was called 'Faults Corrected; or,' (there was always long ago an "or" in the titles of books) 'Beneficent Influences.'

"Some of the stories are stupid," said Cecil, as she sat down. "Miss Barclay said it was her mother's when she was a little girl, so it must be rather ancient; but I think I've found one that will amuse you, and that Carrots can understand."

"What's it called?" said Floss, peering over her sister's shoulder. "'Faults Corrected; or, Ben—ben—' what word's that, Cecil?"

"Sit down, Floss, and be quiet, or I won't read to you," said Cecil, emphatically. "That's the name of the whole book you are looking at, and you wouldn't understand the word if I told it you. The name of the story I'm going to read to you is, 'The Bewitched Tongue; or, Think before you speak. A Fairy Tale.'"

Floss would have liked to clap her hands, but she was afraid of another snub from Cecil, so she restrained her feelings.

"When there come very long words," continued Cecil—"there often are in old books—I'll change them to easy ones, so that Carrots may understand. Now, be quiet all of you, I'm going to begin. 'The Bewitched Tongue, etc.' I'm not going to read all the title again. 'In a beautiful mansion' (that just means a fine house, Carrots) 'surrounded by pleasure grounds of great extent, there lived, many years ago, a young girl named Elizabetha. She was of charming appearance and pleasing manners; her parents loved her devotedly, her brothers and sisters looked upon her with amiable affection, her teachers found her docile and intelligent. Yet Elizabetha constantly found herself, despite their affection, shunned and feared by her best and nearest friends, and absolutely disliked by those who did not know her well enough to feel assured of the real goodness of her heart.

'This sad state of things was all owing to one unfortunate habit. She had a hasty tongue. Whatever thought was uppermost in her mind at the moment, she expressed without reflection; she never remembered the wholesome adage "Think before you speak," or that other excellent saying, "Second thoughts are best."

'Her disposition was far from unamiable or malicious, yet the mischief of which she was the cause was indescribable. Every servant in the household dreaded to hear the sound of her voice, for many had she involved in trouble and disgrace; and as her temper was naturally quick and impetuous, and she never attempted to check her first expressions of provocation, small and even trifling disagreements were by her foolish tongue exaggerated into lasting discord, long after all real cause of offence had passed from her mind.

'"My brother will not forgive me," she confessed one day to her mother, with many tears, "and the quarrel was only that he had broken the vase of flowers that stands on my table. I forgave him—I would rather lose twenty vases than his affection—and yet he will not speak to me, and passes me by with indignant looks."

'"And did you at once express your forgiveness to him, Elizabetha?" said her mother. "When you first discovered the accident, what words escaped you?"

'Elizabetha reflected, and presently her colour rose.

'"I fear, ma'am," she said, "I fear that at the first sight of the broken vase I spoke unguardedly. I exclaimed that without doubt Adolphus had thrown down the ornament on purpose to annoy me, and that I wished so mean-spirited a youth were not my brother. My little sister Celia was beside me at the time—can she have carried to him what I said? I did not really mean that; my words were but the momentary expression of my vexation."

'Her mother gravely shook her head.

'"It is your own doing altogether, Elizabetha," she said, "and you cannot complain that your brother resents so unkind and untrue a charge."

'Elizabetha burst into tears, but the harm was done, and it was some time before Adolphus could forget the pain of her unjust and hasty words.

'Another day her little brother Jacky had just with great pains and care written out his task for the next morning, when, having been called to supper, he found on his return to the schoolroom his exercise book all blotted and disfigured.

'"Who can have done this?" he cried in distress.

'Elizabetha was just entering the room.

'"Oh," she exclaimed, "it is Sukey, the under-housemaid, that you have to thank for that. I saw her coming out of the room, and she had no reason to enter it. Out of curiosity she has been looking at your books, and blotted your exercise."

'Jacky was but eight years old, full young for prudence or reflection. Downstairs he flies, his face inflamed with anger, and meeting the unfortunate Sukey at the door of the servants' hall, upbraids her in no gentle terms for her impertinence. In vain the poor girl defends herself, and denies Master Jacky's accusation; the other servants come to the rescue, and the whole household is in an uproar, till suddenly Miss Elizabetha is named as the source of the mischief.

'"Ah," says the old housekeeper, "do not distress yourself, Sukey; we all know what Miss Elizabetha's tongue is!"

'And thereupon the poor girl is freed from blame. She had only gone to the schoolroom by the desire of an upper servant to mend the fire, and the real offender was discovered to have been the cat!

'This affair coming to the ears of Elizabetha's father, he reproved her with great severity. Mortified and chagrined, she, as usual, wept bitterly, and ashamed to meet the cold looks of the household, she hastened out into the garden and paced up and down a shady walk, where she imagined herself quite hidden from observation.'"

"Cis," interrupted Carrots at this point, "I don't understand the story."

"I'm very sorry," said Cecil, "I didn't notice what a lot of long words there are. Shall I leave off?"

"I understand it," said Floss.

"Then read it for Floss, please, Cis," said Carrots. "I'll be kite still."

"You're a good little boy," said Cecil; "I suppose I may as well finish it as I have begun. We're coming to the fairy part now. Perhaps you'll understand it better. Where was I? Oh yes, 'imagined herself quite hidden from observation. But in this she was mistaken, as my readers will see.

'She walked slowly up and down. "Oh my tongue, my cruel tongue!" she exclaimed, "what trouble it is the cause of! How can I cure myself of my rash speech?"

'"Do you in all sincerity wish to cure yourself, Elizabetha?" said a voice beside her; and turning in surprise at its sound, the young girl perceived at a few steps' distance a fair and sweet looking lady, clad in silvery-white, adorned with wreaths of the loveliest flowers.

'"Assuredly I do, gracious lady," replied Elizabetha, mastering as well as she was able her surprise, for she felt that this beautiful lady must be a fairy of high degree.

'"Then I will help you," said the lady, "but on one condition, hereafter to be explained. You are content to agree to this beforehand?"

'"To anything, kind fairy," replied the young girl, "if only my unhappy fault can be cured."

'The fairy smiled, "Hasty as ever," she murmured; "however, in this instance, you shall have no reason to regret your words. Put out your tongue, Elizabetha."

'Trembling slightly, the young girl obeyed. But her fears were uncalled for—the fairy merely touched the unruly member with her wand and whispered some words, the meaning of which Elizabetha could not understand.

'"Meet me here one week hence," said the fairy; "till then your tongue will obey my commands. And if you then feel you have reason to feel grateful to me, I will call upon you to redeem your promise."

'And before Elizabetha could reply, the lady had disappeared.

'Full of eagerness and curiosity, Elizabetha returned to the house. It was growing dusk, and as she sped along the garden paths something ran suddenly against her, causing her to trip and fall. As she got up she perceived that it was Fido, the dog of her brother Adolphus. The creature came bounding up to her again, full of play and affection. But in her fall Elizabetha had bruised herself; she felt angry and indignant.

'"Get off with you, you clumsy wretch," she exclaimed, or meant to exclaim. But to her amazement the words that issued from her mouth were quite otherwise.

'"Gently, gently, my poor Fido. Thou didst not mean to knock me down, however," she said in a kind and caressing tone, which the dog at once obeyed.

'Hardly knowing whether she were awake or dreaming, Elizabetha entered the house. She was met by her sister Maria.

'"Where have you been, Elizabetha?" she inquired. "Your friends the Misses Larkyn have been here, but no one could find you, so they have gone."

'Elizabetha felt extremely annoyed. She had not seen her friends for some weeks, and had much wished for a visit from them.

'"I think it was most ill-natured of none of you to look for me in the garden. You might have known I was there if you had cared to oblige me," were the words she intended to say, but instead of which were heard the following:

'"I thank you, my dear Maria. I am sorry to have missed my friends, but it cannot be helped."

'And when Maria, pleased by her gentleness, went on to tell her, that knowing that her disappointment would be great, and as the Misses Larkyn had been too pressed for time to linger, she had arranged to walk with Elizabetha the following day to see them, how rejoiced was Elizabetha that her intended words of unkindness had not been uttered! "Kind fairy, I thank thee!" she whispered to herself.

'The following day the same state of things continued. Many times before its close did Elizabetha's hasty temper endeavour to express itself in rash speech, but each time the tongue remained faithful to its new mistress. Whenever Elizabetha attempted to speak hastily, the words that issued from her lips were exactly the opposite of those she had intended to utter; and as her real disposition was amiable and good, not once did she regret the metamorphosis.

'Her parents, her brothers and sisters, and even the servants of the family, were amazed and delighted at the change.

'"Go on as thou hast begun, my child," said her father, on the morning of the day on which Elizabetha was again to meet the fairy, "and soon the name of Elizabetha will be associated with gentleness and discretion in speech as in deed."

'Elizabetha blushed. She would have liked to confess that the credit of the improvement was not her own; but a moment's reflection reminded her that she had not received permission to divulge the secret, and kissing affectionately her father's hand, she thanked him for his encouragement.

'At the appointed hour she was on the spot, awaiting the fairy, who soon appeared. A benignant smile overspread her features.

'"Well, Elizabetha," she said, "and hast thou found that I have deserved thy gratitude?"

'"Kind fairy," cried the young girl, "I cannot thank thee enough. Ask of me what thou wilt, I shall be only too ready to perform it."

'The fairy smiled. "My condition is a very simple one," she said. "It is only this. Whenever, Elizabetha, you feel yourself in the least degree discomposed or out of temper, utter no word till you have mentally counted the magic number seven. And if you follow this rule, it will be but seldom that your tongue, of which I now restore to you the full control" (she touched it again with her wand as she spoke) "will lead you into trouble. Your disposition, though generous, is naturally hasty and impulsive, and till by a long course of self-restraint you have acquired complete mastery over yourself, you will find that I was right in my experiment of obliging your tongue to utter the exact opposite of what you, in your first haste, would have expressed."

'And before Elizabetha could reply, she had disappeared.

'But Elizabetha kept her promise, and to thus following her fairy friend's advice she owes it that she is now the object of universal esteem and affection, instead of being hated, despised, and feared as the owner of "a hasty tongue."'

Cecil stopped.

"Is that all?" said Carrots.

"Yes, that's all. Did you like it?"

"I did understand better about the fairy," Carrots replied. "I think she was a werry good fairy; don't you, Floss?"

"Very," said Floss. "I think," she went on, "whenever I am cross, I shall fancy my tongue is bewitched, just to see if it would be best to say the opposite of what I was going to say. Wouldn't it be fun?"

"Better than fun, perhaps, Miss Flossie," said nurse. "I think it would be a very good thing if big people, too, were sometimes to follow the fairy's rule."

"People as big as you, nursie?" asked Carrots.

"Oh yes, my dear," said nurse. "It's a lesson we're all slow to learn, and many haven't learnt it by the end of their threescore years and ten—'to be slow to anger,' and to keep our tongues from evil."

"That's out of the Bible, nursie, all of it," said Floss, as if not altogether sure that she approved of the quotation.

Cecil laughed.

"What are you laughing at, Cis?" said Floss. "It is out of the Bible."

"Well, no one said it wasn't," said Cecil.

"Cis," said Carrots, "will you read us another story, another day?"

"If I can find one that you can understand," said Cecil.

"Never mind if I can't," replied Carrots. "I like to hear you reading, even if I can't understand. I like your voice. I think," he added after a pause, "I think, Cis, I'll marry you too, when I'm big. You and Floss, and nurse."

So Cecil had good reason to feel that she was greatly appreciated in the nursery.

CHAPTER IX.

SYBIL.

Do you remember the fancies that Carrots and Floss used to have about their cousin Sybil, and how they wished for her to come to see them? Well, about a fortnight after the affair of the lost half-sovereign, Sybil actually did come to see them! She and her mamma. But it all happened quite differently from the way the children had planned it, so that just at first they could hardly believe it was "a wish come true," though afterwards, when it was over, and they began to look back to it as a real thing instead of forwards to it as a fancy, they grew to think it had really turned out nicer than any of their fancies.

You would like to hear all about it, I dare say.

It took them all by surprise—this sudden visit of Sybil and her mother, I mean. There was no time for planning or arranging anything. There just came a telegram one afternoon, to say that Mrs. ——, no, I don't think I will tell you the name of Sybil's mother, I want you just to think of her as "auntie"—and her little girl would arrive at Sandyshore, late that same evening, "to stay one day," said the telegram, on their way to some other place, it does not matter where.

It was several years since Captain Desart had seen his sister—that is, "auntie." He had been abroad at the time of her marriage, for she was a good many years younger than he, and since then, she and her husband had been a great deal out of England. But now at last they were going to have a settled home, and though it was a good way from Sandyshore, still it was not like being in another country.

"I am sorry Florence can only stay one day," said Mrs. Desart to her husband; "it seems hardly worth while for her to come so far out of her way for so short a time."

"I am sorry too," said Captain Desart; "but a day's better than nothing."

Floss and Carrots were sorry too—but what they were most sorry for was not that Sybil and her mamma were only going to stay there one day, it was that they would not arrive till after the children's bedtime! So much after, that there could not even be a question of their "sitting up till they come." There was even a doubt of Cecil and Louise doing so, and Floss could not help feeling rather pleased at Mott's getting a decided snub from his father when he broached the subject on his own account.

"Sit up till after ten o'clock—nonsense. Nobody wants you. Go to bed as usual, of course," said Captain Desart.

"How tired that poor little girl will be!" said Mrs. Desart pityingly. "Children, you must all be quiet in the morning so as not to wake her early. And you must be very gentle and kind to her, for you know she is not accustomed to companions."

"Yes, mamma," said Floss and Carrots promptly. Mott said nothing, for, of course, the speech could not have been addressed to him. Mr. Maurice Desart, nearly thirteen years old, could not be supposed to be a companion to a mite of a girl of six.

"It won't be difficult to be quiet to-morrow morning," said Floss to Carrots, "for I expect I shall be very sleepy, as I have quite made up my mind to stay awake to-night, till I hear them come."

It was then eight o'clock, and Floss was going to bed. Carrots had been in bed nearly an hour, but was not yet asleep. He soon dropped off, however, and how long do you think Floss kept awake? Till twenty-three minutes past eight, or not so late probably, for that was the time by the nursery clock, when nurse came in to see that her charges were tucked up for the night, and found them both fast asleep!

They were in a state of great expectation the next morning when they were being dressed, but they remembered their promise and were very quiet.

"When shall we see Sybil?" asked Carrots; "will she have breakfast in the nursery?"

"Of course not," said Floss, "she won't be up for ever so long, I dare say."

"Poor little thing, she must be very tired," said nurse.

"Did you see her last night?" asked Floss eagerly.

Nurse shook her head. "It was past ten when they arrived," she said, "the little lady was put to bed at once, your mamma and sisters only saw her for a minute."

So Floss and Carrots ate their bread and milk in undiminished curiosity. Not long afterwards the bell rang for prayers in the dining-room as usual, and the two, hand in hand, went in to take their places among the others.

They were rather late, Captain Desart had the Prayer Book and Bible open before him, and was looking impatient, so Floss and Carrots sat down on their little chairs and left "good-mornings" till after prayers. There was a strange lady beside their mother, and, yes, beside the strange lady a strange little girl! Was that Sybil? Where was the fair-haired, blue-eyed, waxen, doll-like Sybil, they had expected to see?

What they did see was worth looking at, however. It was a very pretty Sybil after all. Small and dark, dark-eyed, dark-haired, and browny-red as to complexion, Sybil was more like a gipsy than an angel as they had fancied her. She had very pretty, very bright, noticing eyes, and she was pretty altogether. She was dressed in black velvet with a bright crimson sash, and her hair was tied with crimson ribbon; her neat little legs were clothed in black silk stockings, and there were buckles on her tiny shoes.

Floss and Carrots hardly dared to stare at her for her eyes seemed to be noticing them all over, and when prayers were finished, and their mamma called them to come to speak to their aunt and cousin, do you know they actually both felt quite shy of Sybil, small as she was? More shy of her than of their aunt, somehow; she seemed more like what they had expected, or, perhaps, the truth was, they had "expected" much less about her. Besides no children ever were shy with auntie, such a thing would have been impossible.

They kissed Sybil, Floss feeling very tall and lanky beside her compact tiny cousin, and Carrots feeling I don't know how. He just looked at Sybil with his soft wondering brown eyes, in such a solemn way that at last she burst out laughing.

"What a funny boy you are!" she exclaimed. "Mother dear, isn't he a funny boy?"

"Aren't you very tired, Sybil?" said Floss, afraid that she would be laughed at as "a funny girl," next.

"No, thank you," said Sybil, quite grave, and like a grown-up person, all in a minute. "I'm becustomed to travelling. I'm not tired at all, but I'll tell you what I am—I'm," and out broke her merry laugh again, "I'm very hungry."

"That's a broad hint," said Captain Desart, laughing too. "Florence, your daughter is ready for breakfast, do your hear? Where will you sit, Miss Sybil? Beside your old uncle, eh?"

"Yes, thank you," replied Sybil, "if you won't call me Miss Sybil, please. And may this little boy sit 'aside me?"

"This little boy and this little girl have had their breakfast," said Mrs. Desart. "Run off, Carrots and Floss, you are both to have a whole holiday you know, so Sybil will see plenty of you."

"I wish they could see more of each other," said auntie, as the children left the room. "Some time you must let them both come and pay us a long visit, when we are really settled you know."

Auntie gave a little sigh as she said this—she felt so tender and kind to Carrots and Floss, and something made her a little sorry for them. Though they were healthy, happy-looking children, and their dress was neat and cared for, they did not look like her Sybil, whose clothes were always like those of a little princess. Floss's frock was rather faded-looking, and there was a mark where it had been let down, and Carrots' brown holland blouse had arrived at a very whitey-brown shade, through much wear and washing.

"It must be hard work with so many children, and such small means," she thought to herself, for auntie had been married young to a rich man, and knew little of "making both ends meet," but aloud she only said, "how lovely little Fabian would look in black velvet, Lucy! What a complexion he has!"

"Yes, if you can forgive him his hair," said Mrs. Desart.

"I think his hair is beautiful," observed Sybil, and then went on eating her breakfast.

They all laughed, but there was still a little sigh at the bottom of auntie's heart. There was reason for it greater than the sight of her little nephew's and niece's shabby clothes.

But there was no sigh in the hearts of Floss and Carrots.

"Carrots," said Floss, as they made their way to the nursery to decide which of their small collection of toys were fit for Sybil's inspection, "Carrots, did you hear."

"What auntie said?" asked Carrots. "Yes, I heard. Do you think mamma will ever let us go?"

"Some day, perhaps," said Floss, and oh what dreams and plans and fancies hung on that "perhaps!" "Fancy, Carrots, we should go in the railway, you and me, Carrots, alone perhaps."

"Oh, Floss!" said Carrots, his feelings being beyond further expression.

That "some day" was a good way off, however, but "to-day" was here, and a nice bright-looking to-day it was. How happy they were! How happy Sybil was!

For, somehow, though she was dressed like a princess, though since babyhood she had had everything a child could wish for, though very often, I must confess, she had had "her own way," a good deal more than would have been good for most children, little Sybil was not spoilt. The spoiling dropped off her like water down a duck's back, and auntie never found out it had been there at all! Perhaps after all there is a kind of spoiling that isn't spoiling—love and kindness, and even indulgence, do not spoil when there is perfect trust and openness, and when a child at the same time is taught the one great lesson, that the best happiness is trying to make others happy too.

They played on the sands nearly all day, and Sybil, to her great delight, was covered up from damage by one of Carrots' blouses. The sun came out bright and warm, and they built the most lovely sand house you ever saw.

"I'd like to live in it always," said Carrots.

"Oh you funny boy," said Sybil patronisingly, "and what would you do at night, when it got cold, and perhaps the sea would come in."

"Perhaps the mermaids would take care of him till the morning," said Floss.

"What are the mermaids?" asked Sybil.

"Pretty ladies," said Carrots, "who live at the bottom of the sea, only they've got tails."

"Then they can't be pretty," said Sybil decidedly, "not unless their tails are beautiful and sweeping out, like peacocks! Are they?—one day I tied a shawl of mother's on, it was a red and gold shawl, and I sweeped it about just like a peacock,—that would be pretty."

"I don't think mermaids' tails are like that," said Carrots, doubtfully, "but they are pretty ladies, aren't they, Floss?"

"Beautiful," said Floss, "but they're very sad. They come up to the shore at night and comb their hair and cry dreadfully."

"What do they cry for?" asked Sybil and Carrots, pressing up to Floss, and forgetting all about the lovely sand house.

"Because they—no, you couldn't understand," she broke off; "it is no good telling you."

"Oh do tell," said the children.

"Well," said Floss, "I read in a book of Cecil's, they cry because they haven't got any souls. When they die they can't go to heaven, you see."

Sybil and Carrots looked very solemn at this. Then a sudden thought struck Carrots.

"How can they cry if they haven't got souls, Floss?" he said, "nurse says it's our souls that make us glad and sorry. Are you sure the poor mermaids haven't got souls?"

"I'm only telling you what I read in a book," said Floss. "I dare say it's all a sort of fairy tale. Don't you like fairy tales, Sybil?"

"No," said Sybil, "I like stories of naughty boys and girls best—very naughty boys and girls."

"Oh, Sybil!" said Carrots, "I don't, because they are always unhappy in the end."

"No, they're not. Sometimes they all get good. Mother always makes them get good at the end," replied Sybil.

"Does auntie tell you stories?" said Floss.

"Yes, of course, for I can't read them to myself yet. I'm learning, but it is so hard," said Sybil dolefully.

"I wish auntie would tell us stories."

"P'raps she will when you come to my house," said Sybil, encouragingly. "Would you think that a treat?"

"It would be a 'normous treat."

"We're going to have a treat to-day," said Floss. "We're going to have tea in the dining-room with you, Sybil, and auntie and everybody, and I think it's time to go in now, because we must change our frocks."

Carrots had never had tea in the dining-room before, and felt a little overpowered by the honour. He sat very still, and took whatever was offered to him, as nurse had taught him. Cecil poured out the tea, and to please the children she put an extra allowance of sugar into their cups. Carrots tasted his, and was just thinking how very nice it was, when it flashed across his mind that he should not have had any sugar. He put down his cup and looked round him in great perplexity. If only he could ask Floss. But Floss was at the other side of the table, she seemed to be drinking her tea without any misgiving. Wasn't it naughty? Could she have forgotten? Carrots grew more and more unhappy; the tears filled his eyes, and his face got scarlet.

"What's the matter, dear?" said auntie, who was sitting next him, "is your tea too hot? Has it scalded your poor little mouth?"

She said it in a low voice. She was so kind and "understanding," she knew Carrots would not have liked everybody round the table to begin noticing him, and as she looked at him more closely, she saw that the tears in his eyes were those of distress, not of "scalding."

"No, thank you," said Carrots, looking up in auntie's face in his perplexity; "it isn't that. My tea is werry good, but it's got sugar in."

"And you don't like sugar? Poor old man! Never mind, Cecil will give you another cup. You're not like Sybil in your tastes," said auntie, kindly, and she turned to ask Cecil for some sugarless tea for her little brother.

"No, no, auntie. Oh, please don't," whispered Carrots, his trouble increasing, and pulling hard at his aunt's sleeve as he spoke, "I do like sugar werry much—it isn't that. But mamma said I was never, never to take nucken that wasn't mine, and sugar won't be mine for two weeks more, nurse says."

Auntie stared at her little nephew in blank bewilderment. What did he mean? Even her quick wits were quite at fault.

"What do you mean, my dear little boy?" she said.

Suddenly a new complication struck poor Carrots.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, "it's a secret, it's a secret, and I'm telling it," and he burst into tears.

It was impossible now to hide his trouble. Everybody began to cross-question him.

"Cry-baby," muttered Maurice, and even Mrs. Desart said, "Carrots, I wonder at your behaving so when your aunt and cousin are here. Floss, do you know what is the matter with him?"

"No, mamma," said Floss, looking as she always did when Carrots was in distress, ready to cry herself.

"Carrots," said Captain Desart, sharply, "go to the nursery till you learn to behave properly."

Carrots got slowly down off his high chair, and crept away. But everybody looked troubled and uncomfortable.

Auntie hated to see people looking troubled and uncomfortable. She thought a minute, and then she turned to Mrs. Desart.

"Lucy," she said, "will you let me try what I can do with the poor little fellow? I am sure it was not naughtiness made him cry."

And almost before Mrs. Desart could reply, auntie was off to the nursery in search of Carrots.

He had left off crying, and was sitting quietly by the window, looking out at his old friend the sea.

"What are you thinking about, my poor old man?" said auntie, fondly.

Carrots looked up at her. "I like you to call me that," he said. "I was thinking about our hoops and what a long time four weeks is."

"Has that to do with you having no sugar?" asked auntie.