Drifted ashore;

“I DO hate term-time!” cried Queenie, stamping her little foot and looking altogether fierce and out of sorts. “I hate all the boys to be away! Why do boys have to go to school? I’m sure they don’t learn so very much; I believe I know more than most of them. Boys ought either to stay at home or else take their sisters to school with them.”

And Queenie, who was standing in the middle of her big nursery surrounded by piles of books and toys, looked triumphantly round her, as if she had uttered a very fine sentiment indeed. Her nurse, who was quietly working by the window, smiled a little at this outbreak.

“Perhaps young gentlemen might not care about taking their sisters with them,” she suggested, mildly; but Queenie tossed her head with a supercilious air.

“My brothers always like to have me with them,” she answered. “It’s perfectly horrid when they all go away. Nothing is any fun without boys.”

“You won’t think so long, Miss Queenie. It’s only just at first that it seems dull-like.”

Queenie stamped her foot. I am afraid she often did so, being a very excitable young lady, and without much control over herself.

“It isn’t!” she cried, angrily; “it’s all the time, every bit of it—a whole horrid three months nearly! I hate people who try and pretend things aren’t what they are. It’s very stupid and very unkind. You know I’m always miserable when the boys are away, and it’s not a bit of good pretending I’m not!”

Queenie turned defiantly upon her nurse as she made this challenge; but the wise woman, knowing well the disposition of her little mistress, held her peace.

Queenie sat down suddenly in the middle of her toys and stared about her disconsolately.

“It is horrid to live in a place where there isn’t a single boy.”

“There is a boy now at the Manor House,” remarked the nurse, threading her needle afresh.

Queenie looked up, all interest and vivacity.

“A boy at the Manor House!” she repeated. “Who is he? I didn’t know the Squire had any boys.”

“Neither he has, Miss Queenie. Poor man, he lost them all. The little boy he has with him now is the one, you know, who drifted ashore after the last storm, who doesn’t know who he is nor where he came from, poor little fellow.”

“Why doesn’t he?”

“He can’t remember; he’s forgotten it all. His head was hurt somehow, and when he got better he’d forgotten everything he knew about himself.”

“How funny!” cried Queenie. “I wonder what it feels like to forget everything like that.”

The nurse shook her head, and Queenie went on with her own train of thought.

“I think it would be rather nice to forget everything and begin again quite fresh. It would be so funny. I should like to forget all my lessons, and to go on forgetting them, so that by and by people would say it was no good teaching me any more, and I should do just as I liked all day.”

“You would soon be very glad to go back to your lessons again, Miss Queenie,” answered the nurse, quietly. “There is nothing in the world so dull as having no regular employment.”

This wise remark did not provoke any ridicule from Queenie at this moment, as it would usually have done. She had other things to think of now.

“Why has the little boy gone to the Manor House?” she asked.

“I suppose the Squire asked him there. You see he has no friends to take care of him—at least he cannot find them yet. The Squire is a very kind man.”

“Mamma doesn’t like him,” remarked Queenie. “She tells people he is very unsociable, and does not treat her with proper respect. I think he looks a nice old man. I met him once when I was out on my pony, and had run away from William and lost him. He picked up my whip for me because I’d dropped it, and when I thanked him, he smiled and looked quite kind, though in church he is always so grave and solemn. But I can’t think why he should take a little fisherman’s boy to live in his house.”

The nurse smiled a little.

“Who told you he was a fisherman’s boy, Miss Queenie?”

Queenie tossed her little curly head with the air of one who half resents such a question.

“Why, of course he is! everybody knows that. He lived ever so many days in that dirty little hut with the Wickhams. I saw him one day on the sands, playing with David. Only quite a common boy could possibly think of doing that!”

The nurse smiled again.

“Well, Miss Queenie, however that may be, there are other opinions about the little boy. Anyway, he is living at the Manor House now, and Mrs. Pritchard does not think it beneath her to wait upon him,—fisherman’s boy or no.”

Queenie listened with interest to this account of the little stranger; but she would not admit that she could possibly be mistaken in her estimate of him.

“I’ve seen him,” she said; “he was dressed in horrid old clothes. I’m quite sure he can’t be a gentleman’s son. It’s quite ridiculous!”

“And I suppose, Miss Queenie, if you happened to get lost some day, and were found by poor people, and dressed in poor clothes, you would not be a gentleman’s little daughter any longer?”

Queenie flushed indignantly, and drew up her little head.

“I am Sir Walter Arbuthnot’s only daughter,” she said, in her most stately way. “Nothing that could happen could make any difference to that.”

Nurse smiled again.

“Oh, I thought it was all a matter of clothes.”

Queenie made no reply. She began to see that there was something more than that to be taken into consideration; but she was not going to make any rash admissions to her nurse, whose ideas upon some subjects did not at all commend themselves to the little lady.

But she thought a good deal about the little boy who had come to the Manor House, and wove several romances about him. She wondered whether she would ever make his acquaintance, what he would be like if she did, and whether he would prove worthy of the notice she half resolved she would take of him should the opportunity present itself.

Queenie, as will be seen from what has gone before, was a little lady with a great idea of her own importance. It was not altogether her own fault that she had this exalted opinion of herself. She was an only daughter, and had been spoiled ever since she was born. The youngest of the family and the only girl, it was no wonder she had been made much of, and her beauty, her self-will, and her quickness all helped to increase the dangers and difficulties of the position. Her father gave way to her whims in everything, whenever she appealed to him, for he was much entertained by her vivacity and delighted in her fearlessness and high spirit. He secretly countenanced those acts of insubordination and defiance of authority that shocked Lady Arbuthnot’s sense of propriety, and cared nothing at all about her “tomboy tricks” so long as she was always ready to amuse him by her sharp sayings when she came in to dessert or was sent for into the drawing-room. The mother, on the other hand, disliked all this tendency to frolic and careless deportment, and sedulously cultivated what she termed the graceful side of her little daughter’s character. In plain words, she tried hard to instill a great deal of vanity and foolish pride into Queenie’s youthful mind, and had it not been for the child’s healthy love for play and natural freedom from petty follies of this kind, she would in all probability have become before this time a little woman of fashion instead of a happy, careless child.

As it was, in spite of many drawbacks and many dangers, the child was a child still,—proud, self-willed, and passionate, it is true, yet on the whole generous, well-disposed and merry, satisfied with herself and with most things about her. She was not spoiled yet, whatever she might be later, and she undoubtedly owed much to the kindly and judicious treatment of her nurse.

Queenie thought a good deal more of her nurse’s opinion than she was at all aware of; and as nurse had said that the little boy who had been received at the Manor House was a gentleman’s son—or seemed so—the small lady at the Court began to think a good deal about him, and to wonder if she should ever be allowed to make his acquaintance.

Queenie’s parents had not lived for more than a year at the Court, and they hardly knew the Squire at all. He did not pay calls in a general way, and although he had broken through his habitual seclusion to pay his respects to Lady Arbuthnot on her first arrival there, he had not repeated the visit, and she had taken offence at what she considered a lack of proper respect. They were very near neighbors, and yet almost strangers. Sir Walter would say in his careless fashion that the old Squire was a good fellow enough, only growing very rusty with being so shut up in his dismal house all alone; but no intercourse existed between the neighbors, and Lady Arbuthnot took somewhat an exaggerated view of the old man’s unsociable disposition. A vain woman in a small neighborhood, with little to occupy her thoughts, is likely to get into a silly way of making much out of little, and her annoyance with the Squire was out of all proportion to the supposed affront.

Queenie knew a great deal more of her mother’s opinions than was at all advisable; and so she felt considerable doubt as to whether any friendship would be permitted between her and the little strange boy who had drifted ashore by the storm. Still she was not a child who was easily daunted by opposition, and she was quite convinced in her own mind that, if she liked the looks of the new-comer, she would soon find a way of making his acquaintance.

When Sunday came round, Queenie was conscious of a little sense of excitement as she allowed herself to be dressed for church. She knew that the Squire was never absent from the great square pew just opposite their own, and that, if the little boy were there with him, she could not fail to have an excellent view of him.

Lady Arbuthnot was not very well that day, so that Queenie would have the satisfaction of going alone with her father, which always pleased her very much, for she could chatter to him the whole time during the double walk, sit in her mother’s corner at church and use her beautiful velvet-bound books. The little girl always stood upon the high footstool during such parts of the service as it was possible, and indulged secret hopes that strangers in the church would take her to be Lady Arbuthnot.

To-day she had herself dressed in excellent time, and coaxed her father into his light overcoat quite five minutes before he was disposed to start, in order to be sure to be in time to see the Squire’s entrance.

Sir Walter was very good-tempered and very fond of his little daughter. Queenie looked particularly bright and pretty to-day, her blue eyes beaming with excitement and pleasure, her golden curls straying out from beneath the brim of her little velvet cap, and her pretty spring dress, warm yet light, all fresh from the hands of careful nurse. She was a dainty little maiden as regarded her clothes, despite her active “tomboy” nature, and Sir Walter was pleased to take her hand in his and listen to her merry chatter as they walked through the copse and over the fields together.

She did not speak of the thought uppermost in her head. Some instinct of caution sealed her lips until her own mind should be made up on the subject. She must see the little boy herself before she could possibly tell whether she wished to take any step towards forming his acquaintance. She was not at all sure, in spite of nurse’s vague hints, that he would prove to be worthy of the honor she proposed to extend to him in bestowing upon him her friendship.

The Squire had not yet arrived when the Arbuthnots took their places. So far so good. Queenie settled herself with dignity in her seat, and prepared to wait for him.

She had not to wait long; the Squire was always in excellent time, and very soon she saw the familiar white head passing in through the open door.

Was he alone? No, surely not! In another moment all doubt was at an end. He had entered, leading by the hand a little boy in a suit of black velvet, and in another moment or two the children were sitting quietly in their places immediately facing one another.

Queenie’s gaze immediately fastened upon the little boy’s face, and fixed itself there with the unconscious interest and frankness only possible in childhood.

“How pretty he is!” was her first thought; her second “But, how sad!”

She had certainly never seen any one quite like him before. She could not tell what it was made him so different from other boys she had known; but she was quite aware that there was a difference.

No boy she had ever seen before had ever looked dreamy and sorrowful and bewildered, as this little boy did almost all through the service. The wistful sadness in his great dark eyes stirred Queenie’s sympathy as much as it quickened her imagination.

All her doubts as to the little boy’s “fitness” to be her friend vanished, she knew not how. All that seemed of any importance now was that he seemed lonely and unhappy, and that of course she must make friends with him and try to comfort him. She caught herself wondering again and again what he could be thinking of, as he sat so still in his corner, his eyes sometimes fixed upon the clergyman, sometimes wandering dreamily towards one or another of the stained glass windows. Did it all seem very strange to him? or did he remember what a church was like and feel at home there? His deportment was quite correct, but that might be imitation. How much did he remember, and how much was forgotten? It was a question that affected her imagination keenly and quite occupied all her thoughts.

She was glad that the little boy was younger than herself, though she could hardly have said why. He did not look a bit more than seven or eight, whilst she was nearly ten, and he did not look at all strong. She would be able to patronize and protect him, which was of all things what she loved best to do.

Fortune favored Queenie that day, for, as the congregation left the church, Sir Walter said to his little daughter,—

“Don’t be in a hurry; I want to speak to the Squire.”

Queenie was delighted, and eagerly waited by the little gate till the Squire should appear. He was a little time in coming, as several of the poor people had something they wished to say to him.

But he came at length, the child close at his side, at whom Sir Walter cast one curious glance, and then drew the Squire a little on one side in order to talk at his ease.

The two children were thus left confronting each other. Queenie of course spoke first.

“What is your name, little boy?” she asked, graciously.

“They call me Bertie here,” he answered, gently, lifting his cap when the little strange lady spoke to him in a way that raised him many steps higher in Queenie’s opinion.

“Well, they call me Queenie,” responded she, laughing, “though it isn’t my name, so we’re something like one another, you see. How old are you?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t know. Mrs. Pritchard and the tailor said I must be about seven or eight.”

“I thought so!” cried Queenie, quickly; “I always guess people’s ages nearly right. I shall be ten pretty soon. We live in the nearest house to you—next door, we should say in London; but people don’t talk like that here.”

Bertie looked up with a little start.

“Next door,” he said, quickly, and then stopped short.

“What about next door?” asked Queenie.

“I don’t know,” he answered, slowly. “I thought I did; but I didn’t.”

“I want us to be friends,” said Queenie; “would you like to be?”

“If grandpapa likes,” answered Bertie, without the animation Queenie looked for.

Yet he spoke so gently that she could not be offended, and the wistful look in his eyes touched her, she could not tell why.

“Why do you call him grandpapa?” she asked, with interest. “Do you mean the Squire?”

“Yes,” answered Bertie. “He lets me call him that. It seems more natural, somehow.”

Queenie looked at him curiously.

“You must feel very funny, don’t you? I should worry all day to remember things.”

Bertie’s eyes were troubled and sad.

“That does no good, it only makes my head ache; but I like being in church.”

Queenie was aware that her father was shaking hands with the Squire. A sudden impulse came over her to speak whilst she had the chance.

“I want us to be friends,” she said again. “Do you know the big oak tree down by the sunk fence at the end of the Squire’s park, near the lodge?”

Bertie thought a little.

“I think I do.”

“If you’ll come out there to-morrow afternoon, I’ll come too. One of us can climb over, and we’ll play together. Don’t forget, and do come.”

Bertie had no time to reply. A quick smile passed between the children as they parted to go their several ways.