Half a dozen boys

CHAPTER V.

WALKS AND TALKS.

It was one of the mild, warm days that, even in the midst of winter, come to our New England coast towns. The snow had all melted, and the mud had dried away, while here and there patches of grass showed a green almost like that of summer. Over the leafless trees the sun shone warm and bright.

Bess Carter slowly came down the steps of her home with Fuzz before her, tugging at his lead. Half-way to the gate she raised her eyes from a refractory glove button, and saw her little cousin coming towards her. His hat was pulled down over his eyes, his hands plunged deep into his pockets, and his very walk expressive of some deep determination. Absorbed in his meditation, he did not notice his cousin until Fuzz gave a shrill bark of recognition. Then he looked up, saw her, and took off his hat, but scowled vindictively the while. Bess saw that something was wrong, and, as Rob had started to spend the afternoon with Fred, she surmised that there had been another quarrel.

"Well, Robin, my boy, is anything the matter?" she asked cheerfully.

"No, only I'm not going to see Fred again in a hurry, and I guess he knows it," Rob replied, stopping and putting both elbows on the fence, preparatory to a conversation.

"What has happened, Rob? I don't see why you boys always come to grief. Fred is pleasant enough to me."

"Maybe he is," said Rob half sulkily. "I s'pose I'm the one to blame."

"Tell me all about it, Robin," said Bess. "I know Fred is cross sometimes, but just think how hard it all is for him, this being shut up by himself."

"He needn't be shut up if he doesn't want to," said Rob impatiently. "It's his own fault, if he won't see the boys."

"Oh, Rob, don't be so hard on him!"

"Well, I know, but he needn't be so uncommonly cross, then. I'm sorry for him, but I just won't go there any more."

"What was the trouble to-day?" asked Bess, leaving the question of future visits to be settled later.

"Why, nothing, only Fred asked something about Bert, and I said something or other about the polo game. Fred began to ask all about it, and so I told him. He seemed so interested, but all of a sudden he stopped and said, 'Bob Atkinson, I wish you'd keep away from here!' And I didn't know what the matter was, so I asked him. He said, 'You always do say the meanest things, and I wish you wouldn't come any more. You're always round in the way.' And then I flared up. I didn't mean to, cousin Bess, but I'd stayed home from the polo game just to go to see him, and I was awful mad. A fellow can't stand everything, and I'd only just answered his questions."

"I know, Rob. But, you see, only a year ago Fred was in all these good times, and I suppose it was more than he could bear, to hear about them, when he knew he couldn't have any of the fun."

"What did he ask about it for, then?"

"He probably did want to hear it all, only it was too much for him. He ought not to be so irritable, I know, Rob; but I want you to go round in a day or two and 'make up.' You can afford to be forgiving, when you think how much more you have than he does. And then, Fred does deserve a great deal of credit, for he rarely complains."

"Yes," assented Rob, "but he's no end cross. But I'll go, cousin Bess. Where are you going now?"

"Just for a walk. It is so pleasant I couldn't stay in the house. Come with me if you've nothing else on hand."

"May I?" Rob's face brightened.

"Take Fuzz while I button my gloves, please. Where shall we go?"

"Let's take the woods road to the shore," said Rob eagerly. "There's lots more things to see that way."

The "woods road" was a charming walk, that mild January day. On one side rose, tall and straight, the glorious old oaks and chestnuts, and through their branches capered whole families of red squirrels, whose antics and chattering nearly drove Fuzz to frenzy. On the other side lay the pretty, open fields, with their bunches of corn stalks, and their low, irregular fences. It was a favorite drive, but footpath there was none, so Rob and Bess were forced to wander along the middle of the road, turning aside occasionally to let a carriage pass them, while Fuzz barked defiance at its occupants.

"Cousin Bess," asked Rob, "you know when birds fly south in winter, they go straight; how do you s'pose they know the way?"

"I don't know, I am sure, Rob. Perhaps they remember from year to year."

"I don't believe they do. How fast do you suppose they fly? I've watched them lots of times, and they go so fast— Here, Fuzz!" as the dog made a dash towards a dignified goat that was lunching on a dead blackberry vine by the wayside.

"Sha'n't I lead him, Rob? He must tire you."

"Not a bit. He's strong, though. How much could he pull, I wonder? My teacher told me the other day that no animal could pull more than its own weight. Do you believe that, cousin Bess?"

"What an idea, Rob! You must have misunderstood Miss Witherspoon. Just think of the loads of coal that horses draw, and the crowded street cars."

"Yes, but she doesn't know much, anyhow," said Rob, with a lofty scorn that amused his cousin, who secretly shared his opinion. "But do you know what lots of turtles grow up in there?" and Rob pointed in among the trees. "I had six all at once last summer, and we used to set them to running races. It was hard work to make them go straight ahead, though."

"Rob," asked Bess, "why don't you be a naturalist? I think you might be a good one."

"Would you?" And Rob waited for his cousin's reply as anxiously as if his choice of profession must be made on the spot.

"You are too young yet to tell; but you seem to like such things, and you keep your eyes wide open when you are out of doors. I don't know why you couldn't be trained for it."

"I like birds and things, and I've watched them a good deal, and then I like to be round out of doors. But I don't care much to read about them; I'd rather just look at pictures, and then see for myself."

"But a good naturalist must study and read, as well as watch."

As Bess spoke they stepped out on the smooth, dry sand of the beach that stretched beyond them to the right and left in the form of a crescent, one of whose horns bore the white lighthouse, while the other ended in a pine grove. Before them, the little waves danced up and down in the sun, that was turning their green water to a living, moving gold, while here and there the white gulls rode smoothly on the water, or whirled above it in their flight. Across the harbor lay the crowded, fantastic cottages and the large hotel of the summer colony, now deserted and forlorn; while close at hand rose three or four rough, jagged rocks, with a narrow strip of sand connecting them with the beach.

"Let's go out to the Black Rocks," suggested Rob. "Maybe we can find some starfish. I want to get a live one and watch him crawl with his little sucker feet."

Bess followed the boy's lead, and soon they were scrambling over the rough, slippery surface of the rocks, that, at high tide, were nearly covered with water. Fuzz dashed through all the little pools left by the last tide, and was soon absorbed in worrying a large snail that had injudiciously poked its head out of its shell.

Rob had vanished from sight, but he soon reappeared with scratched hands, and triumphantly asked,—

"Like raw oysters, cousin Bess?" as he threw half a dozen shells at her feet.

"What fun, Robin! Where did you get them?" asked Bess, as, unmindful of her years and dignity, she sat down on the slimy rock, and with a small stone tried to pry open the shells.

"You'll have to smash them," said Rob, as with one scientific blow he crushed the shell, removed the fragments, and offered the oyster to his cousin.

"What an original idea!" she said, laughing, as she took it. "I didn't know we were going to have an oyster supper, Rob."

As a frolic, it was a great success; but as a meal it would hardly have satisfied a ravenous appetite. Oysters were small and scarce, though Rob succeeded in finding quite a number. Then, too, the operation of opening them was attended with some difficulty, which was increased by Fuzz, who persisted in running away with the oysters that were laid by in reserve. But the rapidly sinking sun and the rising tide warned Bess that it was high time to think of a return; so Rob was forced to abandon his search for more food, and they turned their faces homeward.

As they came into the village again, Bess said,—

"I must just stop a moment at Fred's. Will you come too? He is coming up to-morrow to stay till Monday, and I want to tell him what time I'll go down after him."

"Whew!" Rob vented his feelings in a long whistle. "However'd you get him started? I'll go with you, though."

"He didn't want to come, when I first proposed it; but now he quite likes the idea. You must come up and help entertain him, for I have no idea what I shall do with him for three days."

"What'll you do with Fuzz, take him in?" queried Rob, as they turned in at the Allens' gate.

"No, I will just tie him to the piazza rail," answered Bess. "He would only trouble Fred."

So Fuzz was left to wail his heart out on the front steps, while Bess, according to her usual custom, went directly in, without the formality of ringing the bell.

Fred was sitting alone by the fire, moodily pulling to pieces a tea-rose bud. At Bessie's step he rose and came to meet her, with his usual eager smile; but as he heard the sound of another person, he drew back again and waited.

"It's me, Fred," said Rob's voice. "I came to tell you I was sorry I made you mad."

"Oh, Bob, I'm glad you've come back! I was horrid."

And the reconciliation was complete.

Bessie's errand was quickly accomplished, for Fuzz was testing the hardness of the front door, and it seemed prudent to withdraw before he forced a passage through one of the panels. So, promising to come down again the next afternoon, to superintend the moving, the two cousins took their departure.

The next afternoon saw Fred settled in the Carters' parlor, with Fuzz asleep at his feet. The little animal, after his first resentment of this intrusion on the family circle, seemed to realize that Fred needed his especial care and protection. He attached himself to the boy's side, whining gently for attention, and occasionally giving a pleading scratch with his little paw, when the desired petting failed to be given. His snappish ways were laid aside, and he even allowed Dominie Sampson, the collie, to come and rub against Fred, without giving vent to a single snarl.

When the carriage stopped at the door, and Bess had led the boy into the house, Mrs. Carter had met him with a motherly kindness that made him feel at home with her at once. Fred could not see the tears that came into her eyes at sight of the change in him, but the warm kiss on his cheek, and the gentle "We are so glad to have you here," told the story.

Those three days were the beginning of a new life to Fred. At home, he had moped and meditated. His parents, by their every word, reminded him of his trouble, and made him feel in countless little ways, well meant though they were, that he was not like other boys, not what he used to be. Here it was all so different. Beyond the little necessary help that Bess gave him so easily and pleasantly, there was nothing to suggest to him his blindness. Bess read to him, played simple memory games with him, or, with his hand drawn through her arm, they walked up and down the long hall, talking and laughing gayly, while Fuzz tagged at their heels. He held Mrs. Carter's skein of yarn while she wound it, and in many little ways began to live more like a natural boy, less like a wax doll.

The evenings were the pleasantest times. Then Mr. and Mrs. Carter were deep in their cribbage, by the lamp; and Bess sat in a low chair in front of the crackling fire, with Fred on the rug at her feet, one arm in her lap, and his head on his arm, while she stroked his hair, and told him all sorts of bright, merry stories about the places and people that she had seen. For Bess had travelled through nearly every State in the Union, and had observed and remembered much that she had seen, so, with the flashes of fun and bits of pathos that she knew so well how to give to her descriptions, she was no mean story-teller.

But the three days were soon over, and on Sunday, the last day of Fred's visit, the gathering twilight found him pacing up and down the room with Bess, now talking, now taking a few turns in silence.

Suddenly Bess said,—

"Fred, you are going to church with me to-night."

"Oh, no, Miss Bess! Please not!"

"Yes, Fred, I want you to escort me down. It is ever so long since you have heard the boys sing, and you have no idea how they have improved. We will go early, if you say so, and get all settled before many people get there, but I want you to go with me. The service is short and won't tire you, and it will be a good ending for our pleasant little visit together."

"Must I go, Miss Bessie? Well, I will," replied the boy with unwonted meekness. Then he suddenly added, "Oh, how I hate to go away to-morrow!"

"Has the visit been a success?" asked Bess, as they went into the parlor and she guided Fred to his favorite chair.

"Yes, I've had such a good time, and you've all been so kind to me! Time doesn't seem half so long, and I don't feel near so cross and tired here, as I do at home. I wish mother liked to do things with me half as well as you do." And Fred's face looked worn and troubled.

"She has so many other things to see to," said Bess soothingly, "and I shall be down often. But, Fred, are you cross every time you feel like it?"

Fred blushed.

"I'm afraid I am, Miss Bess. I am sorry afterwards, but, in the time of it, I don't think. You see, I can't do anything at all, and when things go wrong, it seems worse than ever, and the first I know, I've said it."

"Just like Fuzz," said Bess, as the dog raised his head from his basket, and gave a low, angry growl at the Dominie, who entered the room. "I know it is hard for you, Fred, when things go wrong, to be good-natured, but I want you to try as much as you can. I think you would be better off if you had some regular occupation, something to do with yourself."

"What is there?" asked the boy hopelessly.

"I am not quite sure; let me think it over. But come, we must have our dinner, and be ready for church."

As the procession of surpliced boys advanced up the middle aisle, Rob, who always came in with one eye on his cousin's seat, nearly dropped his book in astonishment, for at her side stood Fred, motionless and rather pale, his great brown eyes turned towards the chancel, his whole air and attitude suggestive of patient, anxious waiting. With a comically expressive glance at Bess, Rob passed on. A few steps back of him, leading the men, Bess noticed a new chorister whose boyish face, under a mass of curly brown hair, was striking from its delicate outlines, and told of a refined, happy nature.

The service went on much like all services. Fred mechanically rose and sat down with the rest, but Bess could see that the familiar words were making no impression on his mind. She had been glad that he could not see the expressive nudges and glances exchanged as, drawing his hand through her arm, she led him up the aisle to her usual seat. Once there, he shrank into a corner, just as some too audible words met his ear:—

"What's the matter with that boy in front?"

"Blind, and always will be. A peculiar case, started from St. Vitus's Dance. Isn't it too bad? One of our best families."

"Who's the girl? His sister?"

"No, only a friend. She's perfectly devoted to him, they say."

Bess looked anxiously down at him, to see how he bore these comments. He pressed his lips tightly together, and the hot blood rushed to his face and then back, leaving it white and still. She put her hand on his reassuringly, and felt the answering pressure. That was all, but for the first time Fred had heard himself talked over by strangers as a case likely to attract attention on all sides, wherever he went. In time it would not hurt him so much, but now—it was a bitter thought that his infirmity could not pass unnoticed. He wondered if all the people around him were watching him. Perhaps they were all whispering about him, only more softly. And they would look to see how he acted, whether he was awkward, and if he seemed sad. If he could only know just how many eyes were turned on him! Miss Bess had no idea how hard it was for him, or she would never have asked him to come. And Rob and Phil and the other boys, had they looked surprised to see him there?

Poor Fred! Had he but known that, except for Bess and Rob, who was watching in pity his friend's white, sad face, not a person in the church had a thought of him, now the service had begun! But what was the rector saying?—"The words of the anthem will be found"—And there was to be an anthem, then; Rob did say something about it. "Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth." What was that whisper? Some one calling attention to "poor Fred Allen"? But Miss Bess was rising, and he must too. He felt her small gloved hand rest lightly on his, as it lay on the rail in front of him, and he drew closer to her side—one friend who would not talk him over and wonder about him.

But the few notes on the organ were over, and then a voice filled the church, a rich, mellow tenor, now rising till the arches rang with its clear, high tones, now falling to a dreamy quiet, half covered by the sound of the organ. It was the new chorister. Standing there in the full glare of the gas that shone down on his innocent, boyish face, he seemed to be singing from very love of it, so simply and easily, as if the truth and dignified beauty of the words were filling his soul and insisting on utterance. "In the days of thy youth, when the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh." Fred stood as if in a trance, listening to the wonderful voice, forgetful of the faces about him, forgetful even of his blindness. "While the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars be not darkened." Then the voice grew low and sad: "And fears shall be in the way;" but again it rose triumphant, at the last hopeful burst: "And the spirit shall return unto God who gave it."

"Just look at Fred Allen!" whispered Rob to his neighbor, as they sat down, and the congregation drew a long breath after their eager listening, and turned to congratulate each other on the rich musical treat.

The boy seemed transfigured. With his head thrown up, his lips parted, and his cheeks flushed, he seemed held by the singer's intense feeling. But the voice died away, and he came back to a consciousness of the place where he was, and of the cloud that darkened for him the sun and the light.

"Who was it?" asked Bess, as Rob came up to where they still sat, waiting for him.

"Who? That tenor? He's a friend of Mr. Washburn, and sings in one of the large churches in New York. He just knows how to sing, too! Coming home now?"

Rob was looking unusually handsome as he stood there. His love of music, and the hearty way he joined in the singing, seemed to excite him, and it brought a bright color to his cheeks and a glow into his brown eyes. As the two boys stood together, they made a strong contrast; Rob so delicately, nervously alive, quick, active, and full of quiet, happy fun; and Fred slower in his motions, now more than ever, and with a solid, sturdy strength that was little suggestive of his helplessness, while his face and manner were so sad and subdued. With a quick glance as she rose, Bess noted the difference in the faces, and rejoiced at the tact beyond his years that Rob showed as he guided his friend down the aisle and out into the starry night.

"How good the boys are for each other," she thought. "I wish they might be together more than they are. Fred brings out all Rob's chivalry and unselfishness, while Rob stirs him up and keeps him alive."

CHAPTER VI.

FRED'S NEW HOME.

"Really, James," said Mrs. Allen, with a yawn, "I've half a mind to go with you."

"I wish you could, my dear," said her husband, after a puff or two at his cigar. "But what could we do with Fred?"

"That's the trouble. You know you promised you would take me the next time you went, for I have never been. Couldn't we put him in an asylum?"

"I don't think we could," said Mr. Allen decidedly. "I should never feel it was right to leave him in one, and go off to enjoy ourselves."

"I don't see why not," pouted his wife. "He would have every care, and the best of teaching. It's awfully inconvenient having him here, and"—

"Hush!" said Mr. Allen sharply. "The doors are all open, and he may not be asleep. Don't let the boy hear you say that. He has the worst of the trouble."

"I know," said his wife meekly, for when Mr. Allen spoke in that tone, she knew it was time to obey; "I only thought if he would be as well off in some institution, and leave us a little more free, it would be a good thing. This care is wearing on me terribly."

"Poor Fred! He's a good boy," observed his father; "and I think he has shown some pluck the last few months."

"Well, he has had everything possible done for him," said Mrs. Allen, as she drew a vase of hyacinths towards her, and began to rearrange them.

"I wish we could plan to have you go with me," Mr. Allen went on. "I was going last summer, and only waited till Fred was better. I must go now, at once; and if you could come, if we had somewhere to leave Fred, we would stay over a year and make a complete tour, take a run to Egypt, and go up to Norway."

"I certainly must go. To begin with, think of me alone here with just that boy, morbid as he is! I should be insane."

"We might take him with us," suggested Mr. Allen.

"James! The very idea! I'd rather stay at home than go through Europe tied to a blind boy. I should never have a moment to myself."

"Why couldn't he board at the Carters'?"

"The very thing! Fred had such a good time there three weeks ago! He would be so happy, and Bessie is very good to him. I really think he considers her as a sort of mother."

"Well he may," said Mr. Allen. "We owe that girl a debt we can never repay. But I wonder if they would take Fred. They have never had boarders, and he would be a great deal of care."

"Not so much," said his wife, shifting her ground to suit the new question at issue. "He could have Mary go with him to wait on him. You can arrange it, I know. You send them a note to-morrow, and if they will take him, I will be ready to sail—let me see, this is Wednesday. I will be ready next Wednesday."

"I will try to arrange it," said her husband thoughtfully. "But I do hope they won't feel I am asking too much. When I think of it, to placidly request that they take an invalid and his servant to board for a year, is a good deal."

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Allen. "You can pay them well; and, really, James, if Fred would only rouse himself, he would be as well as ever. He makes a good deal out of his blindness."

"Why, Louise, what do you mean? I have never heard him complain."

"No, he doesn't complain, exactly, but just lies on the sofa, and doesn't care for anything or anybody, and when I try to comfort him, he turns away his face and won't say anything. But I'm sleepy. I'm going to bed; and you just write that note to-night, so they will get it to-morrow, surely." And she went away, leaving her husband to muse over his cigar, in the light of the dying fire.

His wife was trying, at times. Years ago he had married a pretty little society girl, not so much because he loved her as that he wished a suitable head for his pleasant suburban home. Socially, Louise Allen fulfilled all the requirements; but her husband often longed for a companion, but found none in the selfish, wayward woman who presided over his household.

"Poor little Fred!" he thought, as he sat there. "I am afraid the boy has had a hard life of it. Louise doesn't mean to neglect him, but she has so much else on her hands. I wonder what it's like, anyway." And leaning back in his chair he closed his eyes for two or three minutes, and then opened them, with a shudder, on the brightly lighted room. "It must be awful, sure enough, to be in such darkness. Well, I hope the Carters can take him in. He will be contented there. Louise ought to consider him a little more." But the thought never occurred to him that he, James Allen, could ever spend an evening at home, giving up his club or theatre, to entertain the boy, as much his son as the son of Louise.

The next evening, Mr. Carter came in with a letter, which he handed to his wife. She took it, read a few lines, and uttered an exclamation.

"What is it?" asked Bess, looking up from the game of dominoes she was playing with Rob.

"It is from Mr. Allen," answered her mother. "I will give it to you as soon as I finish it."

"From Mr. Allen? How queer! Go on, Rob, it is your turn."

"See what you think," said Mrs. Carter, giving Bess the letter.

Bess read it hastily, looked at her mother, and then read it again, slowly and thoughtfully.

"Well?" asked her mother.

"Why, I'm not the one to decide," said Bess.

"What's up?" inquired Rob.

"Mr. Allen is going abroad for a year, and takes his wife with him," explained Mrs. Carter, "and he wants"—

"Cousin Bess to go too?" interrupted Rob so disconsolately that they all laughed.

"Console yourself, my dear little cousin," said Bess. "He only wants us to take Fred to board."

In his secret heart, Rob thought that was almost as bad. With Fred here all the time, good-by to his pleasant walks and games with his cousin. He was silent, but Bess read his thought.

"Don't worry, Robin, the house is plenty large enough for two boys, and I'll not let Fred cut you out."

Mr. Allen's note was the perfection of tact. He spoke of his invalid son, whose happiest hours were spent with the friend that had done so much to brighten his dark life; he regretted the pressing business which called him abroad just then, but Mrs. Allen's health, much shaken by sorrow for her son, demanded a change and freedom from care. He went on to suggest very delicately that it would be a great accommodation if Fred might board with them; that Mary would be at hand to wait on him, to free them from any restraint, while she could either board with them or come in at certain hours; and, finally, that he should expect them to call on his coachman with perfect freedom, during his absence.

"What do you think of it, Bess?" asked her mother again.

"Why, mother, you must decide. I am not the one."

"Yes, you are," replied her mother, "for it will make more difference to you than to the rest of us. Fred would be largely under your care. Are you strong enough to go through it?"

"I think I am," said Bess slowly. "I should like him here, if you and father don't object. The boy has to learn all over again the very ABC of living, and he has no one to teach him but us. Only, I don't want Mary."

"Who would take care of Fred, to give him what help he needs?" asked Mr. Carter.

"I would," responded Bess promptly. "He doesn't need much, and it will be less every day. Mary would be only an extra care and worry. She would be half servant, half companion, and that would just upset Bridget. We don't want her round in the way."

"I think you are right," said her mother. "But think this over carefully, Bess. If you don't feel equal to it, don't try. I shall not be able to do much, and it will make a great care for you."

"I know it, mother; but I think I can go through with it. Fred will be happy with us, and Rob will help me with him, won't you, dear?"

"One thing more, Bess," said her father seriously. "If you start on this, you must make up your mind not to give up all your time to the boy, even if he does want you. You must go out, and walk, and make calls, as much as ever. You are not going to turn hermit for a year in your devotion to one small boy, however much good you may do him. And it would not do him good, either. He must grow self-reliant and unselfish, and not feel that he must be amused and waited on every moment."

As if to add his opinion to the family discussion, Fuzz, whose attention was caught by the serious tones of their voices, jumped out of his basket, and, coming to the side of his mistress, sat up on his haunches, and waved his small paws in the air, as he swayed unsteadily from side to side in his eagerness.

"What is it, Fuzz?" asked Rob, leaning over to pat his head.

Fuzz only replied with a snarl so emphatic that it showed his very back teeth, and then turned again to Bess, and raised his paws higher than ever.

"Bess, that dog grows crosser every day," said her mother. "You really ought to give him a hard whipping for snapping at Rob like that. What will Fred do, with such a cross animal about?"

"He liked Fred, and if he is let alone I don't think there will be any trouble," said Bess, ready to take up the cudgels in defence of her pet. "I don't think he feels well to-night; he never snapped at Rob before."

"Fuzzy is a bad dog! Come here to grandma," said Mrs. Carter in slow, measured tones, as she glared at the dog, who looked in her face for a moment, and then turned his head away with a prodigious yawn. "Children, you must not laugh. He never will mind then. Well, Bess, what do you think? Shall we let Fred come?"

"Yes, I should like it so much, unless it would be unpleasant for you and father. You know I threatened once before to adopt him. Does he want to come?"

"They haven't, Mr. Allen says, told him anything about their plans, until they could settle on something. Will you write to Mr. Allen, then?"

"Yes, I will write this evening. But come, Rob, we've time for just one more game."

The note was written, and the next evening Mr. Allen called to arrange for Fred's coming four days later. The boy was to be left in the care of Bess, on whose judgment Mr. Allen felt he could rely. After an hour spent in discussing various minor details, Mr. Allen said, as he rose to go,—

"We have said nothing to Fred as yet, Miss Carter, about this; so suppose you tell him, that is, if you can spend time to-morrow to come down for a few moments. And, in case I do not have time to call again, I will say now how much Mrs. Allen and I feel indebted to you for taking our son into your home."

And with a stately bow he was gone. "Did you ever see such an old iceberg!" remarked Bess disrespectfully, as she returned to the parlor fire to thaw herself out. "Between him and Mrs. Allen I should think Fred would be thankful for any change. Next Tuesday! Well, there's a good deal to be done between now and then. Shall you worry, mother, with a new son on your hands?"

"Not at all," said her mother heartily. "He is not my property, anyway; though if I see you going very wrong, I shall put in my word."

"Oh, do!" said Bess. "I feel half terrified at the thought of my responsibility. Still, I think that, at least, I shall do as well as Mrs. Allen."

The next afternoon Fred lay stretched on the sofa in an unusually dismal mood. The whole house was in a bustle; his mother and Mary had been up-stairs all day, rummaging through closets and drawers, with not a moment to spare for him; the fire had gone out in the grate, and there was no one near to build him another; and, worst of all, Miss Bess had not been near him for four days, while Rob had not been down for two weeks. Everybody had forgotten him, and he wished he could forget himself. Oh, for something to do! With nothing but eating and sleeping to break the monotony, life was so dull. He envied the man whom he heard shovelling coal into a neighbor's cellar. He could fancy just how he stooped and gave his shovel a powerful push, raised it with one swing of his strong arms, and tossed it down into the opening before him; only stopping occasionally to wipe his forehead on his grimy sleeve. Fred felt to-day that he would give up all his comfortable home, just to change places with that man for one little hour, and be able to see and work.

"Lost in 'maiden meditation,' Fred?" asked Bessie's voice at his side.

The boy sprang up with a glad cry.

"Oh, Miss Bess! I didn't hear you come in. How glad I am you are here!"

"I mustn't stay but a moment," said Bess, as she sat down on a mussy pile of pillows and afghan. "How is your mother?"

"She's well; but she's awfully busy," replied Fred, leaning on the back of a chair, with his chin in his hands. "I don't know just what is up, but I haven't seen her since breakfast—at least, she hasn't been here," he added hastily, for he was gradually giving up the old-time expression.

"I can tell you, if you wish to know," said Bess quietly. "She is going to Europe next Wednesday with your father."

Fred's face became so blank with astonishment that she hastily went on.

"But you are not going to be left here to keep bachelor's hall, nor to go with them. Instead, what do you say to coming to our house?"

There was no doubt of the answer. Too happy to speak, Fred dropped on the sofa, and turned his face to Bess, while a bright flush rose in his cheeks. At last he said,—

"Is it really true, Miss Bess? Can I? May I? It's too jolly!"

"So you like the idea? Can you stand it for a year, and not get homesick?"

"Homesick?" echoed Fred in lofty scorn. "I guess not! When can I come? Did you say a year?"

"You are to come next Tuesday afternoon at four o'clock, and you are to stay about a year. And now I must run away home again, for I have ever so much to do. But, first, let me straighten out this sofa. What a muss! Get up a moment."

And Bessie shook up the pillows, folded the afghan, took Fred by his shoulders and put him back in the old place, and was gone. At the gate she was met by her attendant, Rob.

"What did he say?" inquired that youth, as she reappeared.

"Not very much, but I don't think he objected."

The next two days were as busy to Bess as they were long to Fred, who no longer envied the coal-heaver. A room adjoining Bessie's was to be given up to the boy, and she took much care and pleasure in arranging it.

"I feel just like a child with a new doll," she told her mother. "I want this room to be just as pretty and inviting as if Fred could see it."

By Tuesday noon, the room was ready, even to the tiny vase on the table, holding one pink rosebud.

"Boys do care for such things, though they don't say much about it," Bess told her mother and Rob, whom she had invited to inspect the results of her labors. "That sofa is my especial delight, though," she added, pointing to the broad, old-fashioned couch between two western windows, where Fuzz lay serenely asleep on one of the cushions. "That can be Fred's growlery, where he can retire whenever he feels cross. I trust he won't use it often."

Two hours later, as the carriage came up the drive, Mrs. Carter stood waiting on the steps, while Bess ran out to meet Fred. The boy, clinging to Bessie's arm, came slowly up to the door.

"Welcome to your new home, Fred," said Mrs. Carter's voice.

And he answered as he gave her gentle face a great boyish kiss,—

"It's just splendid to come."

CHAPTER VII.

"AND WHEN THE FIGHT IS FIERCE."

After a week or two spent in making Fred feel at home and settled in his new quarters, Bess suggested her next plan. It was after church one Sunday night, and Bess was sitting with her hat still on, by the parlor fire, while Fred and the Dominie were in a promiscuous pile on the rug, where Fred had been eagerly listening for the familiar step on the walk outside. Since he had been at the Carters', he had lost much of his fretful look, and seemed better and brighter in every way. Mrs. Carter petted him, and talked with him, giving him many little hints of the way in which he might even yet be a useful, happy man; while her husband laughed and joked with him, and occasionally teased him a little. But, after all, it was neither gentle Mrs. Carter, nor her genial husband, to whom the boy turned for advice and sympathy in every question that came up. To him, Miss Bess was the one person in the world, and well might he feel so, for she was most unselfishly kind to him. From the moment when, on leaving his room in the morning, he met her at the door, ready to guide him down the unfamiliar stairs, until, after he was all in bed, she came in to say a last good-night, she was constant in her attentions to him, and adapted herself to his every mood, bright and full of fun when he was blue, encouraging when he was despondent, and with apparently nothing to do but read to him or talk with him. When she went out, as she did nearly every afternoon, she always came in with some amusing adventure or bit of boy news to tell him; and while she was gone, he spent the time petting the dogs, and counting the moments until her return. When her step was heard, he always started to the door, and, as she reached it, he opened it before her, and stood smiling up at her as she closed it, and, with an arm around his shoulders, swung him about, and marched him back to the fire. And Bess learned to watch for this greeting, and stepped more heavily as she came up the walk. Adoration, even from a child, is pleasant to have.

To-night, as Bess sat there with Fuzz in her lap and Fred at her feet, she was thinking back to that ill-fated day, just a year ago, when Rob had come home and announced that Fred had won the school prize. Such a change in the year! But the boy must not grow up in ignorance, even if he were blind. At her suggestion, it had been agreed with his father that Fred was to begin to have a few simple lessons again, of which Bess was to have the care.

"You know as well as I do, Miss Carter, what will make Fred happiest and best. I leave him wholly to you," Mr. Allen had said.

The boy lay, his head pillowed on the dog's shaggy side, his face anxiously turned towards Bess, as if trying to read her thoughts. Suddenly she said,—

"Well, Fred, what do you say to our starting on our lessons to-morrow?"

"What do you mean, Miss Bess?" said the boy, sitting up.

"Only just this, that I think it is time you went back and took up a few lessons again."

Fred rose to his feet and began to walk slowly up and down the room.

"How can I?" he asked sadly. "I don't see how I can study any more."

"This way, Fred," said Bess, as, putting down the dog, she went to join him in his march; "from nine till twelve every day, I have time to give up to it. We will shut ourselves up in a corner by ourselves, and I will read your lessons over to you a few times, and then ask you questions about them. You can do ever so much in that way; and we don't want you to stop all study, even if you can't read to yourself. How does the idea strike you?"

"I like it," said the boy, whose face had been brightening again; "only it won't be much fun for you."

"Never you mind about me, my laddie," said Bess cheerfully, "I will look out for myself."

And so it came about that for two or three hours each morning, while Mrs. Carter was busy about the household cares that not even her delicate health had made her willing to resign to her daughter, Bess and the boy settled themselves in the library, where Bess read aloud to the child, explaining as she read, and he listened eagerly, delighted at being able to break away from his forced inaction. Bess found him an apt pupil, and added to their other studies many simple lessons in the natural sciences, teaching the boy to understand the world around him, as well as to see it through her eyes. As college was out of the question for the lad, she tried to teach him just those facts that would be of the most interest and use to him, throwing aside any formal "course" of study, and only endeavoring to answer the questions that came up in the course of their readings. And such questions! Any young, healthy boy of ordinary intelligence can ask a surprising and perplexing number of questions; but Fred, shut up within himself as he was, with plenty of time for quiet thought, surpassed them all, and often sent his tutor on a wild search through encyclopædias and dictionaries, for a clear explanation of some knotty point.

All this time Rob had been very neighborly, for it had always been his habit to run in to see his cousin nearly every day; and for some time after Fred came the two boys were on most harmonious terms. In spite of everything, Rob was jealous of Fred, and would gladly have changed places with him for the next year; but he kept this feeling to himself, with an instinctive fear that it might make cousin Bess feel badly.

For Fred's own good, it seemed to Bessie that, first of all, his shyness must be overcome; for, in spite of all her efforts to encourage him, he still showed his aversion to going out or meeting people, and always fled to his room when any one came to call. Accordingly, one evening Bess asked the boys, Rob and his four friends, to come in for an hour, thinking that Fred would enjoy it when once they were there. As the boys came in, with all their laughter and fun, she turned to speak to Fred, but no Fred was there.

"I heard him go up-stairs a few moments ago," said her mother. "I will go up and call him." She returned presently, looking rather anxious.

"He says he doesn't feel well, and has gone to bed. He doesn't want anything," she said to Bess.

"Oh, dear!" said Bess, almost impatiently. "What will the boys think, when I invited them to see him?"

But the boys were ready to forgive everything, and the evening's games were pronounced a great success. As they went away, Rob lingered behind for a moment, to ask Bess if she thought Fred really ill.

"Oh, no; nothing serious, if it is anything at all. He may have some little headache, but I suspect it was just because he dreaded meeting you boys."

An hour later, as Bess went to her room, she stopped to listen at Fred's door. All was quiet, and she concluded that the boy was asleep. But just as she was falling into her first doze, she thought she heard a noise from the next room. Raising herself on her elbow, she listened intently, and soon caught the sound of a smothered sob. She quickly put on a wrapper and slippers, and went into Fred's room.

"What is it, my boy? Are you ill?" she asked anxiously.

"Oh, Miss Bess"—and Fred's voice broke.

"What is it, dear?" asked Bess again.

"Nothing—only—I couldn't see the boys to-night—and—and"—

Bess sat down on the edge of the bed, and took the child's hand in hers.

"Is that the reason you ran away?"

"Yes."

"But, Fred, the boys came to see you."

"I know, Miss Bess, but when I heard them, I just couldn't stand it. They are all so different from me, and I can't do anything at all, and—and I didn't want them round. They didn't care."

"They did care, Fred; and I cared very, very much. It worries me to have you hide when any one comes here. And I had asked the boys, you know."

"I know it; but, Miss Bess, you don't know how hard it is! That night at church I just felt as if they were all looking at me, and would talk about me as soon as I went home. It's the not knowing that's the worst. And when I hear the boys, it seems as if I couldn't always be different from them."

"My poor little Fred," said Bess, as she passed her hand gently across the boy's forehead, and hot, tear-swollen eyes, "I wish so much, as much as you do, that it need not be so. But, Fred, half the battle lies, not in bearing your trouble, but in making the best of it. It is so hard, but each time you try it will grow easier. I read once of an old blind woman who called all the good things that came to her 'chinks of light;' and perhaps, if we try very hard, we shall find some 'chinks' for you."

"I wish you could," said the child, with a long, sobbing breath. "It's all so dark."

"Well, dear, isn't Rob a 'chink'? You dreaded him at first, just as you do Phil and Teddy now. But, now you are used to him, you enjoy his coming in. Wouldn't it be so with the other boys?"

"'Tisn't so bad with just one, but when they are all here"—

"Yes, but if you had once seen them, Fred, to wear off a little of the strangeness? It is a year that you have been away from them, but they are just the same dear boys that you used to enjoy so much. And they are fonder of you than ever, for they are all so sorry for you, and want to help you."

"That's the worst of it," said Fred impatiently; "nobody can forget I'm blind one single minute!"

"Do you remember, Fred," asked Bess, "when Bert sprained his ankle two years ago? You boys went often to see him, and he enjoyed your running in. He didn't expect you to forget that he couldn't step on his foot for three or four weeks, did he?"

"Yes, I know that," admitted Fred; "but, after all, 'tisn't the same thing a bit. He was going to get right over it, and be as well as ever, and I can't ever do anything any more. Oh, Miss Bessie, I wish I could die and be through with it!" And the hot tears rolled down on her hand, as it lay against his cheek.

Poor Bess was at her wit's end. The boy was nervous and excited, and she felt that she must quiet him, but she knew not what to say. His trouble was too great, too real, to make light of it; and yet, now was the time, if ever, to impress on him the idea that he could and must be a man, in spite of it.

"'And win with them the victor's crown of gold,'"

she thought to herself, as she listened to Fred's convulsive sobs.

"My dear boy," she said very gently but firmly, as she put her arm around him and drew him over against her shoulder, "I want you to try to stop crying and listen to me. You say you can't ever do anything more, like the rest of the boys, but you have one chance that Rob and the others have not. One thing you can be now, while their turn hasn't come yet."

"What is it?" asked Fred wonderingly.

"A hero, dear. A brave boy, who will grow to be a braver man. We know too well that you can never see again, but because you can't see, that is no reason you should be a coward and want to die. We aren't put here, Fred, just to have a good time; but instead, we are to make just as much of ourselves as we can, with what is given us. Because you can't go to college, or play baseball, or skate, you need not think there is nothing you can do. Which is better, to be a great scholar and a strong, active man, or to bear bravely a sorrow like yours, be cheerful in spite of it, and, in thinking how to make people around you a little happier and better, forget your own loss? I'm not hard in saying this, Fred, but I am looking years ahead, and telling you what will make you the best and happiest man. Do you believe me?"

The boy's gesture was answer enough.

"What would you think, Fred," she went on, "of a soldier who, in his first fight, ran away because he feared he might be hurt? I know you would call him a coward, but isn't that about what you did to-night? It would, perhaps, have hurt a little at first, but isn't it braver to face the pain now, than to run away from it, and put it off till another time? And the next time it would be just as hard, and a little bit harder. The boys had come up here to see you, thinking you were all going to have a bright, pleasant time together once more. In a way, they were as much your company as mine; but you went off and left them, with never a thought of their disappointment, you were so anxious to escape being hurt. Was that quite worthy of my boy?"

"I suppose I'm cowardly and selfish," said Fred rather bitterly. "What else?"

"A thoroughly wretched little boy," answered Bess quickly. "I am not scolding you, Fred; only trying to help you. Now answer me frankly; if you had come down to see the boys, even if you did find it hard, wouldn't you have been happier now than you are as it is?"

"I suppose so," admitted Fred reluctantly. "But, truly, I didn't mean to be hateful."

"Neither does the soldier who runs away from his place, but he isn't as brave a man as the one who stays. But, Fred, you can do these very boys a world of good, if you only try in the right way."

"How?"

"This way. If they can see you going about with them, patient and uncomplaining in your great trouble, it will teach them to bear their little ones in the same way. If they see you bright and cheerful, the old jolly Fred they used to know and love, they will feel there is something worth living for besides school and games. They will be more thoughtful and considerate, and through helping you and each other they will come to help every one who is in trouble. And you will be so much more happy, too. If all this shyness were gone, so you needn't be in constant dread of meeting some one besides ourselves and Rob, you could go out freely, take long walks with me, and be with the boys. I want you to live, my boy, not so that people will pity you for what you have lost, but admire you for what you are in spite of it all. Isn't that the truer way for our hero to live?"

"I will try, Miss Bess," said Fred slowly. "I know I am a baby, but I really do want to be brave."

"That is my dear Fred! The old Greeks used to say, 'Not to live, but to live well.' We will take that for our motto, and hope that the day will come when you can feel that your life has done as much good in the world as it might have done if you could have seen us all."

As Bessie paused, the old clock in the hall slowly struck twelve. She counted the strokes, and then said gently,—

"Now, my hero, beginning with this new day, we will try to live bravely and well, and to make the very best of our lives. And when it is harder than you can bear, come right to me, and we will talk it all over together and see if we can't make it easier. I don't like to have you go off by yourself in this way, as you did to-night. Haven't you been asleep at all?"

"I couldn't. I heard you come to the door, and I tried to keep still, for fear you'd worry. I'm sorry I disturbed you, but I am so glad you came. You do make things batter, somehow!"

"I am so glad," said Bess; "that is what I am for. But now I want you to stop talking and go to sleep. Do you think you will?"

"I'll try," said the child, "but I don't feel much like it. My head aches a little."

Bess laid her hand on his throbbing forehead.

"Your head feels so warm," she said. "You lie down and don't talk any more, and I will bathe it a little. Perhaps that will make you sleepy."

She turned and shook up the pillows, and the child lay back with a grateful sigh, as she gently rubbed and patted his face. For a time he was in constant nervous motion, but he gradually became quiet. At length she fancied he was asleep, and was just slipping noiselessly from the bed, when he asked,—

"May I say one thing more, Miss Bess?"

"What is it, Fred?"

"I'd like to go for a little walk to-morrow; and may the boys come up again next week?"

At breakfast the next morning, both Fred and Bess looked rather the worse for their vigil; but, except for an increased gentleness on Fred's part, and a little more careful attention on Bessie's, there was nothing to show what had occurred, and the secret of their long talk remained all their own. As they went to their lessons, Fred said,—

"I had such a good dream last night."

"What was it?" inquired Bess, as she opened the history they were reading.

"It was after our talk, you know," Fred answered slowly, as if trying to bring it back again. "I was at home once more, lying on the sofa crying, for everything went wrong, and I was all alone. All of a sudden you came into the room, and as you walked towards me, it grew lighter and lighter, till I could see you just as well as ever,—nothing else in the room, only just you. You looked exactly the way you did the last afternoon before I went to Boston. You remember how you went down to see me, don't you? Well, you had on the same dress and hat and everything you wore then, and you stood looking down at me, kind of laughing. And then you said 'Come,' and put out your hand to help me up. I stood up and felt so much better. I kept looking at you, because that was all I could see, and it seemed so good to see you again. Then you took my hand and led me out into the street, and along ever so far, to a strange place; and then, all at once, I could see again just the way I used to. But just as I was holding on to you, and looking at the trees and houses and people, I waked up, and it was only a dream."

"Only a dream!" said Bess regretfully. "How I wish it were all true!"

"But it was just like seeing you once more," answered Fred, as he slowly drew his chair to the fire; "and I feel just as if I had seen you yesterday." Then, as he settled himself comfortably, he added, with a flash of fun that reminded Bess of the old Fred,—

"Well, I s'pose if I were as well as I used to be, I shouldn't be here now. That's one good thing!"