Hoodie

"He took off the cap and bowed low."

"She stood to think of something nice and civil to say, but she could not, try as she might, think of anything better than 'Thank you, sir.'

"It did quite well—the little man seemed quite pleased, for he bowed again as low as before, and in a clear silvery voice like a little bell he spoke to Lena.

"'What are your biddings, little lady?'"

"'Oh,' said Lena, 'I do so want to see all this funny place. It was very kind of you to bring me up here, but I would like to see it all. May I walk all about your garden, Mr. Mon—oh, I beg your pardon,' she added in a hurry.

"'Never mind,' said the little man. 'One name is as good as another. My brothers and I have been watching you, and we wish you well. If you will come with me I will show you all I can.'

"'Oh, thank you,' said Lena, jumping up in a moment.

"The little man walked out of his house, and standing in front of it he gave a long shrill whistle. Immediately from every direction whole quantities of other little brown men appeared—they seemed to tumble out of every branch of the trees, to peep up out of the ground almost at Lena's feet—till at last she felt like Gulliver among the Lilliputians.

"'Fetch the carpet,' said the first little man, who seemed a sort of commander, and before Lena had time to see where it came from a beautifully bright blue sheet was stretched out before her, held all round by the dozens and dozens of little brown men, as if they were going to shake it.

"'Step on to it, little lady,' said her friend.

"Lena did so, and no sooner had her feet touched it than she felt it rise, rise up into the air, up up, till she wondered where she was going to. Then suddenly, as suddenly as it had begun to move, it stopped.

"'Where are we?' she said, just then noticing for the first time that her own particular little brown man was sitting at her feet.

"'At the top,' said the little man; 'it would have taken you a long time to climb up here, and we did not want to tire you. Now you shall see our gardens.'

"He jumped off the carpet, and Lena followed him. All the other little men had disappeared, but she hardly noticed it, she was so delighted with what she saw. Before her were beautiful flower paths—paths edged with tall growing flowers of every colour indeed, for they never stayed the same for half a moment, but kept changing like rainbows—melting from one shade into another in the loveliest way, like the coloured lights at the pantomime.

"'Oh, how lovely!' said Lena. 'May I gather some, please?'

"The little man shook his head.

"'You cannot,' he said, walking on before her.

"After a while he turned down another path.

"'These are our birds,' he said; and Lena, glancing more closely at what she had thought were still flowers, saw that they were trees with numberless branches, on each of which sat or perched a bird. They were a contrast to the many-coloured flowers, for each bird was of one colour only, and all the birds on each tree were the same. There was a tree perfectly covered with pure white ones, another with all red, a third all blue, and so on. And the birds swayed gently backwards and forwards on the branches, in time; though there was no sound, it seemed to Lena like hearing beautiful music. And somehow she did not feel inclined to speak or to ask any questions. She just quietly followed the little man, feeling happier and more pleased than she had ever felt in her life. And soon there came another change. Looking up, Lena saw that all the birds and flowers were left behind, and she was walking through a sort of thicket of leafless bushes. She wondered why they were so bare, when everything else in the brownies' country was so rich and bright.

"'These are our orchards,' said her guide. 'But we keep the fruit packed up till it is wanted. It keeps it fresher. See now!' As he spoke he touched a bush.

"'Grow,' he said, and in an instant there came a sort of flutter over the tree, and then at once there sprouted out all over the branches the most tempting-looking clusters of fruit. They were something like beautiful purple grapes, but richer and more luscious-looking than any grapes Lena had ever seen. And while she was admiring them the little man touched another, and instantly oranges, golden and gleaming like no oranges she had ever seen before, glistened out all over the branches. And the little man stepped on in front, touching the trees as he went, till the whole path was a perfect glow of fruits of every colour and shape. So beautiful were they to look at, that Lena somehow felt no wish to eat them.

"On went the brownie, touching as he went, till suddenly the path came to an end, and Lena saw in front of her a high wall of bright green grass, with steps cut in it.

"'Up here,' said her little friend, 'are our fish-ponds. Would you like to see them?'

"Lena nodded her head. She was getting quite used to wonderful things, but the more she saw the more she wanted to see. She followed the little man up the steps, and when she got to the top she stood silent with surprise and delight. Of all the pretty wonders he had shown her, what she now saw was the prettiest. Six tiny lakes lay before her, and in each a fountain rose sparkling and dancing. And the fish that were in each lake rose up with the waters of the fountain and glided down them again as if almost they had wings. In each pond the fish were of different colours. There were, let me see, six ponds, did I not say? Yes—well in the first the fish were gold, in the second silver, in the third bronze; and in the three others even prettier, for in them the fish were ruby, emerald, and topaz. I mean they were of those colours, and in the water they gleamed as if they were made of the precious stones themselves. Lena gazed at them in perfect delight, and held out her hands so that the spray from the fountains fell on them, half hoping that by chance some of the fish might drop into her fingers by mistake.

"The little man looked at her and smiled, but shook his head.

"'No,' he said, as if he knew what she was thinking, 'no, you cannot catch them, just as you could not have gathered the flowers.'

"Lena looked disappointed.

"'I would so like to take some of them home,' she said, gently.

"'It cannot be, child,' said the little man. 'They would have neither life nor colour out of their own waters. There are many, many more things to show you, but I fear the time is over. I must take you home before the moon sets.'

"'But mayn't I come again?' said Lena. She had not time to hear the little man's answer, for again there came the quick rushing sound of the quantities and quantities of little feet, and again a sort of cloudy feeling came over Lena. She tried to speak again to the brownie, but her voice seemed to have no sound, and all she heard was his shrill whistle. It grew shriller and shriller till at last it got to sound not a whistle at all, but more like a cock's crow. And just then Lena opened her eyes, which she did not know were closed, and what do you think she saw? The morning sun peeping in at the lattice-window of her bedroom, and lighting up in its turn, as the moon had done a few hours before, the queer quaint patterns on the old chintz curtains. And down below in the yard Farmer Denny's young cock was busy telling all its companions, and little Lena as well, if she chose to listen, that it was time to be up and about."

Magdalen stopped.

"Is that all?" said Maudie.

Hoodie said nothing, but stared up for her answer.

"I don't know," said their cousin.

"You don't know?" said Maudie. "Cousin Magdalen, you're joking."

"No, indeed I'm not. I really don't know. I daresay there's lots more if I had time to tell it you. The little man told her there were lots and lots more things to show her."

"Did her ever go back again?" asked Hoodie gravely.

"I hope so—I think so," said Magdalen. "But I don't think she ever went back quite the same way."

Hoodie stared harder. Maudie looked up with a puzzled face.

"Cousin Magdalen," she said, "I believe after all you've been taking us in. There is something in the story that means something else. How do you mean that Lena went back again to the brownies' country?"

"I mean," said Magdalen, "that it was the country of fancy-land—a country we may all go to, if——"

"If what, please?"

"If we keep good and kind and sweet and pretty feelings in our hearts," said Magdalen, slowly, and a little gravely. "But if we let ugly things in—crossness, idleness, and selfishness, and ugly creatures like that—the pretty fairies will never come near us to fetch us away to see their treasures. The brownies would not let untidy or ill-tempered children into their neat little nests of houses. And even if such children did get into fairy-land or fancy-land—whichever you like to call it, where there are such numberless beautiful and strange things—it would not be fairy-land to them, because their poor little eyes would be blind, and their poor little ears deaf."

"I think I understand," said Maudie, "and some day perhaps, Cousin Magdalen, you'll tell us some more about Lena."

"Perhaps," said Magdalen, smiling.

But Hoodie said nothing, only stared harder up in her cousin's face with her big blue eyes.

And Hec and Duke, who had been amusing themselves since the story was over and the talking had begun, by sticking daisies on to a thorn, trotted up to Cousin Magdalen to kiss her and say, "Zank zou for the pitty story."

Hec and Duke ... sticking daisies on to a thorn

TWO TRUES.

A few mornings after the story telling in the garden, as Miss King was passing along the passage on her way down to breakfast, she overheard tumultuous sounds from the direction of the nursery. She stopped to listen. Various little voices were to be distinguished raised much higher than their wont, and among them, now and then, Martin's rather anxious tones as if entreating the children to listen to her advice.

"I don't care," were among the first words Cousin Magdalen made out clearly, "there isn't two trues, and what I'm telling is real true true, as true as true."

The speaker was Hoodie. Then came the answer from Maudie.

"Hoodie, how can you?" she said in a voice of real distress. "I think it's dreadful to tell stories, and to keep on saying they're true when you know they're not. It wouldn't have mattered if you had explained it was a sort of fairy story like what Cousin Magdalen told us the other day, for of course that wasn't true either, only in a way it was."

"And Hoodie didn't usplain a bit, not one bit," said Duke virtuously. "Her keeped on saying it were as true as true."

"And we is too little to under'tand, isn't we?" put in Hec. "If Hoodie had toldened us she was in fun——"

"But I wasn't in fun, you ugly, naughty, ugly boy," retorted Hoodie, by this time most evidently losing her temper. "And if peoples 'zinks so much about trues, they shouldn't vant me to say what isn't true about being in fun when I wasn't in fun. The moon does——"

A choky sound was now heard, caused by Maudie's putting her hand over her sister's mouth.

"Hoodie, you're not to say that again," she exclaimed, no doubt with the best intention, but with an unfortunate result. Hoodie turned upon her like a little wild cat, and was in the act of slapping her vigorously when Miss King hurried into the room.

"Hoodie!" she said reproachfully.

Hoodie looked up with a mixture of shame and defiance.

"Oh, Hoodie, I am so sorry. I thought you had quite left off everything like that," said her cousin.

One or two big tears crept slowly out of the corners of Hoodie's eyes.

"They shouldn't say I was telling untrue things," she muttered. "'Tisn't my fault."

"Oh! Miss Hoodie," said Martin, injudiciously, "how can you say so? I'm sure, Miss," she went on, turning to Magdalen, "no one said a word to put her out. She was telling fairy stories like, to Master Duke and Master Hec, and they began asking her to explain and she would say it was quite true, not fairy stories at all. And Miss Maudie just tried to show her she shouldn't say that, and then you see, Miss, she flew into a temper."

"What were the stories about, Hoodie?" inquired Miss King, kindly.

Hoodie vouchsafed not a word in reply.

Magdalen glanced at the others.

"I'll tell," said Duke. "They was about things up in the sky, you know."

"Angels, do you mean?" said Miss King.

"Oh no, not angels," said Maudie. "It was about the stars and the moon. Hoodie has a fancy——"

"It isn't a fancy," put in Hoodie fiercely.

"Hoodie says," continued Maudie calmly, "that the moon and the stars and all of the things up in the sky, know each other, and talk to each other, and that she has heard them. The moon takes care of the stars, she says, and early in the morning when it is time for them all to go away the moon calls to them. I mean Hoodie says she does."

"'Cos she does," replied Hoodie, before any one else had time to speak. "She calls to them and they all come round her together, and then they all go away like a flash—so quick, and it is so bright."

Her funny eyes gleamed up into Magdalen's face. In the interest of what she was telling she forgot her temper.

"Was it that that you saw?" asked Magdalen, gravely. "The flash of their going, I mean?"

"Yes," said Hoodie, "I've seen it lots of times, and I try to keep awake on purpose. It passes—the flash, I mean—it passes by the little window near my head. The little window for seeing up into the sky, you know."

Magdalen nodded her head.

"I know," she said, "I had a window like that in my room when I was a little girl, and I was very fond of it. But I don't think I ever saw the moon and the stars saying good night, or good morning—which is it? And are none of the little stars ever left behind?"

The whole of Hoodie's face lighted up with a smile, but the rest of the faces round Miss King looked grave and rather puzzled. Was she really going to encourage Hoodie in her fancies—thought Maudie and Martin?

"I don't 'zink so," said Hoodie, "but I'll look the next time."

"Cousin Magdalen," whispered Maudie, gently pulling her godmother's dress, "it isn't true. You don't want Duke and Hec to think it is."

"I don't think it would matter much if they did," replied Magdalen in the same tone. "Thinking little fancies like that true would do them far less harm than thinking their sister was telling falsehoods. But I will try to explain to Hoodie that perhaps it is better not to say any more about it to the little boys. Only, Maudie dear, I think you are old enough to understand better that Hoodie was not meaning to tell untruths."

"She said she heard the moon and the stars talking," remonstrated Maudie.

"Well—what if she did? Many a time when I was a little girl I have thought I heard the wind say real words when I was lying awake in my little bed. Of course I know better now, but so will Hoodie, and if these fancies please her and keep her content and happy, why not leave her them?"

"Martin doesn't think so," said Maudie, rather mortified that her efforts to bring Hoodie to a sense of her wrong-doings were so little appreciated.

"Miss Maudie, dear!" exclaimed Martin, "I never said so, I'm sure. I don't think I rightly understood what it was all about. I'm sure I don't want to be sharp on any of you for fancies that do no one any harm. I had plenty of them myself when I was little."

"You see, Maudie, Martin does understand," said Miss King. "I'll try and explain about it better to you afterwards, but just now I really must hurry down to breakfast."

She was turning away when a clamour of little voices stopped her.

"Won't you come back after breakfast, Cousin Magdalen?"

"Oh, do tum back."

"It's such a wet day and we've nothing to do, 'cause it's Saturday, and Saturday's a holiday."

"Do you want me to come and give you lessons then?" said Magdalen, mischievously.

Dead silence—broken at last by Duke.

"Couldn't you tum and tell us more stories?"

Magdalen shook her head.

"I haven't got any ready. Truly I haven't," she said. "It takes me a long time to think of them, always. But I'll tell you what we might do. I'll come up after breakfast with my work and you might all tell me stories. That would amuse everybody. Each of you try to think of one, but you mustn't tell each other what it is."

Hoodie's face lighted up, but Maudie looked rather lugubrious.

"I can't think of one," she said.

"Oh yes you can, if you try," said Magdalen, cheerfully.

"Must it be all out of my own head?"

Miss King hesitated.

"No, if you can remember one that you've read that the others don't know, that would do."

Maudie looked relieved.

"I don't need to remember one," said Hoodie. "I know such heaps. My head's all spinning full of them."

"So's mine," said Duke, jumping about and clapping his hands.

"And mine too," said Hec. "Kite 'pinning full."

"What nonsense," said Hoodie. "You don't know stories. It's only me that does."

"Hush, hush," said Miss King. "My plan won't be nice at all if it makes you quarrel. Now I must run down."

The children were very quiet through breakfast time. Every now and then the little boys leant over across their bowls of bread and milk to whisper to each other.

"Wouldn't that be lovely?" or

"That'd be a vezy pitty story," till called to order by Martin, who told them that spilling their breakfast over the table would not be at all a good beginning to the stories.

"'Twouldn't matter," remarked Hoodie, philosophically. "The cloth isn't clean; it's Saturday, you know, Martin."

"Saturday or no Saturday," replied Martin, "it isn't pretty for little ladies and gentlemen to spill their food on the table. And it gets them in the habit of it for when they get big and have their breakfasts and dinners down-stairs."

"Doesn't big people never spill things on the cloth?" inquired Hec, solemnly.

"Mr. Fielding does," said Hoodie. "One day when he was here at luncheon, he was helping Mamma to wine, and he poured all down the outside of her glass. I think he's dedfully ugly. I wouldn't like ever to be a big people if I was to be like him."

"Miss Hoodie," remonstrated Martin, hardly approving of the turn the conversation was taking, "do get on with your breakfast, and you'd better be thinking about your stories than talking about things you don't understand."

Hoodie glanced at Martin with considerable contempt.

"I'd like to make a story about Beauty and the Beast," she said. "I know who'd be the beast, but you shouldn't be Beauty, Martin."

"Shouldn't I, Miss Hoodie?" said Martin, good-naturedly. "Miss King would make a nice Beauty, to my mind."

Almost as she spoke the door opened, and Cousin Magdalen re-appeared.

"Children," she said, "your mother says we may have the fire lighted in the billiard-room because it is such a chilly day, so I am going to take my work there and you may all come. Martin will be glad to get rid of you, because I know Saturday's a busy morning for her always."

The news was received with great satisfaction, and before the end of another half-hour the four children were all under their cousin's charge in the billiard-room, for an hour or two, greatly to Martin's relief.

"What pretty work you are doing, Cousin Magdalen," said Maudie, stroking admiringly the large canvas stretched on a frame at which Miss King was working.

"I am glad you think it's pretty," said her godmother. "I think it is very pretty; but the colours are not very bright, and children generally like very bright colours. The pattern is copied from a very old piece of tapestry."

"What's tapestry?" said Hoodie.

"Old-fashioned work that used to be made long ago," said Miss King. "It was more like great pictures than anything else, and such quantities of it were made that whole walls were covered with it. Once when I was a very little girl I slept in a room all covered with tapestry, and in the middle of the night——"

She stopped suddenly.

"What?" said Hoodie eagerly, peering up into her face. "What came in the middle of night?"

"I didn't say anything came," said Cousin Magdalen, laughing. "I stopped because I thought I could make it into a little story and tell it to you afterwards. But we are forgetting all about your stories. Who is going to begin? Eldest first—you, Maudie, I suppose."

Maudie looked rather melancholy.

"I can't tell nice stories," she said. "I've been thinking such a time, and I can't think of anything except something very stupid."

"Well, let us hear it, any way," said her cousin, "and then we can say if it is stupid or not."

"It was a story I read," said Maudie, "or else some one told it me. I can't remember which it was. It was about a very poor little girl—she was dreadfully poor, just as poor as you could fancy."

"No clothes—hadn't she no clothes?" asked Duke.

"And nucken to eat?" added Hec.

"Very little," said Maudie. "Of course she had some, or else she would have died. She hadn't any father or mother, only an old grandmother, who wasn't very kind to her. At least she was very old and deaf and all that, and perhaps that made her cross. And the little girl used to go messages for a shop—that was how she got a little money. It was a baker's shop near where they lived, and it was rather a grand shop—only they kept this little girl to go messages, not to the grand people that came there, you know, but to the people that bought the bread when it wasn't so new—and currant cakes that were rather stale—like that, you know. And on Sunday mornings she had the most to do, because they used to send a great lot of bread very early to a room where a kind lady had breakfast for a great many poor people—for a treat because it was Sunday. They used to have lots of bread and butter and hot coffee—very nice. And Lizzie, that was the little girl's name, liked Sunday mornings and going with the bread to that place, because it all looked so cheerful and comfortable, and the smell of the hot coffee was so good."

"Didn't they never give her none?" asked Duke.

"No, I don't think so. At least not before what I'm going to tell you. You should wait till I tell you. Well, one Sunday in winter, it was a dreadfully cold day; snowing and raining, and all mixed together, and wind too, I think—dreadful cold wind. And Lizzie nearly cried as she was going along to that place. She had such dreadfully sore chilblains on her feet and on her hands too. She got to the place and emptied the basket, and she was just coming away at the door, when a carriage came up and she stopped a minute to see the people get out. The first was the lady who gave the breakfast, Lizzie had seen her before, for she came sometimes—not every Sunday, but just sometimes—to see that the breakfast was all nice for her poor people. But this day, after she got out, she turned back to lift a little boy out of the carriage. And Lizzie had never seen this little boy before, because this was the first time he had ever come. His mother had brought him with her for a great treat. He was a very pretty little boy and his name was Arthur, and he was about six, I think it said in the story. The lady went into the room quick without noticing Lizzie, as she was in a hurry not to be late for the poor people, but Arthur stayed behind a minute and stared at Lizzie. She was so very cold, you know, she did look miserable, and then she had cried a little on the way, so her eyes were red.

"Arthur went close up to her, staring all the time. Lizzie didn't mind. She stared at him too. He was so pretty and he had such pretty clothes on. When he got close to her, he looked sharp up into her face and said—

"'What is you crying for?'

"Lizzie had forgotten she had been crying, so she said, 'I'm not crying. I'm only very cold.'

"'Poor little girl,' said Arthur, 'I'll ask Mamma to give you a penny.'

"He ran after his mother, who was wondering what he was staying for, and in a minute he came back again and put a little paper packet into Lizzie's hand.

"'That's all mother's got in her penny purse,' he said, and he ran off again before Lizzie had time to thank him.

"She was going to open the packet and see how much there was, but just then one of the men who helped to put out the breakfast came past and told her not to loiter about. So she took up her basket and ran away, for people often spoke crossly to her, and she was easily frightened. All the way home she kept thinking about her pennies and what she would buy with them, but she didn't open the packet, because the way she had to go there were so many rude boys about that she was afraid they might snatch it from her. And when she got to the shop where she had to take the basket to, the baker sent her another message, so it wasn't till much later than usual that she got home. And all this time she had never opened the packet, at least it said so in the story, though I think I would have peeped at it before—wouldn't you, Cousin Magdalen?"

"I'm not sure," said Magdalen. "I think if one has something nice it is sometimes rather tempting to keep it for a while without looking it all over. It is something to look forward to."

"Yes," said Hoodie. "I'd have keepened it for alvays wrapped up, and then I could have alvays thought perhaps it was a fairy thing like."

"You silly girl," said Maudie, "you're always fancying about fairies."

"Maudie, dear" said Magdalen, "do try not to say things like that. You are telling the story so nicely and we're all so happy. Please don't spoil it by saying unkind little things."

"I didn't mean to be unkind," said Maudie penitently.

"P'ease do on with the story," said the little boys.

"Well, when at last she got home, she opened the little packet," continued Maudie, "and what do you think she saw? Instead of two pennies and a halfpenny perhaps, or something like that, there were—let me see—yes, that was it—there were a gold pound, a half-a-crown, and a shilling. Just fancy! Lizzie was so surprised that she didn't know what she felt—she looked at them and looked at them, and turned them in her hand, and then all at once it came into her mind that of course the lady had given her them by mistake, and that she should take them back to her. And she jumped up very quick and said to her grandmother there was another message she had to go, and without thinking anything about whether the lady would still be there or not, off she ran back again to the place where the poor people had their breakfast. She ran as hard as she could, but of course when she got there it was too late—the breakfast was done long ago, and all the people away and the doors locked, and there was no one about at all to tell her where she could find the lady. And Lizzie was so unhappy that she sat down on a step and cried. You see it was such a disappointment, for she couldn't tell how much the lady had meant to give her, and so she didn't like to take any. Besides, she felt that it would be better to give the packet back just as it was, only she had so wanted the pennies, for she never had any. The baker's wife always paid her grandmother, not Lizzie herself, for Lizzie's going messages.

"And after she had cried a good while she got up and went home. But just as she got near the baker's shop she thought she might ask there if they knew the lady's name, so she went in to ask. There was no one in the shop but the young woman who helped—the others had gone to church."

"How was it the shop was open, then, as it was Sunday?" asked Magdalen.

"It wasn't open, only there was a sort of door in the shutters that Lizzie always went in and out by on Sunday mornings. I know that, because there was a picture of it—I remember now where I read the story—it was in a big picture magazine when I was quite a little girl," said Maudie. "And this young woman was tidying the shop a little, and just going to shut it altogether when Lizzie went in. She was a good-natured young woman and she looked in the money books for the lady's name, but it wasn't in—only the name of the man the room belonged to where the breakfast was—and then she asked Lizzie what she wanted to know for, and Lizzie told her. The young woman told her she was very silly to think of giving it back. She said to her that certainly the lady had given it her, it wasn't even as if she had found it. And Lizzie could not say that was not true, and she felt so puzzled at first that she didn't know what to say. The young woman offered to change it for her so that nobody could wonder how she had got a gold piece, but Lizzie said she would think about it first. And then she went home, and thought, and thought, till at last it came quite plain into her mind that though it was true that the lady had given it her, still it was more true that she hadn't meant to give it her. And then she didn't feel so unhappy."

Maudie stopped for a moment. It had turned out quite a long story, and she was a little tired.

"And what did she do then? Quick, Maudie," said Hoodie.

"What did her do? Kick, kick, Maudie," said the little boys.

"Hush, children, don't hurry Maudie so. Let her rest a minute," said Cousin Magdalen; "she must be a little tired with speaking so long."

"No, I'm not tired now," said Maudie, "only I want to remember to tell it quite right, and I couldn't quite remember what came next. Any way, she couldn't do anything more that day. But she wrapped up the money again quite safe, and put it in another paper, outside the one it had, and—oh, yes, that was it, she settled that she would wait till the next Sunday, and then stand at the door of the breakfast place to see the lady again. She didn't like telling any more people for fear they might take the money away from her, or something like that, and she couldn't think of anything better to do. Well, the next Sunday morning she took the bread as usual, and then she waited at the door for the lady to come, but she never came. Lizzie waited and waited, but she never came, and all the people had gone in and the breakfast was nearly done, but the lady never came. And at last she went and asked somebody if the lady wasn't coming—the woman who poured out the coffee, I think it was—and she told her no, the lady wasn't coming that day, and wouldn't come again for a great long while, because she was going away somewhere a good way off. Lizzie was so sorry, she began to cry, so the woman asked her what was the matter, and she told her, and the woman was so pleased with her for being so honest, that she gave her the lady's address and told her to go at once to the house, for perhaps she wouldn't have gone yet. But it was only another disappointment, for when poor Lizzie got there she found it was all shut up; they had gone away the day before."

"Poor Lizzie," said Magdalen, "what did she do then?"

"Poor Lizzie," said Hec and Duke, "and didn't she never get the real pennies?"

"It wasn't pennies she wanted so much," said Hoodie, "she wanted the lady to know how good she was."

"She wanted to be good, don't you think that would be a nicer way to say it, Hoodie?" said Cousin Magdalen. "You see, being so poor, it must sometimes have been very difficult for her not to use any of the money."

"Yes," said Maudie, "it said that in the story. Well, any way she was good. She sewed the money up in a little bag and put it in a safe place, and tried not to think about it. And all that winter she kept it and never touched it, though they were very poor that winter. It was so very cold, and poor people are always poorer in very cold winters, Martin says. Often they had no fire, and Lizzie's chilblains were dreadful, for her boots didn't keep out the rain and snow a bit, and often she was very hungry too, but still she never touched the money. And at last, after a very long time, the winter began to go away and the spring began to come, and the woman who poured out the coffee told Lizzie she had heard that the lady was coming home in the spring. So Lizzie began to wait a little every Sunday morning when she had given in the bread, to see if perhaps the lady would come. She waited like that for about six Sundays, I think, till at last one Sunday just as she was thinking it was no use waiting any more, the lady wouldn't be coming, a carriage drove up to the door, the very same carriage that Lizzie had seen come there before, and—and—the lady—the real same lady, and the real same little boy, got out! And Lizzie was so pleased she didn't know what to do, for though she had only seen them once before, she had watched for them so long that they seemed like great friends to her. But though she was so pleased, she began all to tremble and at first she couldn't speak, her voice went all away. She just pulled the lady's dress and looked up in her face but she couldn't speak. At first the lady didn't understand, though she was a kind lady she didn't like a dirty-looking little girl pulling her dress, and she looked at her a little sharply. But the little boy understood, and he called out—

"'Oh, mamma, mamma, it's the same little girl. Don't you remember? I wonder if she's been waiting here ever since.'

"That was rather silly of him; of course she couldn't have been there ever since, but he was quite a little boy. And then the lady looked kindly at Lizzie and Lizzie's voice came back, and she said—

"'Oh, ma'am, this is the money you gave me by mistake. I've kept it all this time,' and she put the little packet into the lady's hand. And then something came over her; the feeling of having waited so long, I suppose, and she burst into tears. And what do you think the lady did? She was so sorry for poor Lizzie, and so pleased with her, that she actually kissed her!"

"Aczhally kissed her," repeated Hoodie, Hec, and Duke. "That dirty girl!"

"No," said Maudie, "she wasn't dirty. She was poor, but she wasn't dirty."

"You said she was once," said Hoodie.

"Well, I didn't mean dirty, really. I meant she looked so, because her clothes were so old. And any way the lady did kiss her, and then she was so kind. She had never thought of having given Lizzie the money. It was some she had put up to pay a bill with, and she had meant to put it in her other purse, and when she couldn't find it, she thought she had lost it somehow. And though she was sorry, of course it didn't matter so very much. And she said if she had known she would have written a letter to the coffee woman to tell her to spend it for warm clothes for poor Lizzie. But after all, it all turned out nice. The lady was very kind to Lizzie after that, and paid for her going to school and being taught all nice things, so that when she got a little bigger she was a very nice servant. I think it said in the story that she learnt to be a nurse, and she was a very kind nurse always."

"Like Martin?" said Duke.

"Yes," said Maudie.

"Perhaps she was even kinder than Martin," suggested Hec. "Perhaps she was awful kind."

"Nobody could be kinder than Martin, except when we're naughty," said Duke, reproachfully.

"Don't you think we should all thank Maudie for telling us such a nice story?" said Magdalen. "I thank her very much."

"So do I," said Duke.

"And me," said Hec.

"And me," said Hoodie, "only I want to tell a story too."

"We're all ready to listen," said Miss King. "But it mustn't be very long. I've to go out with your mother this afternoon, so I must write some letters before luncheon. And Hec and Duke have stories to tell, too, haven't they? So fire away, Hoodie."

HOODIE'S FOUNDLING.

Hoodie gazed round her condescendingly.

"I've such lots of stories in my head," she said. "They knock against each other. Well—I think I'll tell you a story of two little goblins. They lived in a star, and they were just e'zackly like each other. As like as two pins, or as like as a pin is to itself if you look at it in the looking-glass. They lived all alone in the star, and all day they stayed asleep like we do all night, but all night they were awake like we are all day, 'cos you see all day the star was shut up—like a shop, you know, only with curtains all round—all the stars are shut up like that all day, you know, and at night the moon wakes up and sends round to draw the curtains, and all the stars come out, rubbing their eyes."

"They hasn't any hands—how can they rub their eyes?" objected Duke.

"You silly boy," said Hoodie, very sharply. "How do you know? You've never been in the stars."

"But you hasn't neither," he persisted.

"Never mind. I know, and if I didn't I couldn't tell you. That's how people can tell stories. Well, the stars come out, lots and lots of them, and go running about all night, and then in the morning the moon sends round to draw all the curtains again and they're all to go to sleep."

"But some nights the moon isn't there and the stars are there without her. How is that, Hoodie?" said Cousin Magdalen, rather mischievously.

"You think so 'cos you don't know; but I do," said Hoodie, nodding her head sagaciously. "The moon's alvays there, only sometimes she has a cold, and then she wraps up her white face in a shawl and you can't see her."

There was a twinkle of fun in Hoodie's green eyes as she said this that showed her cousin that her little teasing was understood.

"Oh, indeed," she said, gravely, "I did not know. Thank you, Hoodie, for explaining to me."

"And so," continued Hoodie, "the goblins never saw anything of day things, but they saw very funny things at night when they went sailing about on the star."

"Stars don't go sailing about," objected Maudie. "They're always quite still."

"They're not then," said Hoodie: "that shows you don't listen, Maudie. I heard Papa say one day that the stars are going as fast as fast, only they go so fast that we can't see them."

"What nonsense! Isn't it nonsense, Cousin Magdalen?" pleaded Maudie.

"No," said Miss King. "It is true they are moving faster than we can even fancy, but the reason we can't see them moving isn't exactly what Hoodie says."

"What is it then?"

"I can't explain it to you just now—it would not be very easy for you to understand, and if I explained it, it would take too much time and we shouldn't hear the rest of Hoodie's story. I think we should let poor Hoodie go on with her story now without interrupting her any more."

Hoodie required no further bidding.

"Well," she said, "all night long the goblins went sailing about in the star, and sometimes they saw very funny things. They were up so high that they could look down and see everything, you know. They could see the big ponds up in the sky where the rain is made, and the awful big windmills up there where the wind blows from, and the cannons that bum the thunder down."

"Could they——?" began Duke, timidly, and then he stopped.

"Could they what?" said Hoodie, rather snappishly. "If peoples interrumpt, I wish they'd finish their interrumpting, and not stop in the middle."

"If peoples interrumpt, I wish they'd finish their interrumpting, and not stop in the middle."

"I didn't like to say it," said Duke. "I only wanted to know if they could see right into the middle of the sky where the angels are."

"No," said Hoodie, decidedly, "they couldn't. They was goblins; they wasn't angels at all, so they didn't want to see angels. It isn't that kind of story, Duke—I'll tell you one like that another day—Sunday perhaps. Now I want to go on about the goblins. What they liked best was to peep into the windows and look at people, and play them tricks sometimes. They was awful fond of playing tricks; goblins always is. But sometimes they gets tricks played them, and that's what my story's about. There was a window up in a house that they wanted to look in at, but they couldn't ever get quite high enough up, 'cos the window was at the top of the house, you see. It was the window of a witch, but the goblins didn't know that. She was a witch that lived all alone, and there wasn't anything she cared for except playing tricks, she was always playing tricks. She knowed the goblins wanted to peep in at her window, she knowed everything, 'cos that's what it means to be a witch, that and playing tricks. And she set herself to play a trick on the goblins—a reg'lar good trick, 'cos she didn't see what they was always wanting to peep in at her window for."

Hoodie paused for a moment to take breath.

"I wonder what the trick was," whispered Duke and Hec under their breath, evidently very much impressed.

"Yes, you may wonder," said Hoodie, majestically. "You'd never guess. Not in a milliond guesses. Well then, one night when the goblins was twisting and turning theirselves about on the very edge of the star, trying to peep in at the window, all of a suddent the witch's house turned right round, so that the window came to the side instead of up at the top, and one of the goblins gave a great jump and screamed out to the other—

"'I say, brother, we can see into the witch's house now.'"

"But you said the goblins didn't know it was a witch that lived there," said Maudie.

"Well, they didn't know at first, but when they saw the house turned round, of course they knowed it must be a witch that lived there. Nobody else could turn their house round," said Hoodie, composedly. "And so they both screamed, they were so pleased, and all the time the witch was settling about the trick she'd play them. Now I must tell you what the trick was. The witch wasn't all a bad witch—she was a little good too, and there was a little girl lived in the room next to her that liked her very much, 'cos the witch was very good to her and used to tell her funny stories. And that was why the witch didn't want the goblins to peep into her room, 'cos she thought perhaps they'd steal away the little girl for a trick, for she was very often in the witch's room, and goblins is awful fond of stealing children and taking them up into the stars to live with them, so she—the witch, I mean—was sure that they'd try to steal her little girl once they saw her. So when the little girl came to see her that night, she made her go to bed in a nice little bed she'd made for her, and told her she was to be quite still, for perhaps a' ogre was coming to see her. The little girl was a little frightened but not very, for she knowed the witch would take care of her even though she knowed the witch had got very funny friends, ogres you know, and black cats that was really fairies, and all creatures like that—it's rather a dedful story, isn't it?—but you needn't be frightened, Duke and Hec, it'll come unfrightening soon. And so the little girl got into the little bed and cuddled herself up just like the witch had told her. And the goblins came sailing and sailing up on the star; they was working it like, to make it go quick you know, like a boat with men oaring it you know, and they was oaring and oaring so hard, they was as hot as hot. And at last they got the star right up to the edge of the window, but they made a little noise and the little girl was startled and jumped up in bed, just what the witch had not wanted her to do, and the goblins when they saw her forgot all about the witch and called out, 'Oh what a nice little girl to steal,' and they were just going to jump in and catch her up and steal her, when—what do you think?—the witch jumped out of the corner where she had been watching them and caught hold of them fast, one in each hand, and put them—where do you think?—one into each of the little girl's eyes! And they couldn't ever get out again, for there's a fine little glass lid in people's eyes that nobody could open but a witch, and she shut it down on them tight, and there they were; they couldn't do anything but peep out, and there they were for always, peeping out."

"But didn't it hurt the little girl?" asked Maudie. "It would hurt dreadfully to have the least thing put in your eye."

"Oh no," said Hoodie, "it didn't hurt her—not a bit—she just thought a fly had tickled her eyes, and she winkled them, and the witch said to her, 'You may come out of bed now, my dear. The ogre won't be coming to-night.' And so the little girl got out of bed, and when she came up to the witch, the witch looked at her and laughed, and the little girl couldn't think what she was laughing at, and she never knowed about the goblins being in her eyes till one day when her little brother was playing with her, he peeped in her face and said, 'I see two goblins in your eyes.'"

"That was me," exclaimed Duke. "It was one day I looked in Hoodie's eyes and I saw two goblings in 'zem, I did. Hoodie's made the story about me."

"I hasn't," said Hoodie, indignantly. "I've got stories enough without making them about silly little boys like you. Of course you saw the goblins in mine eyes—there's goblins in every little girl's eyes ever since the witch put them into her little girl's. It's comed to be the fashion, and now you know how it was, and that's the end of the story."

"Thank you for telling it, Hoodie," said Magdalen. "We're all very much obliged to you, and another day I hope you'll tell us some more. Now Duke and Hec, are your stories ready?"

Hec looked exceedingly solemn.

"I only know one," he said; "Duke knows lots."

"Well, which of you is going to begin?"

"Hec," said Duke.

"Duke," said Hec.

"Mine isn't ready," said Duke. "Hec, you begin. If you only know one it must be always ready."

"Mine's only about a little dog," began Hec, modestly. "It was a little dog that had only three legs."

"Only three legs!" exclaimed Magdalen. "My dear Hec, are you sure you haven't made a mistake?"

"Sure," said Hec, "the housemaid had broke its leg off a long time ago, when she was dusting the mantelpiece, so the Mamma gave it to the little boy because it was spoilt for the drawing-room. And the little boy was very fond of it—it was made of hard stuff, you know, all white and shiny, and it had blue eyes. It was very pretty. Martin told me the story. She knowed the little boy. And one day the little boy lostened the little dog. He always had it on the nursery table at breakfast and dinner and tea; and he used to 'atend to feed it. Sometimes he put it on the edge of his plate, and sometimes if he 'atended it was 'firsty he put it on the edge of the milk-jug. And one day he lostened it. It was there at the beginning of tea he was sure, but at the end it wasn't there. And he looked and looked and looked but he couldn't find it; and the nurse looked and looked, but she couldn't find it. So the little boy cried. He cried dedfully, but he couldn't find it. And the nurse was vexed 'cos he wouldn't stop crying. She wasn't as kind as Martin. So he had to go to bed crying, and the next morning when he got up he cried again for his little doggie. And his Mamma said she would buy him another, but he didn't care for that. He said he wouldn't like any but his own dear doggie with only three legs. Well, that day they had rice-pudding for dinner. The little boy kept crying even when he was eating his dinner, and they zeally didn't know what to do with him. But what do you think came? He put some pudding in his mouf, and there was some'sing hard. He thought it was a stone, and he feeled to see what it was, and it was his little dog that had been cooked in the pudding—aczhally cooked in the pudding."

"Like Tom Thumb," said Magdalen. "Yes, it was very funny. But it must have been a very little dog, Hec, to go in the little boy's mouth?"

"Oh yes, littler than Martin's fimble. She showed me," said Hec. "It was quite a little wee doggie. And Martin said it had got into the pudding, 'cos it had been on the edge of the milk-jug and had felled in, and so it went down to the kitchen in the milk-jug, and the cook had put the milk that was over, to make a pudding. The little boy was so dedfully glad, you can't fancy. He never lostened the little dog again, Martin said, and he said he would keep it till he was a big man. That's all my story."

"Thank you, dear. You've told it very nicely. Hasn't he?" said Miss King.

"Very nicely," said Maudie.

But Hoodie tossed her head rather contemptuously.

"I like stories that peoples make out of their own heads," she said.

"So do I," said Duke. "I've been making mine while Hec was telling his; I didn't need to listen, for I've heard the story of the little dog before. Now, I'll tell you mine. Onst there was a ogre that lived in a castle, and the castle was on the top of a big, big hill—such a awfully big hill that nobody could ever get up it—not the biggest person that ever was made couldn't get up it."

"How did the ogre get up it then?" said Hoodie.

"He didn't. He'd always been there and he had a' ogre's wife to cook his dinner, and he had a—a—oh yes, I know, he had a awful big billiard-table, and he used to use little boys' heads for the balls," continued Duke, his eyes wandering round the room for inspiration as he proceeded. "And," he went on, as he caught sight of a large mirror at the end of the room, "he was so big he couldn't get any plates big enough for him to eat off, so he used to have big looking-glasses for plates, and—and—he had a coal-box for a salt-cellar, and when he had a' egg for breakfast he had the shovel for a' egg spoon, and—and—the white muslin curtains was his pocket-hankerwitches, and——" here Duke came to a dead stop, but another gaze round the room provided fresh material, "and," he proceeded energetically, "the Venetian blind sticks was his matches, and his ogre's wife used to wash his hankerwitches in a lake, and that was his basin; and for soup she used a—oh I don't know what she had for soup—never mind that. But she had beautiful big earrings," his eyes at this moment happening to catch sight of Magdalen's side-face, "beautiful big earrings made of two shiny glass and goldy things for candles, like that one hanging up there, and——"

"You're just making a rubbish story, Duke," said Maudie. "You just put in whatever you see. I don't call that a proper story at all. Is it, Cousin Magdalen?"

"You're very unkind, Maudie," said Duke, dolefully, before Magdalen had time to reply. "It isn't a rubbish story. I was just going to tell you about one day when the ogre was very hungry——"

"Well, what did he do?"

"Well," repeated Duke, somewhat mollified, "one day when the ogre was very hungry, he couldn't find nothing to eat, and he said to his wife, 'Ogre's wife, I'll eat you, if you don't get me somefin to eat too-dreckly.' And his ogre's wife cried, and she said she'd go to the green-baker's and see if she couldn't get somefin for he to eat."

"Go to the where, Duke?" said Magdalen, looking up from her work.

"To the green-baker's, that's where they sell apples and pears and p'ums," said Duke.

Maudie burst out laughing.

"He means the green-grocer's," she said. "Oh, Duke, how funny you are!"

"And how could the ogre's wife go and buy him things at shops if they were up on the top of a hill so big that nobody could get down?"

"Oh," replied Duke, "'cos there was andnother hill just a very little way off that they could get on quite easily, like steps, and there was lots of shops on the nother hill—all kinds."

"All shops for ogreses?" inquired Hec timidly.

"No, in course not. Shops for proper people. But when the ogre's wife went to buy somefin for him to eat she had to buy a whole shop-ful—lots and lots—but I zink I've toldened you enough for to-day. I must make some more up first."

"Very well, dear, perhaps it will be better, and thank you for what you've told us to-day," said Cousin Magdalen, beginning to fold up her work. "I must try now to get my letter written before luncheon. I hope it's not going to rain all the afternoon."

One or two of the children ran to the window, as she spoke, to examine the state of the clouds. Suddenly, as they stood there, something, a small dark thing, was seen to fall or flutter to the ground, a short way off.

"What was that?" said Hoodie, whose quick eyes always saw things before any one else.

"What?" said Duke deliberately.

"Didn't you see something fall, stupid boy?" said Hoodie politely.

"Yes, I saw somefin, but perhaps it was only a leaf."

"But perhaps it wasn't only a leaf," said Hoodie impatiently. "There now, look there, don't you see it's moving? Over there by the little fat tree with the spiky leaves—oh, oh, oh! It's a bird—a poor little innicent bird—that's felled out of a netst," screamed Hoodie, in tremendous excitement, which always upset her English. "Oh, Cousin Magdalen, quick, quick! open the door, do, do, and let Hoodie go and fetcht the poor little bird."

She danced about with impatience, her eyes streaming—for in curious contrast with Hoodie's scant affection for her fellow human beings was her immense tenderness and devotion towards dumb animals of every kind. She "would not hurt a fly" would have very poorly described her feelings. She had been known to nurse a maimed bluebottle for a week, getting up in the night to give it fresh crumbs of sugar—she had cried for two days and a half after accidentally seeing the last struggles of a chicken which the cook had killed for dinner, and had she clearly understood that the mutton-chops she was so fond of were really the ribs of "a poor sweet little sheep," I am quite sure mutton-chops would in future have been cooked in vain for Hoodie.

Cousin Magdalen had not hitherto seen much of this side of the little girl's character, and she looked at her with some surprise, not sure if there was a mixture of temper in all these dancings-about and callings-out. But she came quickly across the room all the same, to the window, or glass door rather, where all the children were now assembled—

"What is it?" she said. "Hoodie, dear, why do you get into such a fuss?"

"'Cos I want to go out and pick up the little bird, poor little innicent thing, that's felled out of the tree. Oh, Maudie's godmother, do open the door—quick, quick, and let me out," said Hoodie, still dancing about. "The bird will be lying there thinking that nobody cares."

Magdalen quietly unfastened the door, which was bolted high up, out of the children's reach, and led the way out into the shrubbery. The rain had left off, but it had warmed rather than chilled the spring morning air, and a delicious scent of freshened earth met the little party as they came out of the billiard-room. Magdalen would have liked to stand still for a moment and look about her, and enjoy the sweet air, and listen to the pretty soft garden sounds—the crisp crunch of the heavy roller which the men were drawing over the damp gravel of the drive, the voices, further off, of the school children running home, for it was twelve o'clock,—prettier still, the faint cackles from the poultry-yard, and the twitterings, gradually waking up, of the birds, whose spirits had been depressed by the heavy rain—but where Hoodie was, such lingerings by the way must never be thought of! The child darted out the moment the door was opened, and rushed across the grass-plot just in front—heedless of the soaking to which this exposed her feet and legs up to her knees, for the grass hereabouts was allowed to grow wild, and in the corners near the wall was mixed with coarse ferns and bracken, through all of which Hoodie determinedly ploughed her way.

"Oh dear," exclaimed poor Magdalen, "how silly I was to open the door! Just look at Hoodie, Maudie. She will be perfectly drenched. Martin really will have reason to think I am not fit to take care of you."

"And she has her best house shoes on," said Maudie, lugubriously. "Martin put them on when she made us neat to come down to you, Cousin Magdalen, because one of her common ones wanted stitching up at the side, and Martin always says mirocco shoes never are the same again after they get soaked."

"I must go after her, at all costs," said Magdalen, lifting up her long skirts as well as she could to prevent their getting any more than their share of drenching. "Now, Duke and Hec, stay where you are, whatever you do, or better still, go back into the billiard-room. I trust you, Maudie, to take care of them. I am afraid their feet are wet already."

"Yes, and Hec gets croup when his feet are wet," replied Maudie, consolingly. "Never mind though, Cousin Magdalen. I'll take him in, and take off his shoes and stockings by the fire and dry them."

"Thank you, dear," said Magdalen, at the bottom of her heart, though she would not have said so to the children, considerably relieved that Martin need not be summoned to the rescue. "She would really feel that I could not be trusted with them, and it would be such a pity, just when I wanted so much to be of use and to help Beatrice." (Beatrice was the name of the children's mother.)

It was no very pleasant business following Hoodie across the long, soppy grass; even if one were quite careless of the effect on one's clothes, the soaking of one's feet and ankles was disagreeable, to say the least. But Magdalen faced it bravely, and found herself at last beside her troublesome charge. Hoodie, not content with having thoroughly drenched her fat little legs and feet in their pretty clothing of open-work socks and "mirocco" slippers, was actually down on her knees in the wet grass, tenderly stroking the ruffled feathers of the little bird whose misfortunes had aroused her sympathy, while tears poured down her face, and her voice was broken with sobs as, looking up, she saw her cousin, and cried out—

"Oh, Maudie's godmother, him's dead. The innicent little sweet. I do believe him's dead, or just going to deaden. I daren't lift him up. Oh dear, oh dear!"

It was impossible to scold her—her grief was so real; so with one rueful glance at the destruction already wrought on the nice blue merino frock and frilled muslin pinafore, Magdalen set to work to soothe and comfort the excited little girl.

"Hush, Hoodie dear," she said. "You really mustn't cry so, even if the poor little bird is dead."

"But Hoodie can't help it, for you know, Maudie's godmother, little birds doesn't go to heaven when they's dead—not like good people, you know, so I can't help crying."

To this reason for Hoodie's tears Magdalen thought it best to make no reply, but she stooped down and carefully lifted up the little bird. It was a pretty little creature—its wings and breast marked with delicately shaded colour, though just now the feathers were ruffled and disordered—a very young bird; and Magdalen's country-bred eyes recognized it at once as a greenfinch.

"Poor little birdie," she said gently, as she held it up to examine it more closely. "I wonder if its troubles are really over," she added to herself softly, not wishing to rouse Hoodie's hopes before she was sure of grounds for them. "No—it is not dead. It certainly is not—only stunned and terrified. Hoodie, the little bird is not dead. Leave off crying dear, and look at it. See, its little heart is beating quite plainly—there now, it is moving its wings. I don't think it is even much, or at all hurt."

Hoodie drew near, her tear-stained cheeks all glowing with eagerness, holding her breath just as she did when her father for a great treat let her peep into the works of his watch.

"Him's not dead," she exclaimed. "Oh, Cousin Magdalen, are you sure him's not dead? Oh, what can we do to make him quite well again?"

She clasped her hands together with intense eagerness, and looked up in Magdalen's face as if her very life hung upon her words.

"It must have fallen out of the nest," said Magdalen, looking up as she spoke at some of the trees near where they stood. "Still it seemed fully fledged, and it should be quite able to fly—most likely its parents suppose it is out in the world on its own account by now, and even if we could find the nest, it is pretty sure to be deserted."

"You won't put it back in the netst, Cousin Magdalen—you don't mean that? It wouldn't have nothing to eat, and it would die," said Hoodie, the tears welling up again, for she hardly understood what her cousin was saying.

"No, dear. I don't think it would be any good putting it back in the nest, and it would be very difficult to know which was its nest, there must be so many up in those trees," said Magdalen. "Besides, as you say, it wouldn't get anything to eat, for if all its brothers and sisters have flown away, the parent birds will not return to the nest. No, I think we had better take it into the house and take care of it till it gets quite strong. See, Hoodie, it is beginning to get out of its fright and to look about it."

"The darling," said Hoodie, ecstatically. "It's cocking up its sweet little head as if it wanted me to kiss it. Oh, dear Cousin Magdalen, isn't it sweet? Do let me carry it into the house."