Jessie Trim

CHAPTER XIV.

THE WORLD BECOMES BRIGHT AGAIN.

'Gone away altogether!'

I echoed the words, but the news was so sudden and unexpected that for a few moments I did not quite understand their meaning. I had never, until the last fortnight, had a friend so nearly of my own age as Jessie; and the companionship had been to me so sweet and delightful, and so altogether new, that to lose it now seemed like losing the best part of my life. I released myself from my mother's embrace, and ran upstairs to her bedroom, to look for Jessie's box. It was gone, and the room was in all respects the same as it had been before Jessie's arrival. Until that time it had always worn a cheerful aspect in my eyes, but now it looked cold and desolate; the happy experiences of the last two weeks seemed to me like a dream--but a dream which, now that it had passed away, filled my heart with pain.

'Her box is gone,' I said, with quivering lips, when I rejoined my mother.

'It was taken away this morning, my dear.'

'That shows that she is not coming back; and I shall never, never see her again!'

My mother did not reply. The feeling that now stole upon me was one of resentment towards uncle Bryan. Who was to blame but he? From the first he had behaved harshly towards her. He saw that we were fond of her, and he was jealous of her. He was always cold and unsympathetic and unkind. Every unreasonable suggestion that presented itself to me with reference to him, I welcomed and accepted as an argument against him; and to this effect I spoke hotly and intemperately.

'Chris, Chris, my dear!' remonstrated my mother; 'you should not have hard thoughts towards your uncle.'

'I can't help it; he almost asks for them. He won't let us like him--he won't! I don't care if he hears me say so.'

'He can't hear you, my dear; he went away with Jessie this morning.'

'Where to?'

'I have no idea, Chris; he did not tell me.'

'And wouldn't, if you had asked,' I said bitterly.

My mother sighed, but said, with gentle firmness, 'I had no right to ask, my dear.'

'Then we are alone in the house, mother.'

'Yes, my dear, for a little while. Sit down, and I will tell you all about it.'

I sat down, and my mother sat beside me, and took my hand in hers.

'It came upon me as suddenly as it has come upon you, my dear, and I am almost as sorry as you are. But life is full of such changes, my dear child.'

'Go on, mother.' In my rebellious mood her gentle words brought no comfort to me.

'When I said last night that I would come for you this evening, I had no idea that anything would have prevented me. I intended to bring Jessie, and I looked forward with pleasure to the walk we intended to take. I did not tell your uncle that Jessie would come with me; I thought I would wait till teatime. Lately I have considered it more than ever my duty to study him, because of the change that has taken place in him--you have noticed it yourself, my dear--since Jessie came so strangely among us. For it was strange, was it not, my dear?--almost as strange as her going away so suddenly, and as unexpected too; for I am certain your uncle did not expect her, and that he was as much surprised as we were. He is not to blame, therefore, for what has occurred now. It is not for us, dear child, to find fault with him because he is silent and reserved with us; the only feeling we ought to have towards him is one of deep gratitude for his great kindness to us. You don't forget our sad condition, my darling, on the morning we received your uncle's letter.'

'No, mother, I don't forget,' I said, somewhat softened towards uncle Bryan.

'He did not deceive us; he spoke plainly and honestly, and the brightest expectations we could have entertained from his offer, and the manner in which it was made, have been more than realised. Is it not so, dear child?'

In common honesty I was compelled to admit that it was so.

'I shudder when I think what might have become of my dear boy if it had not been for this one friend--this one only friend, my darling, in all the wide, wide world!--who stepped forward so unselfishly to save us. And we have been so happy here, my darling, so very, very happy, all these years! If a cloud has come, have we not still a little sunshine left? There, there, my dear!' returning my kisses, and wiping her eyes; 'as I was saying'--(although she had said nothing of the kind; but she was flurried and nervous)--'and as I told you once before, I think Jessie gave your uncle a letter, and that I saw him, the day after she came, writing, with this letter before him. Every morning since then I have observed him watch for the arrival of the postman in the neighbourhood, and every time the postman passed without giving him the letter which I saw he expected, he grew more anxious. This morning he reminded me that I had some errands to make; I was away for nearly two hours, and when I came home he and Jessie were in the shop, dressed for walking. What passed after that was so quick and rapid that I was quite bewildered. Your uncle, beckoning me into the parlour, said that he and Jessie were going away, and that I was to take care of the shop while he was absent. "I want you not to ask any questions," he said, seeing, I suppose, that I was about to ask some. "I shall be away for two or three days, perhaps longer. Do the best you can. You had better wish Jessie good-bye now." I could not help asking, "Is she coming back with you?" And he said, "No." I was so grieved, Chris, that when I went into the shop, where Jessie was waiting, I was crying. "You are sorry I am going, then," she said. "Indeed, indeed, I am, my dear," I replied, as I kissed her. She kissed me quite affectionately, and said she was glad I was sorry, and that I was to give her love to you----'

'Did she say that, mother? Did she?'

'Yes, my dear. "Give my love to Chris," she said, "and say how sorry I am to go away without seeing him." And the next minute she was gone. I thought of her box then, and I ran upstairs, as you did just now, and found that it had been taken away while I was out. And that is all I know, my dear.'

'It is very strange,' I said, after a long pause. Mother, what do you think of it, eh?'

'My dear, I don't know what to think. The more I think, the more I am confused. And now, my dear----'

'Yes, mother.'

'We must make ourselves happy in our old way, and we must attend to the business properly until your uncle returns.'

Make ourselves happy in our old way! How was that possible? The light had gone out of the house. The very room in which we three--uncle Bryan, my mother, and I--had spent so many pleasant days before Jessie came, looked cold and comfortless now. Even the figure of my dear mother, bustling cheerfully about, and the sweet considerate manner in which she strove, in many tender ways, to soften my sorrow, were not a recompense for the loss of Jessie. I opened my book and pretended to be occupied with it, and my mother, with that rare wisdom which springs from perfect unselfish love, did not disturb my musings. The evening passed very quietly, and directly the shop was shut, I went to bed. I was in a very unhappy mood, and it was past midnight before I fell asleep. I did not think of my mother, or of the pain she was suffering through me. My grief was intensely selfish; I had not the strength which often comes from suffering, nor was I blessed with such a nature as my mother's--a nature which does not colour surrounding circumstances with the melancholy hue of its own sorrows. Unhappily, it falls to the lot of few to be brought within the sweet influence of one whose mission on earth seems to be to shed the light of peace and love upon those among whom her lot is cast, and to whom, unless we are ungratefully forgetful, as I was on this night, we look instinctively for comfort and consolation when trouble comes to us. In the middle of the night, I awoke suddenly, and found my mother sitting by my bed; she was in her nightdress, and there was a light in the room.

'Why, mother!' I exclaimed, confused for a moment.

'Don't be alarmed, dear child,' she said; 'there's nothing the matter; but I could not sleep, knowing that you were unhappy. You too, my dear, were a long time before you went to sleep.'

Then I knew that she must have watched and waited at my bedroom door until I had blown out my candle.

'What time is it, mother?'

'It must be three o'clock, my dear.'

'O, mother! And you awake at this time of the night for me!'

She smiled softly. Something of worship for that pure nature stole into my heart as I looked into her dear eyes. But there was grief in them, too, and I asked her the reason.

'Do you know, my darling,' she said, with a wistful yearning look, and with a sigh which she vainly strove to check, that you went to bed to-night without kissing me? For the first time in your life, dear child; for the first time in your life!'

In a passion of remorse I threw my arms around her neck, and kissed her again and again, and asked her forgiveness, and said, 'How could I--how could I be so unloving and unkind?' But she stopped my self-reproaches with her lips on my lips, and with broken words of joy and thankfulness. She folded me in her arms, and there was silence between us for many minutes--silence made sacred by love as pure and faithful as ever dwelt in woman's breast. Then I drew the clothes around her, and she lay by my side, saying that she would wait until I was asleep.

'This is like the old time, mother,' I whispered, 'when there was no one else but you and me. But I love you more than I did then, mother.'

'My darling child!' she whispered, in return; 'how you comfort me! But I won't have my dear boy speak another word, except good-night.'

We looked out on the following day for a letter from uncle Bryan, but none came, nor any news of him. It was the same on the second day, and the third. My mother began to grow uneasy.

'If he had only left word where he was going to!' she said. 'I am afraid he must be ill.'

The business went on very well without him, thanks to my mother's care and attention, except that on Saturday night the supply of 'uncle Bryan's pills,' as they had got to be called in the neighbourhood, ran short, which occasioned my mother much concern. Sunday and Monday passed, and still no tidings of him. On the Tuesday--I remember the day well: we were very busy where I was employed, and I did not come home until past ten o'clock--the shop was shut--a most unusual thing. I knocked at the door hurriedly, and my mother, with happiness in her face, opened it for me.

'Uncle Bryan has come home!' I cried, in a hearty tone.

She nodded gladly, and I ran in, and threw my arms about him. I think he was pleased with this spontaneous mark of affection; but he looked at me curiously too, I thought. We sat down--the three of us--and a dead silence ensued. We all looked at each other, and spoke not a word.

'What's the matter, mother?' I asked, for certainly so strange a silence needed explanation.

A sweet laugh answered me, and my heart almost leaped into my throat. I darted behind the door, and there stood Jessie Trim, bending forward, with eager face, and sparkling eyes, and hand uplifted to her ear. But when she saw that she was discovered, her manner changed instantly. She came forward, quite demurely.

'Are you glad?' she asked gravely, with her hand in mine.

My looks were a sufficient answer.

'And now,' she said, sitting down on the stool, and resting her hands on her lap, we are going to live happily together for ever afterwards.'

CHAPTER XV.

JESSIE'S ROSEWATER PHILOSOPHY.

Her voice was like music to my heart. With Jessie on one side of me, and my mother on the other, there was not a cloud on my life, nor room for one. I sat between them, now patting my mother's hand, now turning restlessly to Jessie, and looking at her in delight. But the change in the aspect of things was so sudden and unexpected, that it would not have much amazed me to see Jessie melt into thin air. This must have been expressed in my face, for Jessie, who was a skilful interpreter of expression, whispered,

'It is true; I have really come back.'

'I was doubting,' I said, in a similar low tone, 'whether I was asleep or awake.'

'Don't speak loud,' she said mockingly, 'don't look at me too hard, and don't blow on me, or you will find that you're only dreaming. Shall I pinch you?'

'No; I am awake, I know. This is the most famous thing that ever happened.'

'You were sorry when I went away, then?'

'I can't tell you how sorry; but you are not going away again?'

'I suppose not; I have no place to go to.'

There was a change in her manner; she was more thoughtful and sedate than usual, and her face was pale; but I noted these signs only in a casual way. To be certain that everything was right, I went out of the room to see if her box had been brought back. It was in its old place in my mother's bedroom. My mother had followed me.

'So you are happy again, my dear,' she said, as we stood, like lovers, with our arms around each other's waist.

'I am glad, mother,' I replied, pressing her fondly to me; 'and so are you too, I know. But tell me how it all happened.'

'There is very little to tell, dear child. I was as surprised as you were. I was having tea when your uncle and Jessie came in suddenly; it gave me quite a turn, for Jessie, as you see, is in mourning.' (I had not noticed it, and I wondered at my blindness.) 'Your uncle looked worn and anxious, and they were both very tired, as if they had come a long distance. "I have not quite deserted you, you see," your uncle said. I told him how glad I was he had returned, and how anxious we had been about him. "And Jessie, too," I said. "I was afraid I was not to see her again." "You will see a great deal of her for the future," said your uncle; "she will live with us now. She must sleep with you, as there is no other room in the house for her." And that is positively all I have to tell, Chris, except that Jessie has been very quiet all the evening, and only showed her old spirits when your knock was heard at the street-door.'

'And Jessie has told you nothing, mother?'

'Nothing, dear child; and I have not asked.'

'You don't even know whom she is in mourning for?'

'No, my dear.'

Jessie was displaying more of her old spirits when my mother and I went downstairs; as we entered the room she was saying to uncle Bryan,

'I wish you would tell me what I am to call you. I can't call you Bryan, and I don't like Mr. Carey. I could invent a name certainly, if I wanted to be spiteful.'

'What name?' he asked, in his rough manner.

'Never mind. You'd like to know, so that you could bark and fight. What shall I call you?'

'Call me what you please,' he answered.

'Well, then, I shall call you uncle Bryan, as Chris does; I daresay I shall get used to it in time.'

Soon after this point was settled I found an opportunity to touch Jessie's black dress, and to press her hand sympathisingly. She understood the meaning of the action, and her lips quivered; she did not speak another word until she went to bed. The events of the evening had for a time driven from my head news which I had to tell, and which I knew would be received with pleasure. My errand-running days were over. My employer, whose name was Eden, satisfied with the manner in which I had performed my duties, had placed me on the footing of a regular apprentice, and I was to learn the art of wood-engraving in all its branches. A fair career was therefore open to me. It is needless for me to say how these glad tidings rejoiced my dear mother.

'Mr. Eden,' I said, 'has often asked to see my little sketches, and has been pleased with them, I think. He told me that he commenced in the same way himself, and he has given me every encouragement. He says that in three years I shall be able to earn good wages. Who knows? I may have a business of my own one day.'

And you have only yourself to thank for it, my dear child; said my mother, casting looks of pride around.

'No, mother; you are wrong. I have kept the best bit to the last. Mr. Eden has spoken of you a good many times--he has often seen you, you know, when you came for me of an evening--and I have told him all about you. When he called me into his office this afternoon, he said that I had you to thank for this promotion, and that I was to tell you so, with his compliments.'

'Why, my dear!' exclaimed my mother; Mr. Eden has never spoken one word to me.'

'But he has seen you,' interrupted uncle Bryan, the tone and meaning of his words being strangely at variance, and that is enough. Mr. Eden is right, Chris. Whatever good fortune comes to you in life, you have only one person in the world to thank for it.'

'I think so too, uncle.' His words softened me towards him, and I went to his side, and said gratefully, 'You have been very good to me, sir, also.'

'Psha!' he said, with an impatient movement of his head. 'Emma, if you will fill my pipe for me, I will smoke it.'

The pipe we had presented to him on his birthday had not yet been used, and my mother took it from the mantelshelf, filled it, and handed it to him. He received it with a kind of growl, implying that he had been conquered unawares, but he smoked it with much inward contentment nevertheless.

I was so excitedly happy when I went to bed that I was as long getting to sleep as I was on the night of Jessie's sudden disappearance. Here and there life is dotted with sunny spots, the light of which is but rarely entirely darkened, and had Jessie never returned, she might have dwelt in my mind as one of these; or--so surrounded with romance was her appearance and disappearance--I might have grown to wonder whether she was a creation of my fancy, or had really belonged to my life. But now that she was among us again, and was going to live with us, I felt as if a bright clear stream were flowing within me, invigorating and gladdening my pulses--a sweet refreshing stream within the range of which sadness or melancholy could find no place. Reason became the slave of creative thought, and within my heart flowers were blooming, the beautiful forms and colours of which could never wither and fade. Jessie had struck the key-note of my certain belief when she said, 'And now we are going to live happily together for ever afterwards.'

Curious as I was to know why she had returned to us in mourning, I held my tongue, out of respect for my mother's wish that we should ask no questions. Jessie's quieter mood soon wore away; little by little she introduced colour into her dress, and in three months she was out of mourning. I fancied now and then, as these alterations in her dress were made, that her manner towards uncle Bryan indicated an expectation that he would speak to her on the subject. But he made no remark, and noticed her the least when most she invited notice.

She changed the entire aspect of our house. It belonged to her to brighten, apparently without conscious effort, everything which came in contact with her. The contrast between her and my mother was very great. My mother's tastes, like her nature, were quiet and unassuming. Her hair was always plainly done, and, within my experience, she had never worn cap or flower; her dress was always of one sober tint; and her pale face and almost noiseless step were in keeping with these. If she had had the slightest reason to suppose that by placing a flower in her hair, and wearing a bit of bright ribbon, or by any other innocently-attractive device, she could have given me or uncle Bryan pleasure, she would have done so instantly; but, out of her entire disregard of self, no such thought ever entered her mind. Now Jessie was fond of flowers and ribbons, and was gifted with the rare faculty of knowing where a bit of colour, and what colour, would prove most attractive. From the most simple means she produced the most exquisite results. Her box was a perfect Pandora's box in its inexhaustible supply of adornments, and she was continually surprising us with something new, or something which she made to look like new. And she was by no means disposed to hide her light under a bushel. Everything she did must be admired, and if admiration did not come spontaneously, she was very prompt in asking or even begging for it. It was amusing to watch the tricksy efforts by which she strove to attract attention to anything she was wearing for the first time, however trifling it might be, or to the slightest change in the arrangement of her dress. Then, when her object was attained, she would ask, 'And do you really like it? Are you sure now?' or 'Would it look better so?' or 'What do you think of its being this way--or that?' I was the person whom she consulted most frequently; but I could see nothing to find fault with, and could never suggest any improvement; whereas uncle Bryan would shrug his shoulders, and mutter disparaging remarks, which never failed to provoke warm replies from Jessie. Then he would smile caustically, and hit her hard with words still more spiteful, or retire into his shell, according to his humour.

'We will have a world made especially for you, young lady,' he said--whenever he was disposed to be bitter, he called her young lady'--'a world full of ribbons and flounces and flowers and silk dresses and satin shoes, and everything else you crave for.'

'That would be nice,' she observed complacently.

'And you shall live in it all alone, so that your title to these nice things shall not be disputed.'

'That wouldn't do,' she answered promptly; 'what is the use of having nice things unless you get people to admire them?'

'We will have people made to order for you, then; people who shall be always admiring you and praising you and flattering you.' He rung changes on this theme for five minutes or so, and when he paused, she made a grimace, as if she had been compelled to swallow a dose of medicine. But this kind of warfare did not alter her nature. She coaxed my mother to buy a pair of pretty ornaments for the mantelshelf; she coaxed uncle Bryan--how she managed it, heaven only knows! but she was cunning, and she must have entrapped him in an unguarded moment--to allow her to buy a piece of oil-cloth for the table, and she herself chose the pattern; and in many other ways she made it apparent that a new spirit was at work in our household. She made the bedroom in which she and my mother slept the prettiest room in the house; pictures were hung or pasted on the wall; her own especial looking-glass was set in a framework of white muslin, daintily edged with blue ribbon. 'Blue is my favourite colour,' she said, as she stood, the fairest object there, pointing out to me some trifling improvement; 'it suits my complexion.' It is not difficult to understand how popular she soon became in the neighbourhood; admiring eyes followed her whenever she appeared in the narrow streets round about, and I would not have changed places with an emperor when I walked out with her by my side. If any one quality in her could have made her more precious to me, it was her feeling towards my mother.

'No one can help loving her,' said Jessie to me, in one of our confidential conversations. 'Is she ever angry with any one?'

'I think not,' I replied. 'Where another person would be angry, she is sorry. There isn't another mother in the world like mine.'

'Would you like me to be like her? Would it be better for me, do you think?'

I like you as you are, Jessie; I shouldn't like you to alter. There are different kinds of good people, you know.'

'I am not good.'

'Nonsense! you not good!'

'Your mother is, Chris; she never goes to bed without kneeling down and saying her prayers.'

'I know it, Jessie. And you?'

'Oh, I often forget--always when I go to bed before her. When we go together, I kneel down, and shut my eyes; but I don't say anything. I see things.'

On one occasion Jessie met me at the street-door when I came home from work, and led me with an air of importance into the sitting-room, where my mother sat in a new dress and a cap with ribbons in it. My mother blushed as I looked at her.

'She would make me do it, Chris,' she said apologetically.

'Now doesn't she look prettier so?' asked Jessie.

There was no denying it; I had never seen my mother look so attractive, and I kissed her and told her so.

'That makes it all right,' cried Jessie, clapping her hands. 'All the time I was persuading her, she said, "What will Chris say?" and, "Will not Chris think it strange?"'

And Jessie pretended that something was wrong with the cap, and spread out a ribbon here and a ribbon there, and fluttered about my mother in the prettiest way, and then fell back to admire her handiwork.

'I want a new nightcap,' growled uncle Bryan, adding with a sarcastic laugh, 'but the ribbons in it must suit my complexion.'

The next night Jessie gravely presented him with a nightcap gaily decorated with ribbons. 'It will become you beautifully,' she said, with a demure look. When he crossed lances with her, he was generally vanquished.

Jessie explained to me the philosophy of all this.

'I like everything about me to look nice,' she said; 'what else are things for? Everybody ought to be nice to everybody. What are people sent into the world for, I should like to know--to make each other comfortable or miserable?'

I subscribed most heartily to this rosewater philosophy. Certainly, if Jessie had had her way, there would have been no heartaches in the world; no poverty, no sickness, no rags, no rainy days. The sun would have been eternally shining where she moved, and everything around her would have been eternally bright. The world would have been a garden, and she the prettiest flower in it.

In the mean time I was making rapid progress in my business. My great ambition was to become a good draughtsman; and I had learnt all that could be learnt in the school of art, which I had attended regularly for some time.

'Now sketch from nature,' the master said; 'I can do nothing more for you. You have a talent for caricature, but before that can be properly developed, you must learn figure drawing from the life.'

These words fired me, and I commenced my studies in this direction with my mother, who was always ready to stand in any uncomfortable position for any length of time, while I laboured to reproduce her. Perhaps I would come suddenly into the room while she was stooping over the fire, or standing on tiptoe to reach something from the top shelf of the cupboard. 'Stand still, mother,' I would cry; 'don't move!' And the dear mother would stand as immovable as a statue until I released her; and then, dropping her arms, or rising from her stooping posture, with a sigh of relief which she could not suppress, she would fall into ecstasies with my work, whether it were good or bad. Uncle Bryan was a capital study for me, and would smile cynically when I produced any especially ill-favoured sketch of his face or figure. It was but natural that I should make the most careful studies of Jessie; and she, not at all unwilling, posed for me half a dozen times a week, until my desk was filled with sketches of her in scores of graceful attitudes and positions. Her face was my principal study; and I sketched it with so many different expressions upon it, that before long I knew it by heart, and could see it with my eyes shut--smiling, or pouting, or looking demurely at me. Jessie inspected every scrap of my work, and very promptly tore into pieces anything that did not please her, saying she did not want any ugly likenesses of herself lying about. I made studies of her eyes, her lips, her ears, her hands; and we passed a great deal of time together in this way, to our mutual satisfaction. We were allowed full liberty; but I sometimes detected uncle Bryan observing us with a curiously pondering expression on his face. This did not trouble me however.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE STONE MONKEY FIGURE GIVES UP ITS TREASURES.

I had been for some time employed on a large drawing of Jessie, in crayons. It was my first ambitious attempt in colours; and it arose from Jessie's complaint that I could not paint her as she was.

'I am all black and white,' she said; 'I am tired of seeing myself so. Now if you could show me my eyes as they are---- What colour are they, Chris?'

Thereupon it was necessary that a close investigation should be made, which was not too rapidly concluded: these matters take a long time to determine, especially when one is an enthusiast in his art, as I was. The next day I bought crayons, and practised secretly; and secretly also commenced the sketch of Jessie above mentioned. I was never tired of contemplating my work, which promised to be a success; and one Sunday, when it was nearly completed, I went to my room to examine it. I kept it carefully concealed in my box, and, after a long examination, I was about to replace it, when I was startled by Jessie's voice, asking me what I was hiding. She had entered the room softly and slyly, on purpose to surprise me, she told me.

'I am certain,' she said, 'that you are doing something secretly. For the last three or four weeks you have shut yourself in here night after night, for hours together. Now I want to know all about it.'

I did not wish her to see the sketch until it was quite finished; but as she knelt by my side, and as my box was open, I could not prevent her from discovering it.

'O Chris!' she cried. It's beautiful!'

And she expressed such praise of it that my heart thrilled with delight.

'You think it's like you, then, Jessie?'

'Like me! It's me--me, myself! Set it on the box there; I'll show you.'

And with a rapid movement she altered the fashion of her hair to suit my picture, and assumed the exact expression I had chosen. She looked very bewitching as she stood before me, the living embodiment of my work. Then she knelt before the box again, and praised the picture still more warmly, analysing it with exclamations of pleasure.

While she was talking and admiring herself; she was tossing over the contents of my box, when she came upon the only legacy my grandmother had left me--the smoke-dried monkey of a man in stone, which the old lady had solemnly confided to my care. From the day I had entered uncle Bryan's house it had lain in my box, and by this time I had almost forgotten it; but as Jessie held it up and turned it about, my mind was strangely stirred by those reminiscences of my early life with which it was inseparably connected.

'What a curious image?' exclaimed Jessie. 'How long have you had it?'

'All my life, Jessie. Put it away; it's the ugliest thing that ever was seen.'

'I don't think so. It's funny; look at it, wagging its head. Why, you seem quite frightened of it! Well, then, I shall take it, and keep it in my room.'

'No, I mustn't part with it. It was given to me by my grandmother, and she said that it must be kept always in the family. Not that I think much of what she said.'

Jessie shifted her position, and seated herself very comfortably upon the floor.

'Now you've got something to tell me,' she said, pulling me down beside her. 'I've never heard of your grandmother before, and you know how fond I am of stories.'

'But mine is not a story, And there's nothing interesting to tell.'

'Oh, yes, there is; there must be. Everybody's life is full of stories.'

'Yours, Jessie?' I put the question somewhat timorously.

'Perhaps,' she answered gravely; and added, after a short pause, 'But we're not speaking of me; we're speaking of you. I want to know everything.'

But it was long before she could coax me to speak of my early life. There was much that I felt I should be ashamed for Jessie to know; and a burning blush came to my cheeks as I thought of the time when my mother used to beg for our living. To escape too searching an inquiry I began to tell her of my grandmother, which led naturally to the story of my grandmother's wedding. Of course the man with the knob on the top of his head, and who was always eating his nails, was introduced, he being the principal figure at the wedding.

'There!' cried Jessie. You said you hadn't any story to tell. Why, you've told me half a dozen already. I can see your grandmother as plain as plain can be; and that disagreeable man, too--I wonder what became of him, after all? What was his name, Chris?'

'Anthony Bullpit'

'I hate the name of Anthony. Go on; I want to hear more.'

I gave a description of Jane Painter, at which Jessie laughed heartily, and clapped her hands.

'I shall come into your bedroom one night with a sheet over me, and frighten you.'

'I shouldn't be frightened of you, Jessie; besides, I'm not a boy now, and I'm not afraid of anything. Then your voice----'

'Well!'

'Your voice is musical. How could you frighten anybody with it?'

Jessie edged a little closer to me.

'Go on, Chris. Anything more about Jane Painter? What a wretch she must have been!' Then came an account of my grandmother's death, and the legend of the long stocking, in which Jessie was immensely interested.

'And you never found any money after all, Chris?'

'No; and I'm sure we searched for it everywhere. We looked up the chimney, and ripped the bed open, and pulled the armchair all to pieces.'

'I'd have had the cellar dug up,' cried Jessie excitedly; I'd have had the paper taken off the walls, and the flooring taken away bit by bit. I am certain the money was hidden somewhere.'

I shook my head.

'Or Jane Painter stole it,' she continued. 'I sha'n't sleep to-night for thinking of it. I do so like to find out things! And I'd like to find out this thing more than any other.'

'Why, Jessie?'

'Such a lot of money, Chris! Hundreds and hundreds of pounds there must have been hidden away, or stolen. Hundreds and hundreds of pounds!'

'Would you like to be rich, Jessie?'

'Chris,' she replied, looking at me seriously, 'I think I would do anything in the world for money.'

A miserable feeling came over me, and for the first time in my life I repined at my lot. What would I not have sacrificed at that moment if I could have filled her lap with money! All this time Jessie had been playing with the stone monkey figure, and now she suddenly uttered an exclamation of surprise.

'Look!' she cried. 'The head comes off. It isn't broken; here's the wire it hangs upon. Why, Chris----'

She seized my hand in uncontrollable excitement, and hid the figure in her lap.

'What's the matter, Jessie?'

'There's something inside. It's stuffed full of paper. What if it should be your grandmother's money?'

The amazing suggestion almost took away my breath.

'It's just the kind of place,' continued Jessie, panting, 'she would have hidden it in. She kept it all in large bank-notes, and stuffed them in here, where nobody could possibly suspect they were, and where she could have them under her eye all the day. O Chris! feel how my heart beats!'

My excitement was now as great as her own.

'Quick, Jessie! Let us look!'

'No,' she cried, covering the figure with both hands, 'let us wait a bit. This is the best part of things: knowing that something wonderful is coming, and waiting a little before it comes. How much is it? A hundred pounds! Five hundred pounds! It can't be less, for you say she always wore silk dresses. What will you do with it? We'll all have new clothes. I know where there's such a lovely blue barege, and I saw a hat in a window yesterday, trimmed with blue ribbon, and with lilies and forget-me-nots in it, that I'd give my life for. O Chris! I can see myself in them already.'

So she went on for full five minutes, building her castles; then with a long-drawn breath she said,

'Now, Chris!'

The inside of the figure was certainly full of paper, which I fished out very easily with one of Jessie's hairpins, and amid a little cloud of dust--emblematical of Jessie's castles, for the paper was utterly valueless. She refused to believe at first, and when she was convinced, her disappointment took the form of anger against my grandmother; she declared that the old lady had done it on purpose, and that she was a spiteful, wicked, deceitful old creature. I was quite as disappointed as Jessie was, more for her sake than my own, and I tried to talk her into a better mood. Thinking there might be writing on some of the paper, I smoothed it out, piece by piece; but there was nothing written or printed on any of it with the exception of one long slip, which was evidently a cutting from a newspaper. It was headed, 'Remarkable Discovery of a Forger by the Celebrated Detective, Mr. Vinnicombe.' And glancing down the column, the name of Anthony Bullpit attracted my attention. I became interested immediately.

'Here's something, at all events,' I said; 'something about my grandmother's nail-eating lover. Listen, Jessie.'

'I don't want to hear anything about him,' replied Jessie, in a pet, leaving the room.

So I read this 'Remarkable Discovery' quietly by myself. It ran as follows:

CHAPTER XVII.

THE TRUE STORY OF ANTHONY BULLPIT.

Among the cases tried at the late assizes was one not only of local interest, but exceedingly remarkable, because of the extraordinary circumstances attendant upon the arrest of the prisoner, who, after the commission of his crime, had absconded. We throw the particulars of this case into the form of a narrative, as being likely to prove more interesting to our readers. The three principal characters in the story are Mr. James Pardon, a Solicitor; Mr. Anthony Bullpit, his confidential clerk; and Mr. Vinnicombe, a detective. These terse definitions would be sufficient for dramatic purposes, but a more comprehensive description is necessary here for the purposes of our story. Mr. James Pardon is the head of the well-known and highly-respected firm of solicitors in High-street, and to his care is intrusted a vast amount of important business. Not only as a solicitor, but as a man and a churchwarden his name commands universal respect. He employs a large staff of clerks, conspicuous among whom was Anthony Bullpit, who had been in his service from boyhood, and whose face is familiar to most of our townsmen. Mr. Vinnicombe, we need scarcely say, is the name of the celebrated detective whose unerring instinct, in conjunction with a powerful and keen intellect, has been the means of bringing many a criminal to justice. In his profession, Mr. Vinnicombe is facile princeps. There is a fourth character, who plays a minor but important part, and whom it will be sufficiently explicit to describe as Mr. Vinnicombe's friend. Now for the story.

To all outward appearance trustworthy and attentive to his duties, Anthony Bullpit rose step by step in the office of Mr. James Pardon until he had arrived at the position of head clerk; his manners were civil and plausible, and not the slightest suspicion was entertained of his honesty. He had access to the safe and cheque-book of the firm, and was intrusted with much confidential business. On the twenty-first of last month Mr. James Pardon had occasion to go to London on a matter of great importance; he expected to be absent for at least three weeks, and Anthony Bullpit was left to superintend the affairs of the firm. It fortunately happened that Mr. Pardon's business in London was transacted more rapidly than he had anticipated, and he returned to Hertford, without warning, after an absence of fourteen days only. His confidential clerk was absent; and to his astonishment he was informed that, three days before his return, Anthony Bullpit had stated in the office that he had received a letter from Mr. Pardon, desiring his immediate attendance in London, to render assistance in the matter on which Mr. Pardon was engaged. As Mr. Pardon had sent no such letter to Anthony Bullpit, his suspicions that all was not as it should be were naturally aroused, and he at once made an examination of the affairs of the business. A very slight inquiry was sufficient to justify his suspicions: not only had all the money which had been received during his absence been abstracted, but a cheque for seven hundred pounds, taken from his cheque-book, and purporting to be signed by James Pardon, had been presented to the bank, and cashed without hesitation. The signature was a most skilful imitation, and Mr. Pardon acknowledges that any person might have been deceived by it. Thus far the story is, unhappily, but an ordinary one in the history of crime; but now come the extraordinary incidents which elevate it almost into the sphere of romance. Mr. Pardon's indignation was extreme, and being determined to bring the delinquent to justice, he went at once to the police-court, and laid his charge. While it was being taken down a person, who did not appear to be particularly interested in the narration, was sitting by the fire, apparently deeply engaged in a newspaper which he held in his hand. When Mr. Pardon had finished, he gave expression to his indignation, and to his determination to inflict upon the forger the utmost punishment of the law. The person who was reading by the fire said aloud, 'First catch your hare, then cook it.' Mr. Pardon, not being aware whether the stranger was quoting from the paper he was reading or was making an independent observation, asked, in his quick manner, whether the words were addressed to him. 'To any one,' answered the stranger. 'And you said----' prompted Mr. Pardon. 'I said,' repeated the stranger, 'first catch your hare, then cook it. You see,' added the stranger, 'the first thing you have to do is to catch your clerk; then you can cook him--not before. Now how are you going to do it?' Mr. Pardon confessed that he did not know how it was to be done, but he supposed that the police---- The stranger interrupted him. 'This clerk, Anthony Bullpit, is more than a match for the police. You acknowledge that your name was so skilfully forged that you might have been taken in by it yourself. Now, the skill which enabled Anthony Bullpit to write your name in such a way as might deceive even you, was not acquired in an hour or a day. He has been secretly practising your signature for years, and has been secretly practising, I don't doubt, many other things you're not acquainted with, which might come useful to in one day or another. What does this imply? That Anthony Bullpit is a shallow bungling sort of criminal, or an artful, scheming, designing sort of criminal?' Mr. Pardon, himself the shrewdest of lawyers, was struck by the shrewd intelligence of the stranger, and admitted that it was clear that Anthony Bullpit was a scheming, artful, designing scoundrel. 'But he had a quiet way with him,' said Mr. Pardon, 'that any person might have been taken in by.' The stranger smiled. 'One of your sneaking kind,' he said; 'I know them. They're the most difficult to deal with, and the most difficult to catch. The chances are that Anthony Bullpit had all his plans well laid beforehand. And don't forget that he's got three days' start. Why, you don't even know what road he has taken!' Mr. Pardon acknowledged the reasonableness of these observations. 'May I ask,' he said, 'with whom I have the pleasure of conversing?' 'My name is Vinnicombe,' replied the stranger, rising. 'Mr. Vinnicombe, the famous detective!' exclaimed Mr. Pardon. 'The same,' was the answer. Mr. Pardon immediately made a proposition to Mr. Vinnicombe, and the result was that, within an hour, Mr. Vinnicombe presented himself at Mr. Pardon's office, saying that he was ready to take the case in hand at once. What follows is from the eminent detective's own lips, verbatim et literatim, taken down in our own office by the editor of this paper:^[1]