Terry; Or, She ought to have been a Boy

Oh, yes; she would be as good as good! And Terry heaved a long-drawn sigh.

"Turly," she said suddenly, "do you never get tired lying flat on the floor, playing with soldiers and bricks, and things?"

"No," said Turly, "I've done such a day's work. I've built a whole city of streets out of this one brick-box."

"You ridiculous boy! The box only holds enough bricks to build one house with."

"I know that," said Turly placidly. "I build one house at a time, and I count the houses I've built till I know there is a street."

"Oh, you silly! You are building the same house every time, and taking it down again. How can you be so baby as to call that building a street."

"No matter," said Turly, "I have the street in my head. I see all the houses I built, though they had to come down. It's a grand city."

"Whereabouts is it in the world!" asked Terry, a little interested in spite of herself.

"Oh, it's a city I read about in the Arabian Nights! I think they call it Ispahan. I intend to go there some day. There are magicians living in it."

"Oh, that's better!" cried Terry. "You must take me with you, Turly."

"Girls don't ever grow up into famous travellers," said Turly, as he packed his bricks solidly back into their box.

"Oh, you stupid! don't they? As if I couldn't run about as well as a person who lies on the floor all day and calls it travelling."

"I didn't," said Turly, "I said I intended to go and see that city some day, and find out all about everything that is in it. I am afraid the magicians are dead."

But here Granny's tea-bell rang, and the children hastened away to their honey and tea-cakes. And there they had a delightful surprise, for two little new kittens, a white Persian and a black velvet creature with yellow eyes, were curled up on the hearth at Gran'ma's feet.

"I think you are very tired, madam. I believe you miss your new-laid egg in the mornings; sure I know you do, madam."

"Why don't you have your new-laid egg in the mornings, Granny?" asked Terry, putting Snow down on the floor, and nestling up to her grandmother.

"Because, darling, the hens don't choose to lay, this cold weather."

"Do they never lay in cold weather? Are there no hens who will lay eggs for Gran'ma, Nursey dear?" urged Terry.

"I believe there's a few down at Connolly's farm," said Nancy; "at least I've heard so. I've a mind to send down and enquire."

Then Granny went off with Nancy to her bedroom, and the children were left in the sitting-room playing with the kittens.

"Turly," said Terry, "I want to speak to you. Put the kittens in their basket and come here."

Turly came directly and they sat on two little stools and looked into the fire.

"What is it about, Terry?" asked Turly. He was always ready for any startling plot or plan that Terry might propose to him.

"Did you hear Nancy saying Granny was getting weak for want of her new-laid eggs, and that the hens wouldn't lay them for her?"

"No," said Turly.

"Well, she did."

"We can't help it," said Turly.

"You can't, dear; but I can. I'm older than you."

"The hens won't do it for you, no matter how old you are," said Turly.

"Oh!" said Terry impatiently, "that is not what I mean! There's a few hens down at Connolly's farm, and Nancy thinks they lay."

"Where is Connolly's farm?"

"I'm sure I don't know, but there are hens there, real industrious hens, and I want to get their eggs for Gran'ma."

"You can't," said Turly.

"Wait till you see," said Terry.

Turly looked at his sister admiringly, but went on piling up the difficulties she was going to surmount.

"You don't know where Connolly's farm is. And when you do, the hens are not yours. Connolly wants to eat his own eggs. Perhaps he's got a gran'ma."

"No, he hasn't. And he would rather have money than eggs. At least poor people generally do."

"How do you know he is poor?"

"Oh, Turly, how you do keep contradicting! Now I'll tell you what I am going to do. I'll just get out the pony quite early in the morning and ride to Connolly's farm, and be back with the eggs for Gran'ma's breakfast."

Turly opened his eyes wide with admiration, but he was not convinced.

"Somebody will be sure to be angry," he said, "and there will be a row."

"But you know it couldn't be wrong, Turly, because it is for Gran'ma. And I'm not going to bring the pony up the stairs, and it won't be wet, because it's just nice frosty weather—"

"Connolly's farm is awfully far away. I'm sure it is," said Turly. "You'll never get back here for breakfast."

"But I shall start quite, quite early."

"It will be dark."

"There's ever so much moonlight at six," said Terry. "I was awake this morning, and I saw it. I was just longing to get up and go off for a ride, and now there will be a real reason for doing it."

"I will go with you," said Turly, suddenly changing his front.

"Oh, no, you couldn't, Turly! There is only one pony. You must stay behind, and if there's any fuss because I'm a little late or something, you can tell them I've gone for the eggs and will be back directly."

Nurse came in and took them off to bed, but Terry kept thinking of her morning adventure. She did not think of it as an adventure, but as a delightful surprise for Gran'ma.

"She does so much for us," thought Terry, "and we can do so little for her! And she will find it so nice to have a good fresh egg for breakfast!"

Still Terry felt it would never do to tell Nursey of her intentions. She would be sure to think that everything would go wrong. Rain would come on, or Connolly's really wouldn't have any eggs, or the pony would go lame. But won't she smile up all over when she sees Gran'ma eating her fresh egg at breakfast-time!

The greatest dread Terry felt was of oversleeping herself. She fell asleep as soon as her head was on the pillow, but wakened with a start as the clock was striking three. She could hear Nurse snoring through the wall, and Nurse Nancy had a most peculiar snore, first a long-drawn note, as of a horn, and then a little whistle.

"I wonder how she does it," said Terry to herself, and tried to imitate the sounds. "I couldn't. It's awfully clever of her. And when you see her going about in the daytime you would never think she could do it."

Terry thought it would be quite easy to lie awake, waiting, for three hours. However, after listening for about five minutes to Nursey's snoring, and blowing through her own little nose to try to do the same, she was fast asleep again.

She wakened again exactly at a quarter to six. The moonlight was now pouring into the room, and she could see everything as well as if by day. She got up and went out to the landing to look at the clock, and stood there in her white night-dress, with her little bare toes on the carpet, gazing at the solemn white face of the tall brown clock which Granny said had stood there just as she was for quite two hundred years. It was impossible not to think of this clock as a personage, and she was accustomed to change her character very much as Terry changed her moods. Sometimes she was a cheery old creature, hurrying on the time with her pleasant chimes, coaxing round the sunshine out of the dark, and bringing back the cosy bed-time when children were tired. At other times she had the air of a stern prophetess, with a threat in every "tick, tick", and a hint of doom in the striking of every hour. As she stood now in her brown cloak darkened by the moonlight, and her round meaningless face whitened by it, she recalled to Terry a remark once made by Granny, "Many a life she has ticked away out of this house, and out of this world, has that old great-grandfather's clock, my children!"

"She sha'n't tick my life away," thought Terry. "I hope she won't tick away Gran'ma's and Nursey's! But that is nonsense, of course. Granny couldn't have meant that she had anything to do with it, for that is only God's business!"

These ideas just flashed through Terry's little head as she stared at the clock and heard her give that curious snarl with which she always warned one that there were but three minutes left of the passing hour. And the hour hand was at six.

It was just the time for Terry. She dressed quickly, putting on the little riding-skirt that she had brought from Africa. It was some inches shorter than it had been then; but never mind, it was all right.

"I don't believe anybody gets up till seven these winter mornings," she reflected, and certainly the house was quite still as she slipped out, and, knowing where to find the stable-keys, she was soon in the stable. She put her own little saddle on the pony and led him from the yard, leaving the keys in the doors, because it was morning, and there was no more use in locking up the places.

Away went Terry trotting down the avenue, full of the enthusiasm of her good intentions. She was soon out on the high-road. There was a crisp, white frost on the grass, but the middle of the road was not at all slippy. The pony went at a good pace, and soon carried her a couple of miles away from home. All this time Terry thought of nothing but the enjoyment of her ride, and of that basket of eggs she was going to carry home to Gran'ma.

Presently the moon set, and there was scarcely a glimmer of daylight, but a great deal of frosty fog. Up to this Terry had been allowing the highway to carry her anywhere it pleased, but now at last she came to four cross-roads, all seeming to lead into fogland, and she stopped short.

"Now I wonder where is Connolly's farm!" she said; but the pony only tossed his head and shook his ears, and was not able to help her.

"I was quite sure it was just about here, because Nursey said 'down at Connolly's farm', and her head shook in this direction. I thought I saw it quite plainly when she was speaking. It ought to be here, and yet I can't see it. This is down, for it has been a little bit downhilly all the way. I'm sure I could see it if the fog would only get away. There! it is getting a little more daylight, and I'll just take this road because it still seems to be going down."

She started off again; but as she went the fog grew thicker and thicker, and Terry soon became aware that it was freezing hard. The pony began to stumble, and several times he nearly fell, for Terry found it hard to hold him up with her little frost-bitten fingers. She worked bravely, but felt that the road was indeed downhill, and all the more difficult in its present state of slipperiness. Still there was no house in sight, and so thick was the fog that unless the door of the farmhouse had been just at hand, it would not have been visible to her.

The road grew worse and worse to the pony's feet, and at last he made a great stumble and went crash down on his knees on some sharp stones. Terry went over his head, but fortunately alighted sitting on the frozen grass by the roadside.

She was soon on her feet, and so was the pony, but the poor little animal was bleeding at the knees, and Terry knew that she must not mount him again. She broke the ice on a pool and bathed his wounds with her handkerchief. She was crying as she wiped away the blood.

"Oh, Jocko, Jocko, I'm so sorry I hurt you! I never thought of such a thing as the frost or the fog! Oh dear, what shall I do to make you well, and how shall I get you home? And oh, Jocko, we haven't got any eggs!"

Kisses and pats on his nose may have been comforting to Jocko, but he could not give his little mistress any assurance on the subject.

"If I could even see the way to get home!" said Terry; "but it seems as if the whole world were full of nothing but wool and feathers! And I can't guess which was the side I came by."

She tore her handkerchief in two and made a wet bandage for each of Jocko's knees, and then she could do no more, and sat down by him on the roadside to wait till the fog should clear up a little. Her teeth began to chatter with cold, and she felt altogether miserable.

"And I meant to be so good, and I thought it would go so well—and oh, those eggs! How can one ever know what things are going to turn into?"

Suddenly she heard a rumbling sound which she knew must be a cart coming along the road, though she could not see it. She moved the pony and herself carefully in against the bank on the roadside, so that they might not be run over, and then waited anxiously to see what would come out of the fog.

Very soon a horse's head appeared, then his body, and afterwards the cart he was drawing, and the frosty-red face of the driver who was sitting on a load of turf on the cart.

"Hullo!" shouted the man. "What on airth are you doin' there in the dyke, little missy?"

"Oh," cried Terry, "I've broken my pony's knees, and I can't ride him, and I couldn't see the way to Connolly's farm, and even if I did now I don't know how to get there with Jocko!"

"Connolly's farm! Would it be Mike Connolly Mac you would be lookin' for?"

"Oh, I suppose it is!" said Terry. "I only just heard it called Connolly's farm. And Nurse said it was down somewhere, and I came out to look for fresh eggs to give Gran'ma a surprise for breakfast."

"And now what would be your name, little lady, an' who would be your gran'ma?"

"My name is Terencia Mary, and my grandmama is Madam Trimleston," said Terry.

The man gave a whistle of surprise.

"Faith and Missus Nancy might look afther ye betther," he said. "I know her, and I'll give her a piece of my mind. To send a child like you out for eggs, ridin' on glassy roads, and in such a fog as this!"

"Oh, she didn't send me! I came myself, and she didn't know anything about it. I took the pony myself, to give them a surprise."

"Then I think you behaved very bad, miss, an' you deserved to be knocked about. But the pony did no wrong, and you've hurted him!"

"Bad again!" groaned Terry; "and I felt so good. You are not a kind man," she added, looking at him with big tears in her blue eyes. "I'm not going to ask you to do anything for me. Only, if you would just tell me where Connolly's farm is perhaps I can get there if the fog would only go. I can walk Jocko there, and Connolly will take care of him."

"I declare, but you have the pluck for a brigade of soldiers," said the carter. "But come now, missy, I'm not goin' to lave you in the lurch thataway. And first an' foremost Connolly's farm is away over yonder, two miles from Trimleston House in the opposite direction; you took the wrong road from the first."

"Oh!" groaned Terry; "and must I go home straight with Jocko's knees broken, and without the eggs?"

"An' thankful you ought to be to get there," said the carter, "you an' the pony, without any bones broken. But how do you think you're goin' to get home itself, now, missy?"

"You're the unkindest person I ever knew," said Terry. "I didn't think there was so unkind a man in the world. Everyone was always kind to me before."

"It's my notion that they've been too kind to you, little missy. However, not to be the unkindest in the world, I'll make a try to bring you home myself. I'll just tie the pony to the back of the cart an' he'll follow, and you get up here beside myself, and we'll face back to Trimleston."

"But you were going the other way. You'll be late for your own business," cried Terry.

"Never mind, missy; business'll have to wait. We can't lave a young lady and a pony with cut knees foundherin' on the roadside," said the carter. And so the pony was tied to the cart, and Terry was hoisted to a seat on the turf beside the carter.

At any other time she would have asked to be allowed to take the reins and drive the cart, but just now she felt too cold and miserable and crushed, too unhappy about Jocko, and too utterly defeated in the matter of the eggs, to do anything but huddle up in her nook among the turf sods and struggle against a threatened burst of weeping.

The carter drove on slowly, in silence, looking back now and again to see that the pony was all right, but taking no further notice of Terry. The fog was beginning to lift a little, so that one could see here and there a bit of the roof of a little house, or a thorn bush. At last the carter said:

"Well, missy, what about thim eggs? Were they raly for Gran'ma's breakfast?"

"Oh, don't talk about them!" cried Terry. "It's the worst of the whole thing. I thought it wasn't wrong because she misses her eggs so much, and our hens won't lay, and Nurse said they had some at Connolly's farm—and oh dear!"

Terry here gave way to her despair, and burst into sobbing and weeping.

"Well now, little missy, cheer up! I wouldn't say but what we might find a couple of eggs here in one of the houses as we go along."

"Oh, could we? I've got money to pay for them. And it wouldn't be half so bad if I could only be in time with the eggs for Gran'ma's breakfast."

"Aisy now, aisy!" said the carter as he drew up opposite to a little gray stone house where some hens were picking about the doorway. "I would bet a sack of potatoes to a bag of meal that one o' thim very hins is afther layin' an egg, by the cluck of her!"

He shouted and whistled, and a woman came to the door.

"Do you happen to have any new-laid eggs about the place, ma'am?" asked the carter.

"Why then, I have three," said the woman, "nice an' warm from the nest. Would ye be wantin' thim?"

"Oh yes, please!" cried Terry, and pulled out her little purse. "Do pay for them, thank you," she said to the carter, "and please give her plenty of money, for I am so glad to get them!"

"Well now, missy, why would ye be trustin' me with this?" said the man, taking the purse. "Sure maybe I'd be robbin' you."

"Oh no, you wouldn't!" said Terry; "you're a great deal kinder than I thought you were at first."

The purchase was made. There was no basket, and Terry was glad that she had three nice, soft pockets in her coat, into each of which she put an egg. After that the cart jogged on more quickly than before, as the fog had lifted so far as that Terry could see all around her.

"I see someone awfully like Turly; just there in the distance," said Terry. "Do you see, Mr.—"

"My name's Reilly," said the carter.

"Thank you, Mr. Reilly. I'm dreadfully afraid it's Turly!"

"Who is Turly, and why are you afraid it's him?"

"Turly is my brother, Turlough Trimleston. I'm afraid because he oughtn't to be out riding on a donkey this foggy morning."

"No more nor his sister riding on a pony. I hope he hasn't broken the donkey's knees," said Reilly.

"I hope not. I don't think so, or he wouldn't be riding it. It really is Turly, and he won't be at home to tell Nurse what has become of me.—Oh, Turly, Turly, why did you come after me when I told you not to?"

"I said I would come," said Turly.

Reilly had pulled up while Turly was being interviewed. The little boy sat on a bare-backed donkey, himself looking rather at loose ends, with evidences of having dressed himself hastily without any finishing-up from Nurse Nancy.

"How did you ever do it, Turly?"

"How did you do it?" said Turly. "Of course I just walked into the stable and looked about for a horse. I tried to sit on them all, but I couldn't, for they were too wide. Then I spied the donkey. There was no saddle for him, so I took him as he was. And how did you like Connolly's farm, Terry? And is this Connolly?"

"Oh dear no, Turly! This is Mr. Reilly. Jocko and I were lost in the fog, and we didn't get at all near Connolly's. And Mr. Reilly found us and got me some eggs. But oh, Turly, poor Jocko's knees are cut, for he slipped in the frost and I let him down."

"Never mind! They'll come all right again," said Turly. "Lally will look after him."

"We may as well hurry up then," said Reilly, "if I'm ever to get on the road again with my load of turf."

Then they began to move on again, the cart with Terry and Reilly, and Turly riding the bare-backed donkey behind, side by side with Jocko, who seemed very glad of their company.

As they turned off the high-road they saw Nurse Nancy standing at the foot of the avenue, evidently looking out for them in great anxiety. The cart stopped before her.

"Oh, you terrible childher! You dreadful little girl! I wonder I am alive since six o'clock this morning!"

"You were sound asleep then, Nursey. I heard you snoring. And you won't call it dreadful when you see the eggs. The only terrible thing is Jocko's knees. I'm awfully sorry about that, indeed I am. I'd rather it had been my own knees!" cried Terry, running to the back of the cart to examine poor Jocko's injuries.

"The pony's knees!" shrieked Nurse, throwing up her hands and her eyes in despair.

"I tell you Lally will make him all right!" said Turly. "Ponies and men don't make a row over a scratch as women do!"

"If Lally cures him I'll give him all my pocket-money for a year," said Terry, wiping her own eyes and patting Jocko's nose. "Oh, here is Mr. Lally! Do you think you can cure poor Jocko's knees, Mr. Lally?"

"So you're at your thricks again, Miss Terry! Sorra ever such a young lady was born in this mortial world before!" said Lally. "Now what will your gran'ma be sayin' to you this time, Miss Terry?"

"Oh, Gran'ma! I hope she hasn't had her breakfast yet, Nursey. Just look at the lovely fresh eggs Mr. Reilly got me!"

"An' I scourin' the counthry all round about Connolly's farm lookin' for ye!" said Michael Lally indignantly, as he examined Jocko's knees.

"And have they really got plenty of eggs at Connolly's?" cried Terry. "For only three will not last very long, you know."

"Here, Missus Nancy, for all the sakes will you take your childher out o' my road?" cried Lally. "A nice scoldin' I'll be gettin' over again from Madam when she hears of it."

"Oh no, she won't! Not when she get's her egg, and I tell her about it," said Terry.

And then Reilly gathered up his reins, laughing, and went rattling his cart of turf down the road. Lally led away the pony, and Nancy and the children returned to the house.

Terry listened with the keenest disappointment. Was Nancy not going to tell Granny that it was she, Terry, who had got her that egg for her breakfast? When the nursery meal appeared, Terry rushed forth her grievance.

"Oh, Nursey, you never told Granny who got her that egg! And after all the trouble I took!"

"The trouble you took was all boldness and disobedience," said Nancy, "and it's just the way you're to be punished by not letting her know. It isn't to screen you that I'm not tellin' her the whole of your conduct, but only just that I won't have her sick about it. It wasn't you at all that got the eggs, but Misther Reilly; for there you were stuck in the dyke, with the pony hurted, an you as far off as to-morrow from Connolly's farm."

"It's a worse punishment than if you beat me," said Terry. "And you said I had an appetite like a trooper, and I haven't, for I can't eat a bit."

"You're a jolly goose, then!" said Turly. "Breakfast's awfully good, I can tell you."

"If you don't eat, it doesn't matter," said Nurse. "It'll maybe make you think again before you set off to run into such dangers. If your head had come against a stone when the pony went down—"

"But it didn't," said Terry. "It wasn't the least bit like that. I just came sitting on the grass quite comfortably. And I tried to get to Connolly's, and I didn't want Jocko to be hurt."

"It isn't the least use talking to you," said Nancy; "but I've another punishment for you. I've been talking to Madam about your practising, and you've got to begin to it. I told her you'd be forgettin' all your music, and she said you'd betther go to it afther breakfast this very mornin'."

Now if there was one thing in the world that Terry hated it was her "practising". To sit hammering out five-finger exercises on a piano in a lonely room, making a dreary, monotonous noise, trying to turn in her fingers and thumbs at the right places, and doing the same thing over and over again, while the hands of the clock crept slowly round; all this meant a penance which was torture to the active little creature.

However, Terry accepted her sentence in silence. She never thought of disobeying a direct command like this; for it was true, as she had often said, that she never did a thing which she believed at the time to be wrong. It would be clearly wrong to refuse to do her practising when Nurse and Gran'ma had decreed that it was to be done, and so she recognized that the hated ordeal must be faced.

She got out her "music", sheets covered with wicked-looking black notes, having figures and crosses marked above them in pencil to show her where to put her little fingers, which were always sure to get themselves in the wrong places. Before descending to the large lonely drawing-room where the practising had to be done, Terry made one last appeal to fate by opening the door of Granny's bedroom ever so little and speaking in. Granny might, after all, not be so severe in this matter as Nurse Nancy.

"Gran'ma, dear," said a little plaintive voice, "do you think I need go to my practising quite so soon in the holidays?"

"Yes, my darling," answered Madam from among the curtains of her bed. "You know your mother will expect you to play something pretty for her as soon as she comes home."

Then Terry strove no more against her doom, but went down to the drawing-room.

The drawing-room was a handsome old-fashioned apartment, but with that depressing atmosphere which gathers into rooms, especially large ones, which have ceased to be much lived in. The curtains drooped sorrowfully, the carpet had a lonely, untrodden look; the chairs had an air of not expecting to be sat upon, some Elizabethan portraits on the walls showed stiff wooden personages, who seemed to have driven all the living persons out of the room. When the piano was opened, the black and white keys appeared cold and uninviting to the touch.

"Oh dear! oh dear!" said Terry. "An hour's practising! It is just twelve by the clock now, and I shall have to strum till one!"

She spent all the time she could in screwing the music-stool to the right height for her little figure. It was no sooner up high enough than she found she wanted it to go down, and then it would go down too low. At last it was just as right as it could be, and there was nothing more to be done with it.

Then the first two notes were struck by Terry's two little thumbs. How strange and audacious they sounded in the silence of the lonely room! Terry glanced over her shoulder at the pictures, and saw a long-faced man in a pointed collar looking at her severely.

"Oh, how can I?" she exclaimed, dropping her hands into her lap. "How can I if he goes on like that?"

She tried again, however, and this time succeeded in running a five-finger exercise once up and once down.

"I forget how to do it, my fingers are all on the wrong notes. Miss Goodchild says I have a taste for music. How can I have when I hate a piano? I love beautiful sounds when I hear them, but these are not beautiful sounds. I can't make anything but a dismal noise. Even the long-ago people on the walls object to it. But I must do it again or it won't be practising;" and this time Terry ran the five-finger exercise up and down two or three times without stopping before she let her hands drop again from the keys.

Suddenly a bright idea struck her.

"I wonder what o'clock it is!" she said to herself. "I must have been at least half an hour in this room."

She got down from the high stool and walked slowly across the long room, feeling that she was getting rid of a little time by restraining her usual rapid movements. Arriving at the door she stood with her back to it for a few moments, gazing all around.

"Could it ever have been a real everyday place to live in, like Granny's sitting-room upstairs, or the day nursery? Granny says it was a lovely, comfortable room when she was going about, and everybody was in it every day. And certainly there are a lot of nice things in it, if they were only shaken about. But there's nobody to shake them, and it's awfully ghosty, and I do so feel afraid the ghosts will hear my bad playing and come to me. Now, I'm sure it must be half an hour, and I may go and look at the clock!"

She slipped out of the door and closed it behind her quickly, as if she feared invisible hands might catch her unawares to keep her within. Up two flights of stairs she went, and looked at the clock on the landing.

"Only ten minutes past twelve!" she exclaimed in dismay. "Oh, that dreadful old clock must have stopped herself on purpose! Now, I will just watch to see. I don't believe she's moving at all." And Terry put her back against the wall and fixed her eyes on her enemy.

"No; she's going," said Terry, as the minute-hand made a slight onward jerk, "but she has gone slow just the very morning I have got to practise."

She went down to the hall, slowly, counting the steps, and stood in the hall looking at everything as if she had never been there before.

"I wonder if I might curl in behind that door with a story-book," she thought, "or even with nothing at all; where I could hear the sounds of the other parts of the house! But no, I couldn't. I know it would be wrong, because I've got to be a whole hour at my practising. And I don't want to have two wrongnesses in one day, bad as I am."

She returned at once to the drawing-room, and, seating herself again at the piano, went steadily up and down a whole scale, trying seriously to turn in her thumbs at the right places and to put her fingers where they ought to be when she wanted them. She really worked hard for five minutes, and then stopped and congratulated herself that the hour must be nearly over.

"But I must play over Gran'ma's little tune," she said to herself. "Gran'ma's so fond of it, and it is pretty, only I don't like his being killed. Malbrook was killed, I know he was. Gran'ma told me so."

She got out an old music-book of Madam's young days, and turned to a page on which were a number of small tunes of a few bars each, and each marked with a name.

She began to play the old air of Malbrook, very sweetly and plaintively, so as quite to justify Miss Goodchild's opinion that she had a taste for music. But at the last bar Terry's little hands fell limp, and she burst out crying.

"I know he was killed!" she said; "and what with Jocko's knees and everything I can't bear it. I wonder if Turly would come down and sit with me; that is if my hour isn't up."

Alas! the pitiless old clock informed her that she had still at least half an hour of penance to undergo. Perceiving this she stole up softly to the nursery.

"Turly, dear! Are you there, Turly?"

"Oh yes, I'm here!" said Turly. "Have you done your practising?"

"No, I haven't. I wish I had. And will you come down and sit with me, Turly? The drawing-room is so lonely, and the time gets on so slow."

"It's silly to be lonely," said Turly. "I'm not a bit lonely here with my bricks. But of course I'll come with you."

"Oh, thank you, Turly! Is Nursey with Gran'ma?"

"Yes."

"What does she look like, Turly?"

"Like always," said Turly.

"Is her nose long, Turly?"

"Isn't it always the same, Terry?"

"No, it isn't. When Nurse is angry her nose gets long and her mouth goes down at the corners. And when she's pleased they both shorten up again."

"I didn't look at her as much as that," said Turly.

So Turly came and played in the drawing-room while Terry went on with her practising. He made a play for himself which was not particularly good for the furniture. A long train of wagons was constructed of chairs put on their sides and one or two small old spider tables with their spindle legs in the air. Turly dressed himself in a few of Granny's best oriental embroideries, and armed himself with the brass fire-irons.

"It's war, you know!" he explained to Terry. "Play Malbrook again. But I'm not going to be killed, I can tell you. I'd just like to see anybody trying to do it."

"Oh, Turly, you must be killed, because you have no helmet! Oh, I know where I can get you one!"

Terry sprang up and flew to where a small palm was standing, its garden-pot enclosed in one made of Benares brass. She quickly lifted the palm out of the brass pot, carried the pot across the floor, and turned it downwards, like an extinguisher, on Turly's head. It just took his head in, coming down a little over his eyes.

"Now you are perfect!" cried Terry, clapping her hands.

"It isn't exactly all right," said Turly. "I should want to see a little better. Push it a little farther back on me, Terry."

Terry tried to do so, but the pot would not move.

"My head is stuck into it," said Turly. "I'm afraid it will never come off."

"Oh, Turly!"

"Never mind. I'll go on with the fighting, and perhaps some fellow will shoot it off. My wagons are running away, and I must run after them."

In this manner the practising got finished, and the children hastened to restore the furniture to its usual state in the room before the appearance of Nurse Nancy, who might now be expected to look in at any moment. Two or three times Turly had tried to remove his helmet, but had failed, and so it was left on his head till all was in order. At last, however, the children were confronted with a difficulty. The helmet had to come off Turly's head, and it wouldn't.

"Oh, Turly, it must come off!" said Terry.

"Says it won't," said Turly. "Got wedged. Wish it was a little bit more up, that a fellow could see better. Don't bother, Terry, perhaps it'll change its mind. Won't it be a joke to see Nurse's face?"

The door opened on the moment, and the expected face was seen. Nurse Nancy stood amazed.

"Turly, what do you mean by using your Gran'ma's nice things in such a manner? That's one of the beautiful ornaments your uncle sent her from India. Take it off directly, and put the palm back into it."

"It doesn't like the palm, Nurse. It would rather have me!" cried Turly, dancing about impishly at the same time, trying to shake the pot off his head by the movement.

"Do you mean to be disobedient, Turlough?"

"The pot is awfully disobedient," said Turly. "I tell you it won't come off."

"We'll see about that," said Nurse Nancy, putting her hands to the pot. But to her consternation it refused to move.

"Shake your head out of it, Turly!"

"I shook and shook, and it only gets tighter on. If I shake any more it will come down about my neck, and my eyes will be gone up into it, and my mouth and my nose!"

Here was a state of things. Nurse looked ready to faint, as she thought of her boy being smothered before her eyes in a Benares pot.

"Oh, Turlough! why did you do anything so wild as putting your head into that pot?"

"He didn't, Nursey," said Terry, trembling and pale. "It was I who put it on his head for a helmet."

"I can believe it, Terencia Mary," said Nurse. "You are always the ringleader. And why did they call you Mary, like your gentle mother and grandmother? There's no Mary-ness in you, you shocking girl, that couldn't do your little bit of practising without running after helmets."

Here another attempt was made to dislodge Turly's head, while Terry stood wringing her hands.

"I say, Nurse," said Turly, "don't you go abusing Terry for nothing. I dressed myself up as a soldier, and I was taking my wagons to the wars, and I had everything right but a helmet, and Terry was afraid I might be shot, so there! she isn't to be blamed for it."

"And your dinner ready, and you not able to take it," said Nurse.

"Oh, am I not? Just you see if I don't make use of my mouth as long as I've got it."

"Come then," said Nurse; "and I must see about sending to Dublin for a surgeon, though how I'm to manage all without your Gran'ma knowing, I'm sure I'm at my wits' ends to guess."

Turly ate his dinner with great vigour, but Terry sat miserable and without appetite.

"I put the pot on his head," she thought, "and it will require a surgeon from Dublin to get it off. Will the surgeon have to cut part of his head away? That is what surgeons do; they cut."

Just as her thoughts had arrived at this excruciating point, the pot suddenly made a jerk and fell completely over Turly's face, covering his chin.

Nurse and Terry shrieked, and Turly uttered some unintelligible sounds from within the pot.

"He'll be smothered!" cried Nurse Nancy.

"What would the surgeon do if he were here?" asked Terry, with tears streaming, then darted from the room saying: "I'll bring up Michael Lally and Mr. Walsh!"

These two worthy men were on the scene in a few minutes, and Lally instantly thought of a plan.

"We'll hang him up by the heels," he said.

So the two men took Turly in their arms and "up-ended" him; the consequence being that the pot, being now in a straight position on the head, fell off. Whereupon Turly was re-placed on his feet on the floor.

Then Nurse Nancy sat down and rocked herself and wept.

"I thought it would ha' been either a death or an operation!" she sobbed. "Will I ever get over it?"