The Boys and I: A Child's Story for Children

I had been "working myself up," as Pierson used to call it, and I was fast persuading myself that Miss Goldy-hair was very unkind, and that after all we were poor deserted little creatures, but for all that I couldn't help laughing at Racey breaking in with his list of what he thought the greatest delicacies. Tom laughed too— I must say in some ways Tom was a very good little boy in spite of his sore throat, and Racey was standing with his head on one side considering what more he would wish for in Miss Goldy-hair's basket, when—wasn't it funny?—there came a little tap at the door, and almost before we could say "come in," it opened, and—oh, how delighted we were—in walked Miss Goldy-hair herself!

She was smiling with pleasure at our surprise, and wonderful to say, she was carrying a big, big basket, such a big basket that Tom, who had very nice manners for a boy, jumped up at once to help her with it, and in the nice way she had she let him think he was helping her a great deal, though really she kept all the weight of it herself, till between them they got it landed safely on the table.

Racey danced forward in delight.

"Audrey, Audrey," he cried, "her has got a basket, and her has come. Her said she would."

Miss Goldy-hair stooped down to kiss his eager little face. Then she turned to me and kissed me too, but I felt as if I hardly deserved it.

"Did you think I had forgotten you, Audrey?" she said.

I felt my cheeks get very red, but I didn't speak.

"Didn't you promise to trust me last night?" she said again.

"Yes, Miss Goldy-hair, but I didn't know that you'd come to see us because Tom was ill. You said you'd come to fetch us to have dinner and tea with you, but I didn't know you'd come when you heard Tom couldn't go out."

"Why, don't you need me all the more because you can't go out?" she said brightly. "I'm going to stay a good while with you, and I have brought some little things to please you."

She turned to the basket which Racey had never taken his eyes off. We all stood round her, gazing eagerly. There were all sorts of things to please us—oranges, and a few grapes, and actually a little shape of jelly and some awfully nice funny biscuits. Then there were a few books, and two or three little dolls without any clothes on, and a little packet of pieces of silk and nice stuffs to dress them with, and a roll of beautiful coloured paper, and some canvas with patterns marked on it, and bright-coloured wools.

"I've brought you some things to amuse you," said Miss Goldy-hair, "for Tom can't go out, and it's a very cold, wet day, not fit for Audrey or Racey to go out either. And as your tutor won't be coming as Tom's ill, it would be a very long day for you all alone, wouldn't it?"

Then she went on to explain to us what she meant us to do with the things she had brought. Some of them were the same that the children she had told us about had to amuse them when they were ill, and she let Tom and Racey choose a canvas pattern each, and helped them to begin working them with the pretty wools.

"How nice it would be to make something pretty to send to your mother for Christmas! Wouldn't she be surprised?" she said; and Tom was so pleased at the thought that he set to work very hard and tried so much that he soon learnt to do cross-stitch quite well. Racey did a little of his too, but after a while he got tired of it and went back to his horses, and we heard him "gee-up"-ing, and "gee-woh"-ing, and "stand there, will you"-ing in his corner just as usual.

"What a merry little fellow he is," said Miss Goldy-hair, "how well he amuses himself."

"Yes," I said, "he hasn't been near so dull as Tom and me. He was only frightened for fear the new nurse should whip him. But Uncle Geoff has promised she sha'n't, and so now Racey's quite happy and doesn't mind anything. I don't think he minds about mother going away now."

"He's such a little boy," said Miss Goldy-hair.

But I was a little mistaken about Racey. He thought of things more than I knew.

Then Miss Goldy-hair helped me to begin dressing the little dolls. They were for a little ill girl who couldn't dress them for herself, as she had to lie flat down all day and could hardly move at all because her back was weak somehow, but she was very fond of little dolls and liked to have them put round her where she could see them. I had never dressed such small ones before, and it was great fun, though rather difficult. But after I had worked at them for a good while Miss Goldy-hair told both Tom and me that we'd better leave off and go on with our work in the afternoon.

"It's never a good plan to work at anything till you get quite tired," she said. "It only makes you feel wearied and cross, and then you never have the same pleasure in the work again. Besides, it must be nearly your dinner-time, and I must be thinking of going home."

CHAPTER XI.

"Never mind, Audrey," she said. "Some one must have said something before him that he has remembered. But it doesn't matter—there's no harm in any one saying it, because it's true, at least, true in a way. What made you ask me that, Racey?" she added, turning to him.

"I was sinking," said Racey, not at all put about. "I was just sinking that if you are really kite alone you'd better come and live with us. Or we'll go and live with you—which would be best?"

"I think a little of both would be best," said Miss Goldy-hair. "To-day, as Tom isn't well, you see I've come to see you. But afterwards, when he's all right again, you must all come to see me—often, very often."

"But that isn't living, that's just seeing us sometimes," said Tom, who seemed to have taken up Racey's idea.

"But you see, dear, people can't always do just as they would like," said Miss Goldy-hair. "Even if they love each other dearly they can't always live together, or even see each other as often as they would like."

"But you're alone in the world," repeated Racey.

"Well, but I have my house to take care of, and to keep it all nice for the friends who come to see me. And then I've my poor children to go to see often, and letters to write about them sometimes. I've plenty to do at home," said Miss Goldy-hair, shaking her head gently at Racey.

"You could do it all here," said Tom. "I don't see the good of people being as rich as rich—as rich as you are, Miss Goldy-hair—if they can't do what they like."

Miss Goldy-hairs face got a little red again, and she looked rather troubled.

"Who said I was 'as rich as rich,' my boy?" she said, putting her arm round Tom, and looking into his honest eyes.

"Sarah said so," answered Tom; "but you mustn't be vexed with her, Miss Goldy-hair," he went on eagerly. "She didn't say it any not nice way. She said it was a good thing when rich people thought about poor ones, and that you were very good to poor people. You won't scold Sarah, Miss Goldy-hair? Perhaps she didn't mean me to tell you. I'm so puzzled about not telling things, 'cause at home it didn't matter, we might tell everything."

He looked quite anxious and afraid, but Miss Goldy-hair soon made him happy again.

"No, of course I won't scold Sarah," she said. "And I like you much better to tell me anything like that, and then I can explain. I cannot see that it is anything to praise rich people for, that they should think of poor ones—the pleasure of thinking you have made somebody else a little happier is so great that I think it is being kind to oneself to be kind to others."

"I'd like to be vrezy rich," said Tom, "and then I'd be awfully kind to everybody. I'd have nobody poor at all."

"Nobody could be rich enough for that," I said.

"And being rich isn't the only way to being kind," said Miss Goldy-hair. "Don't wait for that, Tom, to begin."

"Of course not," I said. "Miss Goldy-hair's being kind to us has nothing to do with her being rich. You don't understand, Tom."

Tom never liked when I said he didn't understand, and now I see that I must have had rather a provoking way of saying it—like as if I wanted to put him down. I saw his face look vexed, and he answered rather crossly—

"It has to do with it. Miss Goldy-hair couldn't have brought us oranges, and jelly and things, if she hadn't been rich."

"And bikstwiks," added Racey.

"But you like me a little bit for myself, besides for the oranges and biscuits, don't you, Racey?—just a very little bit?"—said Miss Goldy-hair, laughing.

Racey, by way of answer, climbed up on her knee, and began hugging her. Miss Goldy-hair drew Tom to her and kissed him too, and then he looked quite happy.

"But I must go now," she said.

"And won't you come back again?" we asked.

Miss Goldy-hair stopped to consider a little.

"Let me see," she said. "Yes, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll come and have tea with you if you'll invite me."

We all clapped our hands at this.

"And after tea," said Tom, "will you tell us a story? I am sure you must know stories, Miss Goldy-hair, for all your poor little children. Don't you tell them stories?"

"There are so many of them," she said. "I generally read stories to them. And most likely you already know most of those I read. But sometimes I tell stories to any of them who happen to be ill and stay in bed. I'll see if I can remember one."

"About fairies, please," we all called out.

"I'll do my best," said Miss Goldy-hair, who by this time was opening the door to go away. She turned round and nodded to us as she said it, and then she shut the door and we three were alone again.

But it didn't seem as if we were alone—it didn't seem the same dull nursery with nothing to amuse us or to look forward to—it didn't seem the same any way.

"Tom," I said, "doesn't everything seem different?"

Tom was sitting on the rug close to the fire—his cold made him feel shivery—he was staring in at the red-hot coals. "Doesn't everything seem different, Tom?" I repeated.

"Yes," said Tom, "but, Audrey, I'm wondering what we can get nice for tea."

My face fell— I had not thought of that.

"I have some money," I said, "I have three shillings, and two sixpences, and seven pennies, besides my gold pound."

"And I have some too, and so has Racey," said Tom.

"Yes, I have a s'illing, and a dear little fourpenny, and three halfpennies," said Racey, running to fetch his purse.

"I've more than that," said Tom in a melancholy tone of voice, "but it's no good. How can we buy anything? It's like being in a ship, starving, with lots of money and no shops to buy at."

We all looked at each other with great concern. It quite went against all our notions of hospitality to have any one, more especially Miss Goldy-hair, at tea without anything nice to offer her. And we all felt too, that it would be almost worse to make use of any of the things she had brought us, for such an occasion. Children have their own notions on these subjects, I can assure you.

Just then we heard distant sounds of Sarah's approach with the dinner-tray. The jelly and oranges were still standing on the table. Tom had eaten one orange and we had all three had some biscuits, so any way there wouldn't have been enough to make a nice tea with.

"Suppose we ask Sarah to buy us something?" said Tom eagerly. But I shook my head.

"I don't want to do anything like that," I said. I had somehow a feeling that it would hardly have been keeping my promise to Uncle Geoff. "Sarah might get scolded for it," I said, and Tom seemed to understand.

We ate our dinner very quietly. Miss Goldy-hair's jelly was certainly very nice, and poor Tom, who didn't feel much inclined for meat and potatoes, and regular pudding, enjoyed it very much. And after dinner we each had an orange—we sat round the fire peeling them, and thinking what to do about tea.

"We haven't even any flowers," I said. "We can't even dress up the table and make it look pretty the way we used to on days mother came to have tea with us."

"We couldn't make bread and butter look pretty," said Tom, rather grumpily.

I was sorry to see him so disappointed, just when I thought that our having found Miss Goldy-hair was going to make everything nice.

"I'd run out myself to buy things if I didn't know it would vex Uncle Geoff," I said. And then suddenly an idea came into my head. The saying Uncle Geoff's name seemed to have brought it.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," I said, "I'll ask Uncle Geoff himself."

Tom looked amazed at my boldness.

"Won't he be vexed?" he said.

"No, I don't think he will. Any way I'll ask him. I dare say he's in, for he said something about seeing how your cold was at dinner-time. But I won't wait till he comes up. I'll go straight down and ask him."

Tom and Racey looked at me with increased respect. I just waited to wash my hands and smooth my hair, and down I ran. I met nobody on the way, though when I got to the foot of the stair I heard Sarah and Benjamin talking in the pantry. But I did not feel inclined to ask them if Uncle Geoff was in— I liked better to go straight to his study myself. So I tapped at the door, not very loud, but distinctly. In spite of my boldness my heart was beating a little faster than usual, but instead of that making me tap faintly, it made me wish the more to know at once if Uncle Geoff was in, so that I shouldn't stand there waiting for nothing. Almost at once came the answer "Come in." Uncle Geoff had very quick ears.

I went in. He was sitting writing rather hurriedly it seemed, at his table, but he could not have been in long, for his hat and great coat were flung down carelessly, and unless he is in a great hurry, Uncle Geoff always hangs them up carefully in the hall. He looked up however.

"Well, Audrey," he said, "is that you? Wait a minute and then I'll speak to you."

I didn't mind waiting, and this time of myself I went near the fire. I was counting over our money in my mind, and wondering how much of it it would be right to spend on what we called our "tea-party." And in a minute or two Uncle Geoff left off writing, folded up his letter and addressed the envelope and rang for Benjamin.

"Take this at once," he said; and I couldn't help wondering a little that Benjamin didn't feel frightened when Uncle Geoff spoke so shortly and sharply. But Benjamin didn't seem to mind a bit. "Yes, sir," he said quite cheerfully, and somehow it made me think that after all Uncle Geoff couldn't be really sharp or stern, for Benjamin must know him very well, and when Benjamin had gone out of the room and Uncle Geoff turned to me I didn't feel as if I minded speaking to him the least.

"So, Audrey," he said, "you haven't forgotten our agreement, I see. And what are you troubled about now, my little lady?— Tom is no worse, by the by?" he added hastily.

"Oh no, Uncle Geoff, I think he's rather better. He didn't eat much at dinner, but he liked Miss Goldy-hair's jelly very much."

Uncle Geoff smiled again at our funny name for the young lady, which I had got so used to that I said it without thinking.

"It was very kind of Miss—perhaps you don't want to know her by her real name?" he said smiling. "It was very kind of her to bring Tom some jelly. No doubt it tasted much better than if Partridge had made it."

"Yes," I said, quite gravely. "I think it did," and I thought it was rather funny of Uncle Geoff to smile at me for saying that. But yet I didn't mind. I didn't even mind when he called me "my little lady." I was beginning to think he was really rather nice.

"And what is the trouble then, Audrey?" said Uncle Geoff.

"It isn't exactly a trouble," I said. "It's only that we haven't anything nice for tea. We've plenty of money—it isn't that, but we don't know how to buy anything, for of course we can't go out,"—I felt myself get a little red when I said that,—"and we didn't like to ask Sarah without telling you."

"Quite right," said Uncle Geoff, patting my head. "But what sort of things do you want? Is it to tempt Tom to eat, or what has put it into your heads to want something particularly nice to-day?"

"Oh because—why I thought I had told you at the beginning," I said, "how stupid of me! Why it's because Miss Goldy-hair's coming to have tea with us, to make up for us not going to her, you know."

Uncle Geoff raised his eyebrows.

"Oh ho," he said, "I see! And what is it you want then?"

"We were thinking," I said gravely, "that six sponge cakes, and six bath-buns, and some of those nice crispy biscuits mother used to have—I think they're German biscuits, they're awfully nice, with a chocolatey taste, mother always sent to London for them—we were thinking that would make a lovely tea. And we've quite enough to pay for that. And oh, Uncle Geoff, if you would tell Mrs. Partridge to toast and butter them, two muffins would be exquisite."

I clasped my hands in entreaty, and Uncle Geoff had such a funny look in his eyes that I quite stared at him.

"You're not vexed?" I said. "I'd promise only to let Tom and Racey eat two bits each, for I know muffins are rather 'digestible."

At this Uncle Geoff really burst out laughing—he quite roared.

"Audrey, you'll kill me," he said, and I began to be a little offended. "Don't you be vexed," he said, as soon as he could speak. "I really beg your pardon, and I promise you to tell Mrs. Partridge myself. Yes, you shall have the muffins. But how are all these delicacies to be procured? Will you come out with me now—my brougham will be at the door directly—and I'll take you to a confectioner and let you choose for yourself?"

"Oh yes," I said eagerly, "that would be nice—" but suddenly I stopped. "No," I said, "I don't think it would be very kind to the boys to go without them. For it's their money you know, Uncle Geoff, as well as mine."

"All right," said Uncle Geoff, and I could see he was pleased with me; "all right. You shall have all you want in half an hour at latest," and he was turning to go, for while we were talking he had been putting on his great coat, when I stopped him.

"The money, Uncle Geoff," I cried, "you are forgetting the money. It's all ready—see—this is one of my shillings, and a sixpence and three pennies of Tom's, and Racey's fourpenny and two of his halfpennies. The way we planned it was a shilling for the sponge cakes and buns, and a shilling for biscuits, and two pennies for two muffins. It makes two shillings and two pennies just—doesn't it? I know mother used to say the chocolatey biscuits were dear, but I should think a shilling would get enough—a shilling's a good deal."

"Yes, it's twelve whole pence," said Uncle Geoff very seriously, as he took the money.

"But if the biscuits cost more, you'll tell me, won't you, Uncle Geoff?" I said, and he nodded "yes" back to me as he went out, and I ran up-stairs to the nursery as happy as I could be.

The boys were delighted with my news—Tom, who I must say had from the beginning been inclined to like Uncle Geoff, was quite glad to find I too was beginning to think him nice, for Tom wouldn't have thought it quite fair to me to like him if I didn't. We got out some of the prettiest of my doll's dinner-service plates, for we thought it might look nice to put a few of them up and down the table with just two or three biscuits on each; and we were very busy and happy, and it didn't seem nearly half an hour when we heard some one coming up-stairs, and in another moment Uncle Geoff called to us to open the door, as his hands were so full he couldn't.

He came in with several tempting-looking parcels in his arms, and oh, best of all, the dearest and prettiest little flowery plant growing in a pot! It was a heath—like some we had in the hothouse at home—and it was so pretty. I nearly jumped for joy.

"See here, Audrey," he said, "see what I have brought you for the centre of your table. You are very fond of flowers, I know."

"Oh, Uncle Geoff!" I said. "Oh, I am so pleased. We were so wishing for some flowers to make the table look pretty."

Uncle Geoff looked as pleased as we did.

"Now here are your commissions," he went on. "You'll like to unpack them yourselves I dare say. And I must be off."

"And the money," I asked. "Was there enough?"

Uncle Geoff put on a very counting face. "Let me see," he said; "you gave me in all two shillings and twopence. Well what did it all come to—sponge-cakes so much, buns so much, biscuits," he went on murmuring to himself and touching his fingers to remind him—"yes, it is very curious," he said, "it comes to just two shillings and three half-pence. I have one halfpenny change to give you, Audrey, and I hope you think I have done your marketing well."

"Oh, Uncle Geoff," we said, "it's lovely. And," I added, "about the muffins. Did you tell Mrs. Partridge?"

"Poor Mrs. Partridge is ill to-day," said Uncle Geoff. "But you shall have your muffins. Now good-bye," and he went away.

We opened the parcels with the greatest interest. They were just what we had asked for—six sponge-cakes, beautifully fresh and fluffy-looking; six bath-buns also fresh and crisp, and sugary at the top; and biscuits more charming than we had ever seen—white and pink and every shade of tempting brown.

"They are German biscuits, I am sure," I said. "Mother has often told me what nice kinds there are in Germany;" and we set to work to arrange them on the plates which I ran down to ask Sarah for, with the greatest pleasure. We were so happy that we felt able to be a little sorry for Mrs. Partridge.

"I wonder if she's got a sore t'roat," said Tom.

"P'raps she's doin' to die," suggested Racey. "She's so vrezy hold."

"H-old," said I. "Racey, how dreadfully vulgar you are."

"You're vrezy vulgar to be so c'oss," said Racey.

"I don't believe you know what 'vulgar' means," I said.

"No," said Racey, calmly, "I doesn't," and in laughing at him I forgot my c'ossness, though afterwards when I remembered it, I felt really ashamed of having been so sharp upon poor Racey just when we had so many things to be happy about.

Almost immediately after we had got the table really arranged for the last time—we had done it and undone it so often that it was nearly four o'clock before it was quite ready—we heard a carriage stop at the door and then the bell rang, and peeping over the bannisters we heard Benjamin open the front door. Then came a soft rustle of some one coming up-stairs.

"It's her," I cried, rushing back into the nursery. And then we all flew out to the top of the staircase to welcome her. I should have liked to run down to the first landing but I daren't, for as sure as anything Tom and Racey would have been after me, and I was frightened as it was of Tom's catching cold by even coming to the landing.

But she saw our eager faces between the rails before she was half way up. "Have you been waiting long for me, dears?" she said. "I came as quickly as I could."

"Oh! no, Miss Goldy-hair," we cried, "we have been so happy."

Then we led her triumphantly into the nursery.

"Look," said the little boys, "did you ever see such a lovely tea?"

"Muffins is coming," said Tom.

"I gave my fourpenny-bit and two halfpennies, but Audrey gived me one halfpenny back. Uncle Geoff buyed the things, but Audrey and Tom gaved him lotses of money," said Racey.

"Hush, Racey, it's very rude to tell people what things cost like that," I said reprovingly. But Miss Goldy-hair didn't seem to mind; she looked as pleased as she possibly could; we felt quite sure that she meant what she said when she kissed us her nice way—not a silly way as if we were just babies, you know—and thanked us for taking so much trouble to please her.

What a happy tea we had! Tom's sore throat seemed to be getting much better, for Miss Goldy-hair and I had really to stop his eating as much as he wanted. We wouldn't have minded if he had been quite well, for he wasn't a greedy boy, but when people are even a little ill it's better for them not to eat much, though I must confess the muffins and the chocolatey biscuits were dreadfully tempting. And after tea, before beginning to tell us the story, Miss Goldy-hair and I had a nice little talk. She had such a nice way of talking—she made you sorry without making you feel cross, if you know how I mean. She made me quite see how wrong it would have been of me to try to run away to Pierson with the boys; that it would really have been disobeying papa and mother, and that happiness never comes to people who go out of the right path to look for it in.

"But it does sometimes, Miss Goldy-hair," I said. "We found you out of the right path, because it was naughty to have gone out to post the letter without any one knowing."

And Miss Goldy-hair smiled at that, and said no, when we found her we were on the right path of trying to run home again as fast as we could. And then she read to me a little letter she had written to Pierson, telling her all about us, and that Uncle Geoff was getting us a very nice kind nurse and that we were going to be quite happy, and Pierson must not be anxious about us, and that some day perhaps in the summer we should go to see her in her pretty cottage. And at the end of the letter I wrote down that I sent my love, so that Pierson would see the letter was like from me. Miss Goldy-hair asked very kindly for Pierson's poor mother in the letter. It was really a very nice one. She had written it for fear Pierson should be thinking we would really be coming to her; but, after all for that it needn't have been written, as—wasn't it queer?—we found out afterwards that Pierson never got the letter that had cost us such trouble! It couldn't have been plainly directed I suppose; and just fancy if I had run away with the boys, we should have got to that Copple-something station, perhaps late at night, five miles from Pierson's cottage, with nobody to meet us!—even supposing we had got the right trains and all in London, and not had any accidents, all of which, as Miss Goldy-hair explained, was very doubtful. Oh dear! it makes me shiver even now to think of what troubles we might have got into, and Tom with a sore throat too! Miss Goldy-hair's letter was of course all nicely addressed—and Pierson got it quite rightly, for in a few days we got a nice one from her, saying she was so glad of good news of us and so glad we had found a kind friend, for though her poor mother was dead she couldn't very well have come back to us, as Harding was most anxious to get married and settled at once.

Now I will get back to the afternoon that Miss Goldy-hair came to have tea with us.

When Sarah had taken away the tea-things and made the room look quite neat, the boys began to think it was time that they got a little of Miss Goldy-hair's attention.

"Miss 'Doldy-hair," said Racey, clambering up on her knee, "zou promised us a story."

"Yes, please," said Tom, "and let me sit on a buffet and put my head against your knee. It makes my sore t'roat feel better."

"What a little coaxer you are, Tom," said Miss Goldy-hair; but though Tom peeped up for a moment to see if she was vexed, it was plain she wasn't, for she made a nice place for his little round head on her knee, managing somehow to find room for Racey too, and not forgetting either to draw close to her a chair for me.

"Now," she said, "we're very comfortable. Shall I tell you my little story? It's not a long one, and I'm afraid it's not very interesting, but it's the only one I could think of to-day."

"Oh! do tell it," we said, "do, do, dear Miss Goldy-hair."

And so she began.

CHAPTER XII.

"There was once a little girl," said Miss Goldy-hair, "whose every-day life was rather dull and hard. In some ways I think it was duller than the lives of quite poor children, and in some ways I am not sure but that it was harder too. For though not really poor—that is to say, they had enough to eat in a plain way and clothes to wear of a plain kind—still her parents were what is called struggling people. And they had a great many children, little and big, of whom my little girl—Letty was her name—was one of the middle ones. No, I should hardly say one of the middle ones, for there were two older and five younger, so she was more like a big one. But she was small and delicate and seemed younger than she really was. They lived in a town—in the very middle of it; they had to do so on account of the father's work—and it was one of the ugliest towns you could imagine. Yet strange to say, the country round about this town was very—what people call picturesque, if you know what that means? There were hills, and valleys, and nice woods, and chattering streams at but a very few hours' journey off. But many of the people of the town hardly knew it; they were so hard-worked and so busy about just gaining their daily bread, that they had no time for anything else. And of all the hard-worked people, I do not know that any were more so than Letty's parents. If they had been much poorer than they were, and living quite in the country, I do not think Letty would have been so much to be pitied—not in the summer time any way, for then there are so very many pleasures that even the poorest cannot be deprived of. As it was she had almost no pleasures; her mother was kind, but always busy, and, as is often the case, so much taken up with her very little children that she could not think so very much about Letty. The big brother of fourteen was already at work, and the sister of thirteen was strong and tall, and able to find pleasure in things that were no pleasure to Letty. She, the big sister I mean, was still at school, and clever at her lessons, so she got a good deal of praise; and she had already begun to learn dressmaking, and was what people called 'handy with her needle,' so she was thought a great deal of at home and was neither timid nor shy. Letty was not clever in any way, and very timid—her pleasures were of a kind that her life made impossible for her. She liked beautiful things, she liked soft lovely colours, and gentle voices and tender music. Rough tones really hurt her, and ugly things caused her actual pain. Sometimes when her mother told her to go out and walk with the others, she just begged to stay at home, without being able to say why, for she could not have explained how the sight of the dark, grey streets of houses dulled her, how the smoke-dried grass that had never had a chance of being green in the fields a little way out of the town, and the dreadful black-looking river that some old, old men in the town still remembered a clear sparkling stream, made her perfectly miserable. It was strange, for she had never known anything else—she had never seen the real country—all her life she had lived, a poor stunted little plant, in the same dingy little house, with the small rooms and steep, narrow staircase, and with a sort of constant untidiness about it, in spite of her poor mother's care and striving. But nobody thought much about poor Letty—she was humble and sweet-tempered and never put herself forward, and so it never entered any one's head to wonder if she was happy or not.

"One day her mother sent her a message—and as it was a message, of course Letty never thought of saying she would rather not go—to a house further out of the town than Letty had ever been alone, and as it was rather a fine day, that is to say, it was not raining, and up in the sky about the place where the sun ought to be there was a faintly bright look in the clouds, her mother told her if she liked she might take a turn before coming home. But Letty did not care to stay out—she left the message, and then turned to hurry home as fast as she could. She was hastening along, when a faint sound caught her ears, and looking round she saw lying on the ground a few steps from her a beautiful white dove. It seemed in pain, for it tried to move, and after fluttering a few steps fell down again, and Letty saw that one wing was dragging in a way it shouldn't, and she thought to herself it must be broken. Her kind heart was always quick to feel pity, and she gently lifted the bird, and sitting down on the ground tried to find out what was wrong. But she was half afraid to touch the wing for fear of hurting the bird more, and was quite at a loss what to do, when suddenly a very soft cooing voice reached her ears. It was so soft that it didn't startle her, still she felt, as you can fancy, very much surprised to hear a little dove talking.

"'Don't be afraid, Letty,' it said. 'Put your hand in your pocket and you will find a white ribbon. With that you must bind up my wing.'

"Letty put her hand in her pocket as if she couldn't help doing so, though she felt sure there was no ribbon in it. To her surprise she drew out a piece of the prettiest, softest ribbon she had ever seen—pure white and satiny—softer than satin even. And too surprised, as it were, to speak, she carefully and tenderly bound it round the dove's body in such a way as to support the wing. No sooner was it firmly tied, than to her increased surprise, the dove raised itself, gave a sort of flutter, and rose in the air. It hovered a few moments over her head, and Letty held her breath, in fear that it was going to fly away, when, as suddenly as it had left her, it fluttered back again, and perching on her knees, looked at her with its soft plaintive eyes.

"'What can I do for you, little girl?' it said, 'for you have cured my wing,' and looking at it closely, Letty saw it was true. Both wings were perfectly right, and the pretty white ribbon was now tied like a necklace two or three times loosely round its neck. And at last Letty found voice to reply—

"'Oh, white dove,' she said, 'you are a fairy. I see you are. Oh, white dove, take me with you to Fairyland.'

"'Alas!' said the dove, 'that I cannot do. But see here, little girl,' and as he spoke he somehow managed to slip the ribbon off his neck. 'I give you this. It will open the door if you are good and gentle and do your work well.'

"The ribbon fluttered to Letty's feet, for with his last words the dove had again risen in the air. Letty eagerly seized it, for she saw something was fastened to it—to the ribbon I mean. Yes—a little key was hanging on it—a tiny little silver key, and Letty would have admired it greatly but for her anxiety to get some explanation from the dove before it flew away.

"'What door does it open?' she said. 'Oh, white dove, how shall I know what to do with it?'"

"Letty looked again at her precious key. Then very carefully she folded up the ribbon with the key in the centre of it and hid it in the front of her dress, and feeling as if she were in a dream, she made her way home.

"For some days nothing more happened. But Letty waited patiently till the time should come which the bird had spoken of. And the looking forward to this made the days pass quickly and less dully, and often and often she said over to herself, 'if you are good and gentle and do your work well,' and never had she tried more to be good and helpful, so that one day her mother said, 'Why, Letty dear, you're getting as quick and clever as Hester.' Hester was the big sister—and Letty said to herself that the dove had made her happier already, and that night when she went to sleep she had a sort of bright feeling that she never remembered to have had before.

"'I think it must be going to be moonlight,' she thought to herself. But when she looked out of the window the dull little street was all wet, she could see the puddles glistening in the light of the lamps—it was raining hard.

"Letty gave a little sigh and went to bed. She had a little bed to herself, though there were two others in the room, for her elder sister and two of the younger ones.

"In the middle of the night Letty awoke—the rain was over evidently, for the room was filled with moonlight. Letty started up eagerly, and the first thing that caught her sight was a door at the foot of her bed, a common cupboard door, it seemed, with a keyhole in it. It was the keyhole I think which first caught her attention, and yet surely the door had always been there before?—at least—at least she thought it had. It was very queer that she could not quite remember. But she jumped out of bed—softly, not to wake her sisters, and though half laughing at her own silliness in imagining her tiny silver key could fit so large a lock, she yet could not help trying it. She had the key and the ribbon always with her, carefully wrapped up, and now she drew out the key and slipped it in, and, wonderful to tell, it fitted as if made for the lock. Letty, holding her breath with eagerness, turned it gently—the door yielded, opening inwards, and Letty, how, exactly, she never knew, found herself inside——what, do you think?"

"The cupboard of course," said Tom.

"Were there olanges and bistwicks in there?" said Racey.

"Oh, Racey!" I exclaimed. "No, let me guess, Miss Goldy hair. She found herself in the bird's garden."

"Yes," said Miss Goldy-hair, "she found herself standing in the middle of a most lovely garden. Nothing that poor Letty had ever seen in her life could have given her any idea—not the faintest—of anything so beautiful, though for you, children, who have lived in the country and know what grass can be, and what trees, whose leaves have never known smoke, can look like, it is not so impossible as it would have been for her, to picture to yourselves this delicious garden. There were flowers of every shape and hue; there were little silvery brooks winding in and out, sometimes lost to view among the trees, then suddenly dancing out again with a merry rush; there were banks to run down and grottos to lose your way in—there was just everything to make a garden delightful. And yet, after all, the word 'garden' scarcely describes it—it was more like a home for honeysuckle and eglantine than like what we generally call a garden, with trimly-cut beds and parterres of brilliant roses. There was a beautiful wildness about it and yet it was perfectly in order—there was no sign of withering or decay, no dead leaves lying about, no broken or dried-up branches on the trees, though they were high and massive and covered with foliage—it was all fresh and blooming as if nothing hurtful or troubling had ever entered it. The water of the streams was pure and clear as crystal, the scent of the flowers was refreshing as well as sweet.

"Letty looked about her in a happiness too great for words—the sight and feeling of this lovely garden were for the poor tired and dulled little girl, ecstasy past telling. She did not care to go running about to find where the streams came from or to pluck the flowers, as some children would have done. She just sat down on the delicious grass and rested her tired little head on a bank and felt quite happy.

"'Oh, thank you, white dove,' she said aloud, 'for bringing me here. He said he could not take me to Fairyland,' she added to herself, 'but no Fairyland could be more beautiful than this,' and she sat there with the soft warm sunlight falling on her—such sunlight as never in her life she had seen before—the brooks dancing along at her feet, the gentle little breezes kissing her face, in, as I said, complete content. Suddenly from the groves here and there about the garden, there came the sound of warbling birds. There were many different notes, even Letty could distinguish that—there was the clear song of the lark, the thrilling melody of the nightingale—even, most welcome of all to Letty, the soft coo of the dove—there were these and a hundred others—but all in perfect tune together. And as she listened, the music seemed to come nearer and nearer, till looking up, Letty saw the whole band of songsters approaching her—hundreds and hundreds of birds all slowly flying together till they lighted on a low-growing band of trees not far from where she sat. And now Letty understood that this beautiful garden was the home of the birds as the dove had said. And when the concert was over she saw, to her delight, a single white dove separate himself from the rest and fly to where she sat. She knew him again—she felt sure it was her dove and no other.

"'Are you pleased, little Letty?' he said, in his soft cooing voice.

"'Oh! dear white dove, how can I thank you?' she answered.

"'You need not thank me,' he said. 'I have done only what I was meant to do. Now listen, Letty; the pleasures of this garden are endless, never, if you lived to a thousand, could you see all its beauties. And to those who have found the way here, it will never be closed again but by their own fault. You may come here often for rest and refreshment—in childhood and womanhood and even in quite old age, and you will always be welcome. You may perhaps never see me again, but that will not matter. I am only a messenger. Remember all I say, be gentle and good and do your work well, and whenever the moonlight shows you the door, you will find entrance here.'

"He gently raised his wings and flew away—to join the other birds who were already almost out of sight. And a pleasant sleepy feeling came over Letty. She closed her eyes, and when she woke it was morning—she was in her own little bed in the dull room she shared with her sisters, and Hester was already up and dressed and calling to her to make haste. But it was not a dream, for firmly clasped in her hand was the silver key and the white ribbon.

"'How did it get there?' said Letty to herself, for she could not remember having taken it out of the lock. 'The white dove must have brought it back to me,' she thought."

"And was the cupboard door still in the wall?" I asked eagerly.

"Yes," said Miss Goldy-hair; "and when Letty, still hardly awake, said something to Hester about whether it had always been there, Hester laughed at her and said, 'Yes, of course; had Letty never seen inside it?—it was where mother kept the best linen.' And so Letty said no more about it—she knew she would only have been laughed at and perhaps scolded, and yet she knew there was nothing wrong in her beautiful secret, so she just kept it in her own little heart.

"The days went on, and life seemed now quite a different thing to Letty; through all the tiredness and dulness the thought of the fairy garden which she was free to enter cheered and strengthened her. She did not go very often—it would not perhaps have been good for her to go too constantly—but every moonlight night she was sure to wake at the right moment, and if I had time I could tell you many things of the new beauties she found at each visit. But there came a time—it was miserable, cold, rainy winter weather, and the sky was so covered with clouds that neither sunlight nor moonlight could get through—when for several weeks Letty had no chance of getting to the garden—the moon never shone, and do what she would she never woke up. She grew impatient and discontented; she did her work less willingly, and answered crossly when her mother reproved her. And one night she went to bed in a very bad humour, saying to herself the dove had deceived her, or some nonsense like that. Two or three hours later she woke suddenly—to her delight the moon was shining brightly. Up jumped Letty and got her key ready. It slipped as usual into the lock, but, alas! do what she would she could not turn it. She pulled and pushed, she twisted about and tried to turn it by main force. Fortunately it was a fairy key, otherwise it certainly would have been broken. And at last in despair she sat down on the edge of her bed and cried. Suddenly the words came into her mind—'Be good and gentle and do your work well—if the door is ever closed to you it will be by your own fault,' and Letty's conscience whispered to her that it was by her own fault."

Miss Goldy-hair paused a minute as if she wanted to hear what we had to say.

"And did she never get in again?" said Tom. "Oh, poor Letty!"

"Oh yes," said Miss Goldy-hair, "she took her punishment well, and though a good while passed before she had another chance of visiting the garden, she was very patient and did her best. And when a moonlight night did come again it was all right—the key turned without the least difficulty. And never had the garden seemed to her more beautiful than this time, and never had Letty felt more cheered and refreshed by its sweet air and sunshine and all its lovely sights and sounds. And now, dears, I must leave off, for it is almost time for me to go home; and indeed if I went on talking all night I could never tell you a half nor a quarter of the pleasures of Letty's wonderful garden."

Miss Goldy-hair stopped.

"Didn't her never have nussing to eat in that garden?" said Racey.

Miss Goldy-hair smiled.

"I dare say she did," she said. "You may fancy she did. If you fancy all the nicest and prettiest things you know, you will not be wrong."

"Oh," said Tom, "that's very nice. We can make plays to ourselves about Letty's garden. Did she keep going till she was big? Did she never lose the key?"

"Never," said Miss Goldy-hair. "She never lost the key. And she went not only when she was big, but when she was old, quite old. Indeed she got fonder and fonder of it the longer she lived, and it helped her through a hard and often suffering life. And I don't know but what in quite old age her visits to the garden were the happiest of all."

"Miss Goldy-hair," I said, "isn't there something to find out like in the story of Letty?"

Miss Goldy-hair smiled.

"Think about it," she said. "I suspect you will be able to tell me something if you do."

But the boys didn't care to find out anything else. They thought it was great fun to play at Letty and the dove, and they pretended to get into the garden through the door of the cupboard where our cloaks hung. And the play lasted them for a good while without their getting tired of it, and Miss Goldy-hair was quite pleased, and said that was one way of turning the key in the lock, and not a bad way either for such little boys. Her saying that puzzled me a little at first, but then it came clearer to me that by the beautiful garden she meant all sweet and pretty fancies and thoughts which help to brighten our lives, and that these will come to children and big people too whose hearts and minds are good and gentle and kind.

The next day Tom was better, and two or three days after that we went at last to dinner and tea at Miss Goldy-hair's. If I were to tell you all we did, and what pretty things she showed us, and how delighted Racey was with the inside of her air-garden, it would take a whole other book. For just fancy, we have counted over the lines and the pages I have written, and there is actually enough to make a whole little book, and just in case, you know, of its ever coming to be printed, it's better for me to leave it the right size. And besides that, I don't know that I have very much more to tell that would be interesting, for the happy days that now began for us passed very much like each other in many ways. Our new nurse came and she turned out very kind, and I think she was more sensible than poor Pierson in some ways, for she managed to get on better with Mrs. Partridge. But as for poor Mrs. Partridge, she didn't trouble us much, for her rheumatism got so very bad that all that winter she couldn't walk up-stairs though she managed to fiddle about down-stairs in her own rooms and to keep on the housekeeping. And this, by the by, brings me to the one big thing that happened, which you will see all came from something that I told you about almost at the beginning of this little story.

All through this winter, as you will have known without my telling you, of course our happiness came mostly from Miss Goldy-hair. She didn't often come to see us after Tom got better, but at least twice a week we went to see her. And what happy days those were! It was she that helped us with everything—she held Racey's hand for him to write a letter "his own self," to mother; she showed me how to make, oh! such a pretty handkerchief-case to send mother for her birthday; and taught Tom how to plait a lovely little mat with bright-coloured papers. She helped me with my music, which I found very tiresome and difficult at first, and she was so dear and good to us that when at last as we got to understand things better, it had to be explained to us that not three months but three years must pass before we could hope to see papa and mother again, it did not seem nearly so terrible as it would have done but for having her. She put it such a nice way.

"You can learn so much in three years," she said. "Think how much you can do to please your mother in that time." And it made us feel a new interest in our lessons and in everything we had to learn.

Well, one day in the spring Uncle Geoff told me that he had a plan for us he wanted to consult me about. He smiled a little when he said "consult," but I had learned not to take offence at Uncle Geoff's smiles.

"Poor old Partridge is going to leave us, Audrey," he said. "She feels she is no longer fit for the work, and indeed it would have been better if she had said so before. I think her feeling it and not liking to say so had to do with the troubles when you first came."

"But she's never vexed with us now," I said eagerly. "Nurse is very nice to her, and then Miss Goldy-hair told us about Mrs. Partridge being so old, and that we should be res—respecting and all that way to her."

"'Respectful,' you mean, my dear," said Uncle Geoff smiling a little, for I had stumbled over the word. "Ah yes—I think Miss Goldy-hair has been a sort of good fairy to us all;" and then he went on to tell me his plan. He was going to make some changes in the house, he said. Several of the rooms were to be painted and done up new, and it would be better for us to be away for two or three weeks. So what do you think he had thought of—wasn't it a good idea?—he had written to Pierson to ask if she could find rooms for us in her village, and she had written back to say she had two very nice rooms in her own house which she was meaning to let to visitors in the summer time, and oh! she would be so pleased to have us! So it was settled, and in a week or two we went—Tom, Racey, and I, with our kind nurse. Uncle Geoff himself took us to the station, and though we were in high spirits we really felt sorry to leave him; and I felt quite pleased when he said, "It will be nice to have you back again, looking very strong and rosy."

We had said good-bye to Miss Goldy-hair the night before, and even though it was only for a little while we really nearly cried.

"You'll come to see us as soon as ever we come back, Miss Goldy-hair, won't you?" said Tom.

"Yes," said Miss Goldy-hair, "you may be sure of that."

"The first evening," persisted Tom, "the very first evening?" and rather to my surprise—for generally when the boys teased like that about settling anything exactly, Miss Goldy-hair would reply, "I can't promise," or "We'll see nearer the time "—she answered again, "Yes, Tom dear. I'll be here the very first evening."