“‘I don’t know what made me cry,’ said Sue at last, rousing herself; after she had had her cry out.
“‘Don’t you?’ said Roswald.
“‘No. It couldn’t have been these things; because father and I were talking about them the other night, and we agreed that we didn’t feel poor at all; at least, of course we felt poor, but we felt rich, too.’
“‘How long have you been living on porridge?’
“‘I don’t know. Have you had a fine time, Roswald?’
“‘Yes, very. I’ll tell you all about it some time, but not now.’
“‘Is Merrytown as pleasant as Beachhead?’
“‘It is more pleasant.’
“‘More pleasant!’ said Sue. ‘Without the beach, and the waves, Roswald!’
“‘Yes, it is; and you’d say so, too. You’d like it better than anybody. There are other things there instead of beach and waves. You shall go down there some time, Sue, and see it.’
“‘I can’t go,’ said Sue meekly.
“‘Not now, but some day. Sue, haven’t you any money?’
“‘I’ve two-and-sixpence, that father gave me; but I was afraid to spend any of it, for fear he or mother might want it for something. I must, though, for I haven’t got but a very little Indian meal.’
“‘Sue, have you had dinner to-day?’
“‘Not yet. I was just coming down to see about it.’
“‘Your mother don’t eat porridge, does she?’
“‘O no. She’s had her dinner.’
“‘Well, will you let me come and eat dinner with you?’
“Sue brought her hands together, with again a flush of great joy upon her face; and then put them in both his.
“‘How good it is you have got back!’ she said.
“‘It will take that porridge a little while to get ready, won’t it?’ said he, beating her hands gently together, and looking as bright as a button.
“‘O yes—it’ll take a little while,’ said Sue. ‘I haven’t got the water boiling yet.’
“‘Have you got meal enough for both of us?’
“‘Yes, I guess so;—plenty.’
“Just then Mrs. Lucy opened the front door and brought her sweet face into the room. She looked a little hard at the two children, and asked Sue how her mother was. Roswald bowed, and Sue answered.
“‘May I go up and see her?’
“Sue gave permission. Mrs. Lucy went up the stairs. Roswald stopped Sue as she was following.
“‘Sue, I’ll go to market for you to-day. Give me twopence of your money, and I’ll get the meal you want.’
“‘O thank you, Roswald!’ said Sue;—‘that will be such a help,—’ and she ran for the pennies, and gave them into his hand.
“‘I’ll be back presently,’ said he; ‘and then I’ll tell you about things. Run up now after Mrs. Lucy.’
“‘I don’t believe I need,’ said Sue; ‘they don’t want anything of me.’
“‘Run up, though,’ said Roswald; ‘maybe Mrs. Lucy will ask your mother too many questions.’
“‘Why, that won’t hurt her,’ said Sue, laughing; but Roswald seemed in earnest, and she went up.
“Immediately Roswald set himself to build a fire. He knew where to go for wood, and he knew how to manage it; he soon had the hearth in order and a fine fire made ready; and it was done without a soil on his nice clothes and white linen. He was gone before Mrs. Lucy and Sue came down, but the snapping and sparkling in the chimney told tales of him.
“‘Why, he has made the fire for me!’ cried Sue, with a very pleased face.
“‘Who made it?’ said the lady.
“‘Roswald.’
“‘That boy that was here when I came?’
“‘Yes, ma’am; he has made it for me.’
“‘Who is he?’
“‘He is Roswald Halifax.’
“‘What, the son of the widow, Mrs. Halifax?’
“‘Yes, ma’am.’
“‘And how came you to know him so well?’
“‘Why, I have always known him,’ said Sue; ‘that is, almost always. I used to know him a great many years ago, when I went to school; and he always used to take care of me, and give me rides on his sleigh, and go on the beach with me; and he always comes here.’
“‘Is he a good boy?’
“‘Yes, ma’am; he’s the best boy in the whole place,’ Sue said, with kindling eyes.
“‘I hope he is,’ said Mrs. Lucy, ‘for he has nobody to manage him but his mother. I fancy he has pretty much his own way.’
“‘It’s a good way,’ said Sue, decidedly. ‘He is good, Mrs. Lucy.’
“‘Does your mother want anything in particular, Sue?’
“Sue hesitated, and looked a little troubled.
“‘Tell me, dear; now, while your father is away, you have no one to manage for you. Let me know what I can do.’
“‘O Roswald would manage for us,’ said Sue;—‘but——’
“‘But what?’
“The lady’s manner and tone were very kind. Sue looked up.
“‘She has nothing to eat, ma’am.’
“‘Nothing to eat!’
“‘No, ma’am; and I’ve only two shillings and sixpence,—two shillings and fourpence, I mean,—to get anything with; and I don’t know what to get. She can’t eat what we can.’
“‘Have you nothing more to depend on but that, my child?’
“‘That’s all the money we have, ma’am.’
“‘And what have you in the house besides? tell me, dear. We are all only stewards of what God gives us; and what you want, perhaps, I can supply.’
“Sue hesitated again.
“‘We haven’t anything, Mrs. Lucy, but a little Indian meal. Roswald is going to buy me some more.’
“‘Are your father’s affairs in so bad a condition, my child?’
“‘He can’t get work, ma’am; if he could, there would be no trouble. And what he does he can’t always get paid for.’
“‘And how long has this been the case, dear?’
“‘A long time,’ said Sue, her tears starting again,—‘ever since a good while before mother fell sick;—a good while before;—and then that made it worse.’
“Mrs. Lucy looked at Sue a minute, and then stooped forward and kissed the little meek forehead that was raised to her; and without another word quitted the house.
“Sue, with a very much brightened face, set about getting her porridge ready; evidently enjoying the fire that had been made for her. She set on her skillet, and stirred in her meal; and when it was bubbling up properly, Sue turned her back to the fire and stood looking and meditating about something. Presently away she went, as if she had made up her mind. There was soon a great scraping and shuffling in the back room, and then in came Sue, pulling after her with much ado a big empty wooden chest, big enough to give her some trouble. With an air of business she dragged it into the middle of the room, where it was established solid and square, after the fashion of a table. Sue next dusted it carefully, and after it the counter and chairs, and mantel-shelf; the floor was clean swept always; and Sue herself, though in a faded calico, was as nice in her ways as her friend Roswald. Never was her little brown head anything but smooth-brushed; her frock clean; her hands and face as fair and pure as Nature had meant them to be. Roswald looked as if soil could not stick to him.
“When the room was in due state of nicety, Sue brought out and placed the two plates, the salt-cellar, with a little wooden spoon in it, the tumblers of blown glass, a pitcher of water, and the spoons. She had done then all she could, and she turned to watch her porridge and the front door both at once; for she did not forget to keep the porridge from burning, while her eye was upon the big brown door at every other minute.
“The porridge had been ready some time before the door at last opened, and in came Roswald bearing a large market-basket on his arm.
“‘It is astonishing,’ said he, as he set it down, ’what a heavy thing Indian meal is!’
“‘Why Roswald!’ said Sue;—‘did you get all that with two cents?’
“‘No,’ said Roswald; ‘the basket I borrowed. It is my mother’s.’
“‘But have you got it full?’ said Sue.
“‘Pretty full,’ said Roswald, complacently.
“‘I never thought two cents would buy so much!’ said Sue.
“‘Didn’t you?’ said Roswald. ‘Ah, you’re not much of a market-woman yet, Sue. My arm is tired.’
“‘I’m sorry!’ said Sue. ‘But I am so glad you have got it for me.’
“‘So am I. Now is that porridge ready?’
“‘Ready this great while,’ said the little housekeeper, carefully dishing it out. ‘It’s been only waiting for you.’
Roswald looked at her with a curious, gentle, sorrowful expression, which was as becoming as it was rare in a boy of his years.
“‘Are you hungry, Sue?’
“‘Yes,’ said Sue, looking up from her dish with a face that spoke her perfectly satisfied with the dinner and the company. ‘Aren’t you?’
“‘Why, I ought to be. The air is sharp enough to give one an appetite. Sue——’
“‘What?’
“‘Do you eat your porridge alone?’
“‘Not to-day,’ said Sue, smiling, while an arch look came across her gentle eye.
“‘Does that mean that you are going to eat me with it? I shall beg leave to interpose a stay of proceedings upon that.’
“And sitting down, with an air of determination, he drew the porridge dish quite to his end of the chest-table, and looked at Sue as much as to say, ‘You don’t touch it.’
“‘What does that mean? Aren’t you going to let me have any?’ said Sue, laughing.
“‘No.’
“‘Why not?’
“‘I shall want all the porridge myself. You’ll have to take something else, Sue!’
“‘But I haven’t got anything else,’ said Sue, looking puzzled and amused.
“‘Well, if you give me my dinner, it’s fair I should give you yours,’ said Roswald; and rising, he brought his market-basket to the side of the table, and sat down again.
“‘It’s a pity I can’t serve things in their right order,’ he said, as he pulled out a quantity of apples from one end of the basket,—‘but you see the dinner has gone in here head foremost. I never saw anything so troublesome to pack. There’s a loaf of bread, now, that has no business to show itself so forward in the world; but here it comes—— Sue, you’ll want a knife and fork.’
“And he set a deep, longish dish, with a cover, on the table, and then a flat round dish with a cover. Sue looked stupefied. Roswald glanced at her.
“‘Your appetite hasn’t gone, Sue, has it?’
“But she got up and came round to him, and put her face in her two hands down on his shoulder, and cried very hard indeed.
“‘Why, Sue!’ said Roswald, gently,—‘I never expected to see you cry for your dinner.’
“But Sue’s tears didn’t stop.
“‘I’ll put all the things back in the basket if you say so,’ said Roswald, smiling.
“‘I don’t say any such thing,’ said Sue, lifting up her tearful face and kissing his cheek; and then she went round to her seat and sat down with her head in her hands. Roswald, in his turn, got up and went to her, and took hold of her hands.
“‘Come, Sue,—what’s the matter? that isn’t fair. Look here, my porridge is growing cold.’
“And Sue laughed and cried together.
“‘Dear Roswald! what made you do so?’
“‘Do how?’
“‘Why,—do so. You shouldn’t. It was too good of you.’
“Roswald gave a merry little bit of a laugh, and began to take off the covers and put them on the counter.
“‘Come, Sue,—look up; I want my porridge, and I am waiting for you. Where shall I get a knife and fork?—in the pantry in the back room?’
“Sue jumped up, wiping away her tears, and run for the knife and fork; and from that time, throughout the rest of the meal, her face was a constant region of smiles.
“‘A roast chicken!—Oh, Roswald!—How mother will like a piece of that! How good it smells!’
“‘She’s had her dinner,’ said Roswald, who was carving: ‘you must take a piece of it first. I ought in conscience to have had a separate dish for the potatoes, but my market-basket was resolved not to take it. Some salt, Sue?’
“Sue ran for another knife and fork, and then began upon her piece of chicken; and Roswald helped himself out of his dish and eat, glancing over now and then at her.
“‘You can’t think how good it is, Roswald, after eating porridge so long,’ said Sue, with a perfectly new colour of pleasure in her face.
“‘This is capital porridge!’ said Roswald. ‘I’ll trouble you for a piece of bread, Sue.’
“‘Why, Roswald!—are you eating nothing but porridge?’
“‘Yes, and I tell you I should like a piece of bread with it.’
“‘Ah, do take something else!’ said Sue, giving him the bread. ‘The porridge will keep till another time.’
“‘I don’t mean it shall, much of it,’ said Roswald. ‘It’s the best dinner I’ve had in a great while.’
“Sue laid down her knife and fork to laugh at him, though the doing so had very near made her cry again.
“‘Please take some chicken, Roswald!’
“‘I’d rather not. I’ll take a piece of pie with you presently.’
“‘I should think chicken was enough,’ said Sue; ‘you needn’t have brought me pie.’
“‘I wanted some. It’s a mince pie, Sue. Do you remember that day after to-morrow is Christmas?’
“‘Christmas!—the day after to-morrow!’—said Sue. ‘No, I had forgot all about Christmas.’
“‘What shall we do to keep it?’
“‘Why nothing, I sha’n’t,’ said Sue, meekly. ‘I shall not eat porridge, Roswald. O if father could only come home—that would be enough keeping of Christmas! We shouldn’t want any thing else.’
“‘I’ll tell you how it’s going to be kept out of doors,’ said Roswald; ‘it is fixing for a fine fall of snow. The air is beginning to soften and grow hazy already. I like a snowy Christmas.’
“‘With snow on the ground; but not snowing?’ said Sue.
“‘Yes, both ways. Now, Sue,—have you another plate? or will you take it in your fingers?’
“Sue ran off for plates.
“‘How I wish I could give some of this to father!’ she said, as she tasted her first bit of the pie. ‘How will he get anything to eat, Roswald?’
“‘They will take care of that,’ said Roswald. ‘He will have a good dinner, Sue; you needn’t be concerned about it. If they didn’t feed their jurymen, you know, they might have no jury by the time the cause was got through, and that would be inconvenient. Hasn’t he been home at all?’
“‘No.’
“‘They do sometimes let them come home,’ said Roswald; ‘but in this case I suppose they are keeping everybody tight to the mark.’
“‘Why shouldn’t they let them come home at night?’ said Sue; ‘what would be the harm? They must sleep somewhere.’
“‘They are afraid, Sue, that if they let them out of sight, somebody may talk to them about the cause, and put wrong notions into their heads; so that they won’t give a true verdict.’
“‘What is a verdict?’ said Sue.
“‘It’s the jury’s decision. You see, Sue, all the people—all the lawyers, on both sides,—will bring all the proof they can to show whether Simon Ruffin did or didn’t shoot Mr. Bonnycastle. One side will try to prove he did, and the other side will try to prove he didn’t. The jury will hear all that is to be said, and then they will make up their minds what is the truth. When they are ready, the judge will ask them, ‘Gentlemen, are you agreed upon a verdict?’ and the foreman will say, ‘Yes.’ Then the judge will ask, ‘Is the prisoner at the bar guilty, or not guilty?’ and the foreman will say, according as they have decided, ‘Guilty,’ or ‘Not guilty;’ and that answer is the verdict.’
“‘And then he will be hung!’ said Sue.
“‘If they find he is guilty, he will; but they don’t condemn him; that’s the judge’s business. The jury only decide what is the truth.’
“‘Why must they have so many men to do that? why wouldn’t one do as well?’
“‘It would, if they could be always sure of having a man who couldn’t and wouldn’t make a mistake. It isn’t likely that twelve men will all make the same mistake.’
“‘And must they all be agreed?’ said Sue.
“‘They must all be agreed.’
“‘And if they are not, the man can’t be hanged?’
“‘No, nor set free.’
“‘I’m glad of that,’ said Sue.
“‘Why, Sue?’
“‘Because, if father isn’t sure that man is guilty,—I mean, that he shot Mr. Bonnycastle,—he won’t let them do anything to him.’
“‘It’s well you can’t be a juryman, Sue; you would never let any rogue have his rights.’
“‘Yes, I would,’ said Sue, gravely; ‘if I thought he deserved them.’
“‘I wouldn’t trust you,’ said Roswald. ‘I should like to have you on the jury if I was standing a trial for my life. You’d be challenged, though.’
“‘Challenged!’ said Sue.
“‘Yes.’
“‘What is that?’
“‘Why, Simon Ruffin, for instance, might say, ‘Mr. Peg is an old enemy of mine—he has a spite against me; he would not be a fair judge in my case.’ That would be challenging your father as an improper juryman, and he would he put out of the jury.’
“‘But father isn’t anybody’s enemy,’ said Sue.
“‘No, I know he isn’t,’ said Roswald, smiling; ‘but that’s an instance. Will you have some more pie, Sue?’
“‘No, thank you. I’ll put these things away, and see if mother wants anything; and then, if she don’t, I’ll come down, and we’ll talk.’
“While Sue cleared away the dishes, Roswald mended the fire.
“‘You may as well let the table stand, Sue,’ said he; ‘we shall want it again.’
“‘Why, are you coming to eat with me again?’ said Sue, laughing.
“‘I dare say I shall, if your father don’t come home,’ said Roswald.
“Sue soon came down-stairs, for her mother luckily did not want her; and the two drew their chairs together and had a very long conversation, in the course of which Roswald gave many details of his stay at Merrytown, and enlightened Sue as to the charms and beauties of a country village. Sue looked and listened, and questioned and laughed; till there came a knocking up-stairs, and then they separated. Sue went up to her mother again, and Roswald left the house.
“The room did not look desolate any more, though it was left again without anybody in it. There was the chest-table, and the contented-looking fire, and the two chairs. All this while we shoes lay in the corner, and nobody looked at us. It seemed as if we were never to get done.
“The fire had died, the afternoon had not quite, when Mrs. Lucy came again. Her knock brought Sue down. She had come to bring another little pail of soup, and a basket with some bread and tea and sugar.
“‘Don’t spend your money, my child,’ she said; ‘keep it till you want it more. This will last your mother to-morrow, and I will see that you have something stronger than porridge.’
“‘O I have, Mrs. Lucy,’ said Sue, with a grateful little face, which thanked the lady better than words; ‘I’ve got plenty for I don’t know how long.’
“‘You don’t look as if you were out of heart,’ said Mrs. Lucy. ‘You know who can send better times?’
“‘O yes, ma’am,’ said Sue. ‘He has already.’
“‘Trust him, dear; and let me know all you want.’
“Sue stood, sober and silent, while Mrs. Lucy went out at the door; and then she fell down on her knees before one of the chairs, and sunk her head on her hands; and was quite still for a minute or two, till the knocking sounded again. It was not a gentle tap on the floor, just to let Sue know she was wanted; it was an impatient, quarrelsome, vexatious, ‘rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!’ ’rat-tat!’ ’rat-tat!’ Sue ran up.
“The cobbler did not come home that night, and Roswald would stay in the house. Sue did all she could to hinder him; for indeed there was nothing for him to sleep on but the pile of leather scraps; but he would not be hindered.
“‘But your mother, Roswald?’ Sue gently urged.
“‘What of my mother?’
“‘She will want you.’
“‘How do you know that?’
“‘I should think she would,’ said Sue.
“‘Should you? Well, she thinks, and so do I, that you want me more.’
“‘How good you are, dear Roswald!’
“‘Not very, Sue,’ said Roswald, calmly.
“‘Do you know what Mrs. Lucy says?’ said Sue. ‘She says that you have your own way in everything.’
“‘Mrs. Lucy might have gone wider of the mark, I suppose,’ said Roswald, blowing up the fire.
“‘Mrs. Lucy is very good,’ said Sue. ‘She brought us some tea and sugar this afternoon.’
“‘Did she?’ said Roswald. ‘Then what will you do with what Mrs. Halifax sent?’
“‘Did she send us some?’ said Sue. ‘Oh, Roswald!’
“Roswald laughed at her; and Sue did not know what to do with herself; she went and fetched down a quantity of coverlids and things for Roswald to wrap himself in, and be warm during the night; and begged him to keep a good fire.
“The next day still the cobbler did not come home. It passed with no visiters except Roswald and Mrs. Lucy, who stepped in for a minute. Sue’s mother wanted her up-stairs pretty much the whole day; so there could be little fun going. Christmas-eve Roswald stayed in the house again. But he went off very early in the morning, without seeing Sue, after he had made the fire for her.
“The snow had not come so soon as Roswald thought it would. There was none on the ground Christmas-eve. But when Christmas-morning rose, the whole of Beachhead was softly and smoothly covered with white. It had fallen very fast and quietly during the night; the window-sills were piled up, the door-knob was six inches high, and the snow hung like thatch over the eaves of the houses. The streets were a soft, pure, printless spread of white.
“So they were early, when Roswald first went out. And whatever kept people’s feet within doors—whether the dark morning, for the snow still fell, or happy Christmas delays—there was yet hardly a foot-print but his to be seen in that part of the street when, some hours later, a sled drawn by a horse and carrying two men and a barrel, drew up before Mr. Peg’s door. Sue had heard the tinkle of the three bells which the horse bore on his neck; and, as it told of the first sleighing that year, she went to the window to see. There was the sled and one man and the barrel; the other man had jumped off, and was knocking at the front door.
“‘Very queer!’ thought Sue;—‘what can they want here?’—but she ran down-stairs and opened the door. The barrel was rolling up over the snow to the house, and the two men were behind pushing it. The cold air, and the yet falling snow, and the white street, the men, and the barrel rolling up towards Sue! Sue was bewildered. But that barrel must go somewhere, and she held the door open.
“‘What is it?’ said Sue. ‘It doesn’t belong here, does it?’
“‘There’s ‘Mr. Peg’ on it,’ said one of the men; ‘and this is Mr. Peg’s house, ain’t it?’
“‘What is it?’ said Sue, in astonishment, as the barrel now stood up on end at the end of her chest-table.
“‘It’s a barrel of flour, I guess,’ said the man. ‘Looks like it; and it come from Mr. Hoonuman’s.’
“‘Flour!’ said Sue.
“But the men with their heavy snow shoes clumped out again, and shut the door behind them with a bang. Sue stood and looked.
“There was the barrel, full-sized, standing on end, one side of it still lightly coated with snow; and there were the snow-marks on the floor of the feet that had been there. It wasn’t a dream. It was a real barrel, and even the snow wasn’t in a hurry to melt away.
“Suddenly it flashed into Sue’s little mind that it might be a Christmas!—and then whoever sent it ought to have been there, when the unwonted rosy colour sprang to her cheeks and made her for a minute look like a well-to-do child. And whoever sent it ought to have seen, a minute after, the bended head, and heard the thanksgiving that was not spoken, and the prayer, earnest and deep, for a blessing on the friend that had sent it.
“Sue had lifted her head, but had not moved from a foothold, when Roswald opened the door.
“‘O Roswald! do you see this?’
“‘Merry Christmas, Sue!’ said Roswald, gaily.
“‘O Roswald, do you know what this is?”
“‘It is very like a barrel of flour,’ said Roswald. ‘I should be surprised if it was anything else!’
“‘But, Roswald, who sent it?’
“‘Why, Sue!—Santa Claus, to be sure. Don’t you know what day it is?’
“‘It didn’t come down chimney,’ said Sue; ‘that I know. Dear Roswald, don’t you know who sent it?’
“‘If Santa Clans had taken me into his confidence, you know, Sue, it would not be an honest thing to betray. I wonder what you can do with a barrel of flour, now you have got it.’
“‘Do?’ said Sue;—but just then there was another knock at the door. Roswald opened it. In came a boy with a long string of fine black and blue fish, which Mrs. Binch had sent to Sue.
“‘Beachhead is waking up,’ said Roswald.
“‘O Roswald!’ said Sue, beginning to get into the spirit of the thing,—‘did you ever see anything like those fish? O tell Mrs. Binch I thank her a great many times, please,—a great many times; I am very much obliged to her, and so is father.—O Roswald!—do see!—’
“‘There’s your mother knocking, Sue,’ said Roswald. ‘Run off, and I’ll take care of these fish. You get ready for breakfast.’
“Sue went off in one direction, and Roswald in another. He was the first to come back, with a beautifully cleaned fish, which he soon had upon the coals. He went on to set the table, and get the bread and the tea; and by that time Sue came, as happy and as humble as possible, to enjoy her breakfast. Whether or not Roswald had had another breakfast before, he at any rate kept her company in hers, both talking and eating. The fish was declared to be the finest that could come out of the sea, and Roswald was probably adjudged to be the best cook on land; if he had been, his work could not have given better satisfaction.
“Roswald had to go away after breakfast, and told Sue his mother would want him at dinner, and he could not be there again before evening; but then he would come. Sue was satisfied with everything.
“Her day was spent for the most part up stairs. But there were some breaks to it. A servant came in the course of the morning, bringing some bottles of wine for her mother, from Mrs. Halifax. Sue was already in a state of happiness that could hardly be heightened, and was in fact endeavouring to bear it with the help of her Bible, for it was in her hand whenever she came down stairs. But her eyes sparkled afresh at this gift, because it came from Mrs. Halifax, and because it was what her mother wanted. Sue could not wait. She begged the man to open one of the bottles for her; which with no little difficulty was done, without a corkscrew; and then, when he had gone, Sue poured out a little into a teacup, and went up stairs with such a face—joy and love were dancing a waltz in it.
“A little before noon there came another knock at the door. A modest knock this was, so gentle that Sue probably did not hear it. The knocker had not patience, or was not scrupulous; he opened the door halfway, and pushed in a square wooden box, nailed up and directed; after which he went away again, leaving it to tell its own tale.
“It seemed to tell nothing that Sue could understand. She looked at it, when next she came down, with all her eyes, and on all sides; but it was fast nailed up; she could not by any means open it, and she could not tell what was inside. She easily guessed that it was another ‘Christmas;’ but in what form? She sat and looked at it, with a face of infinite delight. She walked round it. Nothing was to be made of it but a pine-box, tolerably heavy, with her own name and her father’s in large black letters on the upper side. Those letters did look lovely. Sue read them a great many times that day, and sat and gazed at the wooden box; but she could do nothing with it till Roswald came. He came at last, towards the edge of the evening. Sue was watching for him.
“‘O Roswald, there you are!—here’s another!’
“‘Another what?’ said Roswald, gravely.
“‘Another Christmas—look here.’
“‘Looks very like Christmas,’ said Roswald.
“‘Dear Roswald, won’t you get a hammer!’
“‘A hammer,’ said Roswald. ‘I suppose Mr. Joist will lend me one.’
“He went to borrow it, and opened the box. Sue watched with breathless interest while the hammer did its work, and the pieces of the cover came up one by one.
“‘Now, Sue!’—said Roswald, as he stepped back and began to draw the nails out of the wood.
“Sue drew the things out of the box with slow and cautious fingers, that seemed almost afraid of what they found. She did not say a word, but one or two half-breathed ‘oh’s!’ There was a nice and complete outfit of clothes for her. On the top lay a paper written with,
“‘For little Susan Peg, from some friends that love her.’
“When she got to the bottom, Sue looked up.
“‘Oh, Roswald!’
“‘Who sent me these?’
“‘Some friends of little Susan Peg, that love her,’ said Roswald.
“‘Did you know about it?’
“‘I heard my mother speak about it, Sue.’
“‘Did she do it?’
“‘Not she alone. Mrs. Lucy and some other ladies all had a hand in it.’
“‘O how good they are!—’
“It was long before Sue could get up from the box. Roswald stood, hammer in hand, looking at her and smiling. At last Sue packed the box again.
“‘I don’t deserve it all,’ she said; ‘but then I don’t deserve anything. Now I guess we’ll have some tea.’
“‘I’ll go and carry back this hammer,’ said Roswald, ‘and then I’m ready. I’m very thirsty.’
“‘O dear Roswald!’ said Sue, ‘won’t you just open that barrel of flour first?—it will save going for the hammer again; and mother thinks she wants some pop-robin.’
“‘But what’s pop-robin good for without milk?’ said Roswald, as they went to the barrel, which he had rolled into the pantry.
“‘O now I might get a halfpenny’s worth of milk,’ said Sue;—‘it’s for mother; and now we have so many things, we might afford it.’
“‘See you don’t,’ said Roswald. ‘Mother sends you word—there are enough nails in this barrel-head!—she says you may have as much milk as you want from her cow, whenever you will come for it or I will bring it; so between us I guess it’ll be safe to count upon it.’
“He was hammering at the barrel-head, and Sue standing by looking very pleased, her little hand gratefully resting on his shoulder, when another hand was laid on hers. Sue turned.
“‘Father!’ she exclaimed. ‘O father!—are you home?—O I’m so glad!—’
“The cobbler’s grey head was stooped almost to the barrel-top, and Sue’s arms were round his neck; and how many times they kissed each other I don’t believe either of them knew. It seemed impossible for Sue to loose her hold.
“‘And you are here, my boy,’ said the cobbler, turning to Roswald,—‘doing my work!’
“‘No, sir, I have been doing mine,’ said Roswald.
“‘O father, he has taken such care of me!’ said Sue.
“‘I warrant him,’ said the cobbler. ‘If I could only have known that Roswald Halifax was in town, I could have minded my business with some quietness.’
“‘And is it done, father?’ said Sue.
“‘It is done, my child.’
“‘And what have you done with that man?’
“‘We have declared him upon our judgment, Not Guilty.’
“‘O I’m so glad!’ said Sue.
“They came back to their tea, all three; and more black fish was broiled; and all the Christmas was told over; and well-nigh all the trial. The jury had been kept in all Christmas-day to agree upon their verdict.
“From that day the cobbler’s affairs improved. Whether his friends exerted themselves to better his condition, now that they knew it; or whether Mr. Ruffin’s friends did; or whether neither did, but other causes came into work, certain it is that from that time the cobbler’s hands had something to do; and more and more till they had plenty. So it came to pass that this poor pair of shoes didn’t get finished till about a month ago; and then Mr. Krinken must take it into his head that we would fit his little boy, and bought us;—for which we owe him a grudge, as we wanted decidedly to spend our lives with Mr. Peg and his little brown-headed daughter.”
“Did Mrs. Peg get well?” said Carl.
“Yes, long ago, and came down-stairs; but she was no improvement to her family, though her getting well was.”
“I am very sorry that story is done,” said Carl. “I want to hear some more about Roswald Halifax.”
“There is no more to tell,” said the shoe.
If Carl had been puzzled on Friday as to what story he would hear, he was yet more doubtful on Saturday. There lay the pine-cone, the hymn-book, and the stocking, on the old chest, and there sat Carl on the floor beside them,—sometimes pulling his fingers, and sometimes turning over the three remaining story-tellers, by way of helping him to make up his mind. As a last resort he was taking a meditative survey of the ends of his toes, when a little shrill voice from the chest startled him; and the pine-cone began without more ado.
“‘Whew!’ said the north wind ‘Whew—r—r—r—r!’
“The fir trees heard him coming, and bowed their tall heads very gracefully, as if to tell the wind he could not do much with them. Only some of the little cones who had never blown about a great deal, felt frightened, and said the wind made their teeth chatter.
“‘Do you think we can stay on?’ asked one little cone; and the others would have said they didn’t know, but the wind gave the tree such another shake that their words were lost.
“‘Whew—r—r—r—r—r!’ said the wind.
“And again the fir trees bowed to let him pass, and swayed from side to side, and the great branches creaked and moaned and flung themselves about in a desperate kind of way; but the leaves played sweet music. It was their fashion whenever the wind blew.
“‘I think we shall have snow,’ said the tallest of the fir trees, looking over the heads of his companions.
“‘The sky is very clear,’ remarked a very small and inexperienced fir, who was so short he could not see much of anything.
“‘Yes,’ said the tall one, ‘so you think; but there is a great deal of sky besides that which is over our heads; and I can see the wind gathering handfuls of snow-clouds, which he will fling about us presently.’
“‘Yes,’—repeated the tall fir, with another graceful bend—‘I see them—they are coming.’
“The evergreens were all sorry to hear this, for nothing depressed them so much as snow; the rain they could generally shake off,—at least if it didn’t freeze too hard.
“As for the beeches, they said if that was the case they must put off their summer clothes directly. And one little beech, with a great effort, did succeed in shaking off half-a-dozen green leaves the next time the wind came that way.
“‘You need not hurry yourselves,’ said the tall fir—‘this is only an early storm—the winter will not come yet. I can still see the sun for a few minutes every day.’
“And that was true. For a few minutes the sun shewed himself above the horizon, and then after making a very small arch in the sky, down he went again. Then came the long afternoon of clear twilight; and the longer night, when the stars threw soft shadows like a young moon, and looked down to see their bright eyes in the deep fiord that lay at the foot of the fir trees. For this was on the north-west side of Norway; and the fir trees grew by one of the many inlets of the sea which run far away for miles into the country, and are called fiords.
“At the mouth the fiord was so narrow, and the overhanging trees so thick, that you might have coasted along, backwards and forwards, without perceiving the entrance; but to the country people it was well known, and unmistakeably marked out by one particular hemlock. Pushing your little boat through its green branches that dipped their fingers in the water, the fiord opened before you. The banks on each side were for the most part very steep, and often wooded to the water’s edge; while sometimes a pitch of bare rocks and a noisy cataract came rough and tumble down together, pouring disturbance into the smooth waters of the fiord.
“The fiord itself was too beautiful to be half described. It wound about from rock to rock, now swashing gently at the base of a high mountain, and then turning and spreading out, bay-like, where the shore was lower and the hills stood aloof; but everywhere overhung or nodded to by the great trees that looked as if they had known it since it was a mere rill,—the beeches and oaks and hemlocks, the tall pines like a ship’s mainmast; and most of all by that glory of those forests—the Norway Spruce fir. These watched the fiord everywhere,—in the regions of perfect solitude, and in the spots where a little clearing—a waft of blue smoke—the plaintive bleat of a goat mounting up in the world, or the hearty bow-wow of some hardy little dog, that was minding his own business and everybody’s else, told of a human habitation. Back of all—beyond cliff and wood and everything but the blue sky, towered up the peaks of perpetual snow—whose bare heads no man had ever seen.
“The fiord could not point heavenward after that fashion. But it reflected every bit of blue that came over it, and even when the skies were dark, and the snow-peaks hid their heads in a cloud, the fiord’s reflections were only grave and thoughtful—never gloomy.
“And the water was so clear!
“Sailing along in a little boat you could look down, down, for twenty fathoms, and see the smooth white sand, with little shells and star-fish; and then the bottom of the fiord rose suddenly up like a rocky mountain—over which the boat passed into a deep gulf on the other side. Then came a plain, and great forests, far down in the water; through which large fishes swam softly about; and then another mountain.
“In one of the narrowest parts of the fiord a little spot of cleared and cultivated land lay like a smile between it and the rough mountain. A mere point of land—a little valley wedged in among the heights that rose cliff beyond cliff towards the blue sky, fringed here and there with fir trees. The valley smiled none the less for all this roughness; and the little dwelling that there found a foothold seemed rather to court the protection of the cliffs, and to nestle under their shelter. The house was such as best suited the place.
“It was built of great pine logs, roughly squared and laid one upon another, with layers of moss between; while every crevice and crack was well stuffed with the same. The roof was of boards, covered with strips of birch bark; and over all a coating of earth two or three inches deep in which a fine crop of moss had taken root. The windows were large, and well glazed with coarse glass, while very white curtains hung within; and the door was painted in gay colours. Other little huts or houses stood about, forming a sort of square; and furnishing apartments for the pig, the cows, and their winter provision; while one more carefully built than the rest, held all manner of stores for the family. Raised upon posts, that the rats might not enter, the little alpebod kept safe the fish, the venison, the vegetables,—even the cloth, yarn, and sometimes clothing, of its humble owners.
“In sight of the house, a little way down the fiord, was a wild ravine; skirted on one side with a height of thick woods and rocks, while on the other the rocks stood alone—the sharp ridge rising up hundreds of feet to a ledge in some places not a foot wide. On either side the ridge the pitch was very sheer down, the one depth being filled with forest trees which led on to the wooded hill beyond; while the ravine on the other echoed to the voice of a waterfall, that pouring down over a pile of rocks perhaps two hundred feet high, foamed into the fiord; which then came eddying past the little hut, bearing the white flakes yet on its blue water.
“This was all one could see in the valley; but the tall fir trees looked at long ranges of wooded hills and rocky cliffs, with the fiord in its further windings, and beyond all the snow mountains.
“‘How cold you must be up there!’ said a little pine who was nearly as high as the tall fir’s lower branches. But the fir did not hear him, or perhaps did not take notice, for he was looking off at the fine prospect.
“‘Yes, it is cold up here,’ answered one of the fir cones,—‘and windy—and there’s a great deal of sameness about it. It’s just snow and rain, and wind and sunshine, and then snow again.’
“‘That’s what it is everywhere,’ said the wind as he swept by.
“‘I can’t help it,’—said the cone—‘I am tired of it. I want to travel, and see the world, and be of some use to society. What can one do in the top of a fir tree?’
“‘Why, what can a pine cone do anywhere?’ said some of the beech mast.
“‘The end of a pine cone’s existence is not to be eaten up, however,’ retorted the cone, sharply. ‘Neither am I a pine cone—though people will call me so. We firs hold our heads pretty high, I can tell you. But I will throw myself into the fiord some day, and go to sea. I have no doubt I could sail as well as a boat. It would be a fine thing to discover new islands, and take possession.’
“‘It would be very lonely,’ said a squirrel who was gathering beech mast.
“‘Royally so—’ said the pine cone. ‘There one would be king of all the trees.’
“‘The trees never had but one king, and that was a bramble,’ said a reed at the water’s edge who was well versed in history.
“‘What nonsense you are all talking!’ said the tall fir tree at length. ‘My top leaf is at this moment loaded with a snowflake—there is something sensible for you to think of.’
“At this moment the hut door opened and a woman came out.
“She wore a dark stuff petticoat made very short, with warm stockings and thick shoes; a yellow close-fitting bodice was girdled round her waist, and from under it came out a white kerchief and very full white sleeves. On her head she wore a high white cap.
“She looked first at the weather, and then turning towards the fall she watched or listened for a few minutes,—but water and rocks and firs were all that eye or ear could find out. Then going up to a line stretched between two of the fir-trees, she felt of some things that hung there to dry.”
“I s’pose that was her clothes line,” said Carl.
“No it wasn’t,” replied the cone,—“I might rather call it her bread line. The things that hung there were great pieces of the inner bark of the pine tree, and looked very much like sheets of foolscap paper.”
“She didn’t make bread out of them, I guess,” said Carl.
“Yes she did,” replied the cone. “She made many a loaf of bark bread, by pounding the dry bark and mixing it with flour. It wasn’t particularly bad bread either. So people say—I never tasted it. But the country folks in Norway use it a great deal in hard seasons; and in those woods you often meet great pine trees that have been stripped of their bark, and that have dried and bleached in the weather till they look as if made of bone or marble.
“Well—the pieces of bark were dry, and Norrska began to take them off the line, for of course the snow would not improve them.”
“Who was Norrska?” interrupted Carl.
“The good woman that came out of the house. She took them down, and when they were all in a heap at the foot of the tree she began to carry them off to the alpebod—that is the little storehouse I spoke of. Then she went back into the hut for a minute, and when she came out again she had on a long-sleeved grey woollen jacket, and her luur in her hand.”
“What’s that?” said Carl.
“The luur is a long trumpet-shaped thing, made of hollow pieces of wood, or pieces of birch bark, tied together, and four or five feet long.”
“What was it for?” said Carl.
“Why you shall hear, if you will have patience,” said the cone. “Norrska raised the luur with one hand, and putting her mouth to the little end there came forth of the other sundry sweet and loud sounds, which echoed back and forth among the rocks till they died away, far up the mountain.”
“But I say,” said Carl, “what for?”
And he took hold of the pine cone and gave it a little pinch; but it was pretty sharp and he let go again.
The pine cone settled himself down on the chest, looking just as stiff as ever, and then went on with his story.
“Norrska sounded her luur twice or thrice, and presently the head and horns of a red cow shewed themselves high up among the rocks. Then came in sight her shoulders and fore feet, and her hind feet and tail; and the whole cow began to descend into the valley, while a dun cow’s head shewed itself in just the same place and fashion. But when Norrska had once seen that they were coming she ceased to watch them, and turned to the fall again.
“Its white foam looked whiter than ever in the gathering dusk. The grey clouds which were fast closing in overhead sent down a cold grey light, and the water before it broke no longer sparkled with the sun’s gay beams, but looked leaden and cold and deep. Then breasted with snow like the stormy petrel, it came flying down the precipice, to plunge into the deep fiord below. Its very voice seem changed; for the wind had died away, and the steady roar of the water was the only sound that broke the hush.
“There was no living creature in sight,—unless a little lemming peeped out of his hole, or an eagle soared across the sky, a mere speck upon its clouds. The cows had reached the valley and now stood quietly chewing the cud, having had the precaution to turn their backs to the wind; and now Norrska fetched the milkpails, and drove the red cow up to the milking-corner. And as she went, a snowflake fell on her forehead and another fell on top of her head; and the fir trees sighed, and bowed their heads to what they couldn’t help. Norrska sighed too.
“‘The winter is coming,’ she said, ‘and the snow; and truly the alpebod is but poorly filled. And Sneeflocken sick—and Laaft not home from Lofoden!—And Kline—what can keep him?’ And again she looked towards the fall.
“Kline was there now—she could see him plain enough, though he was but a little spot on that sharp ridge by the waterfall. The path itself was hard to find, as it wound about over and under and around the points of rock that met on the ledge. A stranger could scarce have climbed it but on hands and knees. Yet down there came Kline, sure-footed as a chamois—swiftly down; and singing praises of the rocks and streams and woods and snow as he came. But before he reached the foot of the hill Kline’s song stopped,—with the first look at the hut his thoughts had outrun his feet; and with a quieter step now he came down into the valley and up to where his mother sat milking the red cow. In one hand was a gun, in the other a string of golden plovers.
“‘How late, Kline!’ said Norrska.
“‘Yes mother—I tried to get shot at a reindeer. How is she?’
“Norrska silently pointed to a snowflake, which falling on her hand as she talked, had lain for a moment in all its pure beauty, but was now melting fast away. She watched till it disappeared, and then bending her head lower than ever, she resumed her work.
“Kline stood silent and thoughtful.
“‘May be not, mother,’ he said at length. ‘Her appetite has been better lately. See—I have these plovers for her to-night, and to-morrow I will have the deer. Think of my finding one in these parts!’
“But his mother said no more, and when the pails were full Kline took them from her and carried them into one of the little huts; and then returning he drove the cows into their little log dwelling, and taking up his birds and gun he walked slowly to the house. But the gayly-painted door was out of tune with his mood, and he turned and went round the back way.
“Leaving both gun and birds in the kitchen, Kline opened softly a door leading to one of the bedrooms and went in.
“The corners of this room and the sides of the windows were boarded, and the floor was strewed with fresh twigs of the juniper tree; which gave a sweet smell through the room, and made it look pretty too. Of the three windows two looked towards the fiord and one to the mountain and over the little clearing. The bed stood in a recess that had doors like one of your cupboards; but these now were open, and by the bedside stood a little white pine table, and upon it a wooden bowl and spoon—all prettily carved.”
“How were they carved?” said Carl.
“The bowl had carved upon it a spray of the wild bramble—twining round with its leaves and berries; and the handle of the spoon was like a wild duck’s head; and the feet of the table were like bear’s feet. Kline had done it all, for in Norway the men and boys carve a great deal, and very beautifully; and this bowl and spoon had been made for his little sister as he sat by her bedside, and Kline was very proud of them. The feathers on the duck’s head were beautifully done, and the bramble-berries looked pretty enough to eat. But Kline did not once look at them now, for something far prettier lay on the bed, and that was little Sneeflocken.”
“What did they call her that for?” said Carl.
“Because that is the name of the snowflakes. And she was just as pure and fresh as they, and had never had the least bit of colour in her cheeks from the time she was a baby. You could scarcely have distinguished them from the pillow, but for the fair hair that came between. She was covered with a quilt made of down; for Kline had risked his life almost in climbing to the high difficult places where the eider ducks build their nests, that he might get the soft down which the mother duck plucks from her own breast to keep her eggs and nestlings warm. And Norrska had made it into a quilt, the warmest thing that could be—while the weight of it was almost nothing.
“And beneath this soft quilt Sneeflocken lay, with her eyes closed, and singing softly to herself in the Norse language a hymn, which was something like this:—