Here is Fred’s letter to Maggie.

Maggie answered her Uncle Ruthven’s letter the very next morning in these words:—

Last of all here is a little letter which Bessie wrote to her grandmamma,—

VII.
A “REAL, REAL ADVENTURE.”

They were all in the railway train bound for ——; that is, Mr. and Mrs. Bradford, with their three little girls and nurse, Mr. Powers, Belle, and old Daphne.

Maggie, Bessie, and Belle, with their dolls, had two whole seats to themselves, one having been turned so as to face the other, and give them what Bessie called a “nice, cunning travelling-house.” Here they had established themselves in great comfort, papa and mamma being just behind; while Mr. Powers, and the two nurses with Baby, were seated on the opposite side of the car.

And here, by and by, seeing the nice play that was going on, did Miss Baby think it best to betake herself and her own doll, named Peter Bartholomew. This gentleman with the long name, which had been given to him by Fred, was made entirely of worsted, face, cap, coat, and pants, all knit of the brightest colors, and could be knocked about or thrown from any height without damage to his head or limbs. So for this reason he had come travelling with Baby Annie, as her dolls were apt to receive some hard knocks and severe falls, not altogether wholesome for more brittle materials.

But Annie was not very fond of Peter Bartholomew, and he received some pretty hard usage at her tiny hands; so that it was well he was not a gentleman of tender feelings, and was able to take thumps, hard squeezes, and scoldings with the utmost composure.

However, on this occasion she thought it wise to praise Peter Bartholomew, by way of persuading her sisters that his company, as well as her own, was desirable; and, putting her little head on one side in the most insinuating manner, she spoke thus from nurse’s lap,—

“Baby tome too. Peter tome too. Baby dood. Peter dood. Nice Peter. Oh, pitty Peter!”

“Oh! isn’t she too cunning, the darling?” said Bessie. “Let’s let her come play with us.”

“Yes, we’ll take her in our house,” said Belle.

So baby was taken into the enclosure, which Maggie had made quite complete by fastening a handkerchief from the arm of one seat to that of the other, and calling it “the door.” Nurse could have lifted baby at once into the place which was offered for her; but that would not do at all. Baby must wait till the door was untied, and she admitted in due form.

Once there, and seated in a snug corner, she behaved herself very well for a long time, watching her little sisters and Belle with grave admiration and wonder, and submitting to be played and “pretended” with just as they chose, only now and then insisting that they should all “tiss Peter,” a thing which she would by no means be induced to do herself.

But at last she took it into her head to look out of the window, and in order to do that she must stand upon her feet, which was not safe to let her do without some careful hand to guard her; and as she objected very decidedly to returning to the other side of the car where nurse sat, there was nothing for it but to let nurse come to her.

Now this interfered very much with the arrangements of the three little girls, who were having a grand “family” play; and not one of them was at all inclined to be so disturbed, and there was even some pouting when nurse said they must make room for her for a short time.

But Maggie, Bessie, and Belle could all understand better than Baby Annie, that in travelling one must consider the comfort and convenience of one’s fellow-passengers, as well as one’s own. Baby was very little, and not very well: they had a long day’s journey before them, and it was necessary that she should be indulged in a measure, and kept in a good humor as long as possible; and Bessie was the first to think of this.

“Now, just let me in here for a bit, my honeys,” said nurse, as Maggie stood with her hand on the pocket-handkerchief door, determined to defend her “house” as long as possible. “Baby’ll fret if I take her to the other side when she don’t like it, and that will worry your mother; besides it’s sunny there when we come out of the woods. Let her look out of your window awhile, with me to hold her, and it will soon be her sleepy time, when ye may have your place to yourselves.”

Now old nurse was by no means a small woman; and the children knew that their quarters would be very much narrowed when she should find entrance there, and she might have found it hard work to persuade them to yield without interference from their father or mother, had not Bessie bethought herself when nurse spoke of her mother.

“Oh, yes!” she said to her sister and Belle, “you know we came on our travels to do mamma good, and so we mustn’t let any thing trouble her. If we do, maybe our Father would think we didn’t care very much that He made her better, and that we are ungrateful. Any thing must be choosed ’cept to worry mamma. And baby don’t know any better; so let’s give up to her this time, if she cries everybody will be uncomf’able.”

“Well,” said Maggie, once more untying the handkerchief, “I won’t be selfish.”

“Nor I,” said Belle, who had been the most unwilling to give up her own way.

The “cunning house” was certainly far less roomy when Mammy was seated therein; but having made up their minds to do a kind act, our little girls did it pleasantly and made no fussing about it; the only thing that was said being when Bessie remarked,—

“Nursey, it would be rather convenienter if you were not quite so fat,” which nurse thought a great joke, and laughed heartily, saying,—

“And there’s nobody knows that better than your old Mammy, my pet; but just put by your play till baby’s had her fill of looking out, and I’ll tell ye a story.”

Nurse’s stories always found a market; and the three little girls ranged themselves in the seat facing her, and listened eagerly while she told them the most marvellous of fairy tales.

Meanwhile, Baby Annie, happy and contented, amused herself with watching the swiftly passing objects; and Peter Bartholomew, held by one foot, hung dangling head downwards from the car window. How much he enjoyed this novel mode of riding, neither he nor his little mistress ever told, though baby had enough to say both to herself and him while nurse talked to the other children.

But at last Mrs. Bradford suddenly exclaimed,—

“Take care, nurse; baby has her head out!” and Mammy, who had turned her face for a moment from her charge, drew her in and seated her on her lap.

“Baby must not put her head out,” said mamma: “she’ll be hurt.”

“Peter out,” said baby.

“Why! she’s lost Peter Barfolomew,” said Belle.

“Sure enough,” said nurse, when she had shaken out her skirts, and looked on the floor, without finding that gentleman.

“Bad Peter. Peter all don,” chuckled the baby.

“Did ye throw Peter out?” asked Mammy.

Baby could not say yes; but she nodded her little head till it seemed as if she would wag it off, seeming to think she had done something very praiseworthy.

“Oh, you naughty girl!” said nurse.

“No, no: baby dood; bad Peter. Peter all don, Peter out,” said baby again, clapping her hands, and laughing with the most self-satisfied air.

Yes, Peter Bartholomew was “all gone,” left far behind as the train sped on its way; and though the children went off into merry peals of laughter at little Annie’s bit of mischief, Mrs. Bradford was rather sorry, since Aunt Patty had taken such pains to make him for her. However, the baby knew no better, and his loss could not trouble her much.

Nurse had not finished her story, and when the children’s mirth had subsided, she went on with it. Having disposed of Peter Bartholomew, and finding that she was not allowed to put her head out, the window lost its charms for baby, and she sat still on nurse’s lap for a few moments, gravely regarding her fellow-passengers, and trying to find amusement in them.

Nor was it long before she found a new object of interest. In the seat next to Mammy and herself, and of course with his back towards them as they rode backwards, was a gentleman who wore an enormous Panama straw hat. The older children had remarked this hat and wondered at it, but after the first moment they forgot both the hat and its wearer, and noticed them no more. But I cannot say that the gentleman had not noticed them, although he gave no sign of doing so.

The hat by no means took baby’s fancy: perhaps she thought it took up more than its share of room in the world; however that may be, she concluded to take a closer look at it, and raised herself upon her little feet on the cushioned seat beside Mammy. First she looked at the hat on one side, then on the other; then she peeped under it; then tried to lift herself on the tips of her small toes and peer over it; then carefully touched it with one little finger, and finally expressed her opinion in a loud, emphatic,

“Bad hat!”

But the owner of the offending article of dress did not turn his head or appear to take the slightest notice, not even when baby repeated,—

“Bad, bad hat! Off hat!”

“Sh! sh! my lamb. What’s come to ye to-day?” said nurse.

Not the spirit of a lamb certainly, for baby was in a contrary mood, and determined to have her own way by one means or another; and, finding the hat remained in its place in spite of her orders, she seized hold of it; and, before nurse could stop her, had snatched it from the stranger’s head and tossed it into his lap. Still, without turning his head or seeming at all disturbed, the gentleman put it on again, while baby struggled to free herself from nurse’s hold, shouting,—

“Off hat, off! Bad hat!” again and again, till her mother was obliged to call her to order.

Little as she was, baby had learned to obey when mamma spoke; but the sight of that hat was not to be endured by any baby of taste, and even when seated upon mamma’s lap, and treated to a bit of sponge-cake and papa’s watch, she could not forget it, but now and then broke forth in a wailing tone with,—

“Oh dear! Bad hat, off hat!” till at last the gentleman removed the hat, and submitted to ride bareheaded till his little tormentor should be asleep.

This was soon the case when the cause of her trouble was out of sight; for it was, as nurse said, “her sleepy time,”—one reason perhaps why she was so fractious,—and she forgot hat, watch, and cake in a sound mid-day nap.

Her two sisters and Belle thought all this remarkably funny, and had had much ado to stifle their laughter, so that it should not reach the ears of the stranger with whom baby had made so free. But in spite of their amusement, which had been shared by more than one of the grown people around, Bessie was rather troubled lest mamma should be worried by the little thing’s misbehavior and crying, and also lest the gentleman should have been vexed.

To tell the truth, he was rather annoyed at the notice which all this had brought upon him and his unfortunate hat; but his vexation passed away the moment he heard a soft voice at his ear, whispering,—

“Thank you very much, sir, for taking off your hat; and will you please to s’cuse baby, she don’t know any better than to take a liberty. As soon as she can understand, mamma will teach her to be polite.”

The gentleman turned his face towards her. A pleasant, good-natured face it was, with a merry twinkle in the eyes just now.

“Mamma is a first-rate teacher of politeness and some other good things, I see,” he said, smiling.

“Yes, sir; ’deed she is,” answered Bessie; wondering what mamma had said or done since they had been in the cars by which this stranger could know so much; and then, thinking her duty done, she turned away and began her play with the other children again. After this, all went smoothly and quietly enough till they reached a town where they were to change cars, and where two different railroads crossed one another at the depot. Here they had to wait for an hour until their train should be ready to start; and here Mrs. Bradford thought she might have a good rest after her long ride.

But a fair was going on in the small town, and the dirty little hotel was full to overflowing; so that the only place that could be had for Mrs. Bradford and her sleeping baby was an eight feet square room with a hard sofa, and two equally uninviting chairs. However, by means of cloaks and shawls, a tolerably comfortable resting-place was arranged for these two; and the three children who had no mind to be shut up in the tiny room, were taken for a walk by Mr. Bradford and Daphne; Mr. Powers going to call on an old friend who lived near by.

But there was a good deal of noise, dust, and confusion in the street, and the little girls soon tired of it and wanted to go back to the hotel. When they reached it, two trains were standing at the station, and Daphne exclaimed, pointing to the nearest,—

“Dere’s de train, Massa Bradford. S’posin’ I jis takes de little ladies into de cars. Better for dem waitin’ dere dan in de verandy where all dem folks is; an’ we’ll wake Miss Baby for sure all goin’ into dat little room.”

This last was more than likely; and the veranda where all those men were lounging about, smoking and drinking and swearing, was certainly no place for little ladies; and Daphne’s idea seemed a good one to Mr. Bradford.

“You are sure that is our train, Daphne?” he asked.

“Sure, Massa Bradford. Ain’t I been in it a hundred times?”

“Is this the train for ——?” asked Mr. Bradford of a man standing beside the cars.

“All right, sir. Last car, sir,” was the reply.

Mr. Bradford thinking himself quite sure, helped the children and Daphne into the car, found them good places, and looking at his watch, said,—

“We have half an hour still. Keep these seats for the rest of our party, and I will bring them all soon. You are right, Daphne: it is more comfortable here than in the hotel.”

Then he went away; and for a few moments the children were well amused, watching all the bustle around the station, and now and then dipping rosy little fingers into a basket of delicious strawberries just given to Daphne by a friend whom she had met. The old woman’s pleasure in the splendid fruit, was to see her young mistress and her little friends enjoy it, and she encouraged them to eat as long as they would.

But presently a steam whistle sounded, and she looked about her uneasily, saying,—

“’Pears like this train ain’t maybe right, after all. I go see ’bout him, Miss Belle. Jes you sit still one minute.”

If Daphne had not been so engaged in feeding her young charge, she would have known that this was the second time the whistle had sounded; and she was terribly startled when just as she set her foot upon the ground in order to seek Mr. Bradford and make all sure, it was blown again, there was a call of “all aboard,” and before the bewildered old woman had collected her senses, the train steamed out of the station. Had she instantly made known her trouble to those about her, it might not even then have been too late; but instead of that she rushed after the cars, gesticulating and beckoning with an umbrella which was the pride of her heart, and which she always carried, and crying aloud,—

“Hi there! Hi! Hold on dem cars; hold on till I get my chillen. Hi! Hi!”

The people about thought her crazy, and laughed and cheered as she tore after the fast receding train; but to poor old Daphne it was no joke, and as it turned a curve in the road and was lost to sight, she dropped her umbrella and stood still wringing her hands, and crying,—

“Oh, de chillen, de chillen! Oh, my little Miss Belle! what I gone and done, and what dey faders say?”

But we must leave Daphne, and go in the cars with our three little girls.

For the first few moments they did not understand it, and even after the cars were in rapid motion, looked about them expecting to see their parents and nurses come in. The truth came first to Maggie, and her poor little heart almost stood still with terror and dismay.

“Why, we’re going!” exclaimed Belle. “Where’s papa?”

“And papa and mamma, and all our people?” cried Bessie in a terrified voice.

Then Maggie broke forth.

“Oh, we’re gone off with! They’re left behind! What shall we do? Oh! what shall we do? There’s nobody to take care of us: we’re gone off with.”

Belle immediately set up the most violent screams; and Maggie and Bessie were as much distressed, though they did not cry as loudly.

The people around them soon understood the cause of their trouble: indeed Maggie’s exclamations left no room for doubt, that they were really “gone off with;” though it was some time before either of the three could speak coherently enough to say how it had happened. In fact the poor little things hardly knew themselves: all they could tell was that Daphne had thought they were in the wrong train, had gone to see, and before she came back they were speeding away, they knew not where, without their natural protectors, and in the midst of perfect strangers.

Bessie was the first to collect herself enough to make the story understood, though even then, her tears would hardly let her speak to the group of curious and sympathizing people, who gathered around the three as they clung weeping together.

“And now we’re quite, quite lost; and there’s no policeman to help us,” she sobbed; “and what will mamma do?”

“Poor little dears,” said a lady, pressing forward, and laying her hand soothingly on the little, pitiful, upturned face. “Don’t cry so, my children: you’ll be taken back in some way to your parents.”

“I’m all papa has,” gasped Belle: “he can’t do wifout me.”

“Please let us get out,” moaned Maggie: “we could run back to where our papa and mamma are.”

“The train must be put back,” said one of the by-standers, and he went to find the conductor, and see what could be done; while the lady who had spoken to the children sat down beside them and tried to quiet them with assurances that their parents would certainly find them again.

“But dear mamma will be so frightened and worried, and it’s so bad for her,” said Bessie; her first thought always that tender care for her mother.

The story had spread through the train; and people were coming in from the other cars to look at the three little waifs, who, all by themselves, were each instant being taken farther from their friends; and Belle, looking up as the door was opened afresh, spied a familiar object.

“Oh! there’s the ‘bad hat’ man!” she cried, glad to see any thing on which she had ever laid her eyes before, even though it might be that ugly hat with the strange face beneath it.

At the same moment there came in also the conductor, and the gentleman who had gone to find him; and now the children felt a faint hope that there might be some way out of this trouble.

But the conductor was surly, and absolutely refused to put back,—which indeed would have been hardly safe,—or to stop the train and let out the children, as was proposed by some person, and pleaded for by the little ones themselves.

And here the “bad hat” man put in his word.

“That would never do,” he said; “those little things could not possibly walk back to ——, and no conveyance could be found along here. They must come on to the next station, and there we will see what can be done.”

Down went the three heads and up went Belle’s voice again at these unwelcome words; but the “bad hat” had a kind heart beneath it, and the wearer at once set himself to comfort the forlorn children.

“Come, come, take heart,” he said cheerily. “Now let us see how soon we shall get back to papa and mamma. It will not take us more than one hour or so, to reach the next station, and then—well, to be sure, we’ll have to wait awhile there for the up-train,”—he did not think it best to say it would be more than four hours,—“but we’ll telegraph them and let them know you are all safe, and will be with them before long.”

“Do you know the children sir?” asked a lady.

“Well, no, madam, and they don’t know me; but they know my hat pretty well, and I think that is ground for an acquaintance. It’s a broad one, anyhow, is it not?” he said with a nod at Belle, “and we’re going to take advantage of it.”

“It’s a great while for poor mamma to wait for us, and she’ll be very frightened,” said Bessie, wiping the tears from her eyes, though they were immediately filled again. “I s’pose she’ll think we’re never coming back to her.”

“Not a bit of it,” said “Bad Hat:” “she’ll think you’ll find some one to look after you and bring you back; and how delighted she’ll be to see you safe after such an adventure.”

At this last word all the children pricked up their ears, especially Maggie. She, being the most timid of the three, had been the most broken down by terror, and had, until now, remained in the very depths of despair. But it was really almost a consolation to hear this called “an adventure,” and to remember that here was a subject for the most interesting of letters, provided they ever again reached home and friends, and had the opportunity of writing such. She was still rather doubtful how this was to be brought about, in spite of Mr. “Bad Hat’s” assurances.

“Why! so it is an adventure,” said Bessie; “and Maggie said she wished we’d have some great adventure, but she didn’t mean this kind of a one; did you, Maggie?”

“No, indeed I didn’t,” sobbed Maggie.

“But you can write a letter about it,” said Belle, catching her breath between almost every two words; “and it will be so interesting: all the people you know will want to read it.”

Belle, as well as Bessie, had the greatest admiration for Maggie’s letters, and thought them the most marvellous works of genius.

“Of course they will,” said the gentleman, whom our little strays were already beginning to look upon as a friend. “And so, Maggie writes letters, does she? I wish she would write one to me one of these days.”

“But she don’t know your name,” said Bessie.

“Well, perhaps she might find out. I am not ashamed of it. But I think this little lady has found a name for me. When I came in the car I heard her say, ‘There’s the bad hat man.’ Now suppose Maggie writes a letter and directs it to the ‘bad hat man,’ do you think it would reach me?”

“Yes, I fink it would,” said Belle with emphasis, and eyeing the hat with a look which seemed to add, “there’s no possibility of mistaking that hat.”

So, in pleasant, cheerful talk, the friendly stranger tried to beguile the way, and help the little ones to bear their troubles; and he partly succeeded, though now and then a heavy sigh, or a murmured “Are we most at the next station?” or “Oh, mamma!” showed that they were not forgotten. The other people, who had gathered round in pitying sympathy, saw that they had fallen into good hands, and went back to their seats, leaving them to his care.

“But what shall we do now?” asked Maggie, in new alarm, as they at last approached the longed-for station where they were to leave this train, and at least feel that they were to be borne no farther from their friends. “I don’t know about the streets.”

Now it was rather a strange, but a very good thing that, timid as Maggie was, she seldom lost her presence of mind; and, however frightened she might be, could still think what was best to do for herself and others. You will remember how she thought of her own sash and Bessie’s, as a means for saving Aunt Bessie’s life when she fell over the precipice at Chalecoo. So now feeling as if the care of Bessie and Belle rather fell upon her, since she was the oldest of the three, she tried to collect her thoughts and plan how she should act. But it was all useless, this was such a new and untried place, and so many dangers and difficulties seemed to beset her, that she could not see her way out of them. But her fears were speedily set at rest.

“Oh! you are only going to do as I tell you,” said their new friend. “I shall see you safe in your parents’ hands.”

“Will you, sir?” cried Maggie joyfully, and slipped her hand into his, in her great relief.

“Are you going to get out here?” asked Bessie, as the train slackened its speed.

“Yes: you did not think I would leave you to shift for yourselves?”

“Do you live here?” asked Belle.

“No: I live down in Florida,” was the answer.

“And are you going to get out here just to take care of us?” asked Bessie.

He smiled and nodded assent.

“You are very good, sir,” said Bessie. “Is it just as convenient as not for you?”

“Well, no,” he returned. “I cannot say it is; but then I heard a little girl say, this morning, that ‘any thing was to be choosed before mamma should be worried,’ so after that I think I must do all I can to relieve mamma’s anxiety, and get you back to her as soon as possible.”

So Bessie’s thoughtfulness and care for her dear mother was reaping its own reward.