Peter's heart gave a great bound as they passed a group of Cossacks riding along, but the men were laughing and talking, and did not even glance at the gypsies' cavalcade.
"Let's go and get this job done," said one, "then we shall have a chance of a little peace and rest at barracks," and they rode on merrily.
Ivan clutched Peter's hand. The old man seemed to have wrinkled and aged, and was trembling with fear and excitement. His life had hitherto been so uneventful that the unexpected misfortune seemed to have completely paralyzed him, and he clung to Peter pathetically as they sat in the bottom of the rough cart on a heap of straw.
"They are going to fetch me, my child," he said. "If it had not been for you I should never have escaped them! It is a blow, Peter, a sad blow. After living for seventy years respected by all the village, to be saved from Siberia by a pack of gypsies!"
The gypsies passed through Mourum, and pitched their camp in a clearing in the forest beyond. Here they put up their tents, lighted a fire, and, sitting about in picturesque groups, with their bright-coloured clothing showing vividly against the gloom of the fir trees, they cooked their food, and chatted together in their own strange language.
Meanwhile, Peter, sitting by Ivan's side, had begun to make friends with the gypsy children, and was spinning tops with them upon the trunk of a fallen tree. He was a real child in his power of throwing off troubles, and at that moment his merry laugh—for Peter "had" a very merry laugh—sounded like sweetest music to the old man's loving heart. His face lost its dazed, careworn expression, and a smile gradually stole over it as he watched the children's antics.
Suddenly, into the midst of this quiet woodland scene, one of the gypsy boys, who had been sent into Mourum, came rushing like a whirlwind.
"Get up! get up!" he shouted, "the Cossacks have come into the town, hunting for the old man and the boy. They are coming on here when they have searched the houses. Someone has told them we are hiding; there is no time to be lost!"
The gypsy chief rose from his seat under a rough tent, and, quietly putting down his pipe, turned to his people.
"Get a cart ready immediately, Zedra," he said to one of the young men. "Put provisions in, and drive our two friends to the hut in Viletna wood, you know the one—near the village. Take care of them, and remain there till we come."
Zedra got up obediently, everyone rousing themselves to help. The horse was harnessed in an incredibly short time, and old Ivan Panovitch and Peter being lifted into the cart, it drove off rapidly down the twisting forest path.
The old man lay in a heap in the bottom of the cart, with his eyes closed, and without moving. The terror and excitement had been too much for him. He had fainted.
All Peter's frantic efforts to make him wake up had no effect, and at last the child turned despairingly to Zedra—
"He isn't dead! He can't be dead! Oh, tell me he isn't dead!"
"Nonsense, boy; give him a dose of this," and the gypsy brought out a leather bottle he carried in the pockets of his wide coat.
Peter poured some down Ivan's throat, and the old man opened his eyes with a dazed, weary expression.
"The boots, Peter, the boots!" he murmured. "What a pity, what a waste! The Cossacks will get them!"
Peter sat down amongst the straw and supported his foster father's head on his knees.
"He is only a bit mazed from the shock—he'll get all right soon," said Zedra, not unkindly; but Ivan did not get all right. On the contrary, his mind began to wander, until he did not even recognize Peter.
On they drove, out from the forest and across the dreary plain, with its scorched grass and stunted bushes; on and on, till Peter, in his misery, began to think this horrible journey would never be ended.
At last they entered a wood again, and reached, by forest paths, a hollow, which was so thickly surrounded by trees that at first it was quite invisible. On the slope of this hollow stood a rough log hut thatched with fir branches.
Here Zedra unharnessed the horse, and carrying poor Ivan Panovitch in his strong arms, laid him down on a coat and some straw which Peter had spread out on the floor of the hut.
This was the beginning of a long and tedious illness. Hardly ever conscious, the old man lay quietly in the hut, refusing all food except a little soaked bread, with which Peter fed him carefully from time to time.
Every day Zedra went out on long expeditions into the country, and brought back food of various kinds in the evening. Peter never asked where it came from, for he shrewdly guessed that it would be better not to enquire, and nothing seemed to matter much while Ivan Panovitch lay so ill.
But one evening the twilight fell and Zedra did not appear. The moon and stars shone out, and little Peter found himself quite alone in the gloomy wood with his poor sick foster father. It was so still and solitary that again dreadful tales came crowding into his mind, though he tried bravely to drive them away and think only of Ivan Panovitch.
He shut and bolted the rough door, and sat down by father Ivan to watch if he should show any signs of consciousness. A shaft of moonlight shone between the trees, in through a hole in the roof, and lighted up the old man's face. Two little stars appeared in the opening.
"We're not quite alone, for the angels are watching us," thought Peter. "What bright eyes they have, and how far they must be away! Perhaps if they look at father Ivan they will make him well again," and in the silence of the hut Peter prayed from his heart, as he had often done before, that the good old man might get better.
He then took off his own cross and the metal triangle from his neck, and laid them by the side of Ivan Panovitch.
"Perhaps these might help to cure him," thought little Peter, "for I seem to have tried everything else."
Ivan stirred feebly, and put out a hand to touch Peter. His eyes had recognition in them. "Oh, he is better! he is better!" cried Peter, and his heart sang for joy. He kissed the old man tenderly, and bent over him asking how he felt, and smoothing the grey hair softly with one of his rough little hands.
"I shall soon be better, Peter, my child—soon better," said Ivan feebly. "You'll go home, my little one, and take the money, it's hanging round my neck, and you'll go on at the market; but never buy patent leather, it cracks so! The good God will take care of you—don't forget that, Peter! I should like to have seen you in a felt hat, but perhaps it is better like this. You've been the light of my eyes, Peter, a wonderful boy. A wonderful boy!" murmured old Ivan. "Blessed was the day I found you on the 'slag' heap!"
"Oh, don't go, dear little father! Stop with me! Don't leave me!" cried Peter passionately, and threw himself down on his knees by the old man's side; but Ivan could not hear his voice any more. The eyes of the angels had looked down upon him, and little Peter's prayer was answered. Ivan was better—better than he had ever been in all his long toil-worn life. A happy smile was on his face; he seemed quietly sleeping.
* * * * * *
Peter rushed from the hut out into the bright moonlight. The trees waved and whispered overhead, for the wind had risen. Instinctively Peter longed for human companionship. He ran rapidly towards the village, but all the houses were dark and silent, and he did not dare to knock at a door. Great waves of sorrow seemed rolling over him; he felt alone in the world; and after wandering up and down the street hopelessly, until he was too tired to walk any more, he sank down in an angle of one of the walls, and worn-out with watching and grief, he cried himself to sleep.
A good woman, from one of the cottages, found Peter the next morning, but he did not realize that she was a stranger. He thought he was at home in the little log hut at Vuicksa, and that Katrina was bending over him, and he kept begging her piteously to take him to father Ivan.
He was carried into a house close by, and for several days he lay tossing on the straw bed repeating pathetically the one cry for "Ivan!" "Ivan!"
Everyone was interested in him, and he was nursed with real Russian kindness; but no one could find out where he came from, until the appearance of Zedra; who had been caught in the act of stealing some vegetables on the very night of poor father Ivan's death, and was now only liberated on the payment of a heavy fine.
He came with the gypsy leader and some of the tribe, and Peter's story was soon known to the whole of the sympathizing village.
People who had felt sorry for him before now admired his courage and self-devotion, and everyone tried who could do most to help him.
A messenger was sent off to Vuicksa to bring back Katrina and little Maria, so that when Peter recovered, his first awakening should be to friendly faces and not to those of strangers.
Katrina came gladly, for in her heart she sincerely loved Ivan and Peter, and had waited anxiously, as the weeks passed and brought no news of them. Maria—looking very important in the responsibility of her first long journey—accompanied her mother, bringing a bag of her finest sunflower seeds, and the hind portion of the veritable gilt cake horse, that Peter had given her at the Fair more than a month ago, and which, being her greatest treasure, she considered a suitable offering for the invalid.
And Peter awoke one day to sense and reason—a sad awakening—but little Maria was there with the faithful Panoff, and Peter was young, and the world still held hope for him in the future.
His first act, when he recovered, was to beg the gypsies to return him his blue homespun shirt and trousers; and, clad in these, he went, as soon as he was strong enough, to visit the grave of father Ivan in the churchyard of the little village. The gypsies had cared for it, and on a wooden bar at the head these words were carved in crabbed Russian characters—
IVAN PANOVITCH,
THE BELOVED FATHER OF
PETER.
Peter stood looking at it for some time, and then he knelt down in the long grass and prayed silently.
Little Maria knelt too, with her hands clasped, and a bird, flying out from a tree close by, settled on the board at the head of the grave, and poured out a beautiful song of hope and thanksgiving.
BY HELEN WILMOT-BUXTON.
————————
"ROBIN, do you know when the ship will come home?"
"What ship, Bab?"
"Why, the one mother is always talking about. Don't you know, whenever me or Paul wants anything, mother says, 'Not now, Bab, but 'some day,' when our ship comes home.'"
Robin was much older than Bab; she was nine years old.
"I wish our ship would be quick and come home, that I do," said Paul. "I think it will come soon, now, 'cause we have been waiting so long. Don't you, Robin?"
"Perhaps this Christmas," suggested Bab.
Robin says nothing.
She is sitting on the low rocking-chair, looking pensively into the glowing coals, and is wondering why she can no longer, like Bab and Paul, believe in the ship that has been expected for so long, and has not yet come—indeed, that seems as far as ever from coming.
Yes, sad as it may seem, Robin was actually beginning to doubt the very existence of the ship that used to make her young life so happy.
"I wonder if there really 'is' such a ship," thinks Robin to herself. "Ah! wouldn't it be nice if there were!"
"I think it must be a very big ship, Bab, don't you?" said little Paul, wistfully.
"Of course it must be big, because it is going to bring us so many things," said Barbara. "It is going to bring us everything we want."
"Robin, Santa Klaus will come to-night, you know, so we must not forget to hang up our stockings," said Paul.
Poor Robin! Not only was her faith in the ship gone, but that in Santa Klaus as well.
She had forebodings that this would be a very sad Christmas.
Father was ill, and mother had gone over the sea to him. It had happened so suddenly that nothing had been arranged for Christmas; indeed, no one had been able to think of anything but the sorrow and anxiety sickness always brings.
For the first time in her life, Robin was sad. It was not so much for herself, but for her father lying ill and her mother watching over him.
"I wonder what Santa Klaus will bring us," said Bab.
"I hope he'll bring me a whip and a box of soldiers," said Paul. "Then, too, I should like a wheel-barrow and a spade, and a drum, and—"
"Oh, Paul dear, Santa Klaus will not bring so much. Only think how big his pockets would have to be to hold all those things," said Robin.
"Well, I expect they are pretty large, or else how could he bring toys to all the little boys and girls in the world," Paul answered. "What would you like him to bring you, Robin?"
Robin looked thoughtful. "I should like him to bring me a letter saying father was quite well, and that he and mother would come back in time for Christmas."
"But won't mother?" cried Barbara, her eyes filling with tears.
"No, Bab dear, I don't think she will."
"Then we shan't have a Christmas tree, nor snapdragon, nor anything," said Paul.
"Is father very ill?" asked Barbara, plaintively.
"Don't cry, Bab dear—see, you are making Georgie begin. Father will soon get well. Mother said I was to try and make you happy, and that we were sure to be very good and do everything we were told. She would not like us to sit and cry."
"I want a Christmas tree," said Paul.
"So do I, too," chimed in Georgie.
"Perhaps Santa Klaus will send us one if we are good," suggested Bab, brightening up. "Don't you think he will, Robin?"
Then they forgot all about the Christmas tree and Santa Klaus, and had a game of "fox and goose." They made so much noise that little Miss Frost, the owner of the house, to whose care the children had been temporarily consigned, came in to see what was the matter.
"Such a noise I never did hear," said Miss Frost. "I should have thought the room to be full of young colts instead of nicely brought up little girls."
"We were playing at 'fox and goose,'" said Robin. "Were we making too much noise, Miss Frost?"
"Too much noise! Why, Miss Robin, me and Mrs. Evans could not hear ourselves speak, with so much noise as that," said Miss Frost.
The younger children had taken hold of Robin's hand, and now stood hiding their faces in their sister's frock.
They were afraid of Miss Frost when she was displeased with them, and shrank from meeting her stern gaze.
"And such untidy, dirty little girls! What would mamma say, I wonder—she would be shocked to see such nails, that she would."
Robin hung her head. She had quite forgotten about the washing and hair brushing.
"I am very sorry, I am sure, Miss Frost, I forgot," she said humbly, "It is all my fault."
"Some little girls always forget," observed Miss Frost. "A young lady of your age ought not to forget; when I was a little girl, I can remember saving up my money on purpose to buy myself a nail brush, so that I might always be able to keep my nails nice."
This became interesting. The children had never realized before that Miss Frost had ever been a child. That she had passed through that delightful period, and actually saved up pennies, just as they were doing, invested her with a new interest. Both Barbara and Paul ventured to uncover their faces and look at her.
"How much was it?" asked Bab, putting a chubby finger between her lips.
"How much was it?" repeated Miss Frost, "I can't remember. It was a very nice one with an ivory back, I remember that."
"Did you have any money left?" enquired Paul.
"Bless my heart! how can I remember?"
"Did you get anything else besides when you were a little girl?" Paul asked, looking up into her face.
"Yes, I got books—nice, 'useful' books," said Miss Frost.
"Anything else?"
"I daresay," answered Miss Frost, not clearly remembering the circumstances of her early life.
"Did not you buy sweets ever?" enquired Paul.
"Never," said Miss Frost, closing her lips very tight.
Paul's interest died away at once.
"Nor dolls?" enquired Barbara.
"Dolls. Ah I yes, I had a lovely wax doll, which my mamma kept on the top shelf of her bureau, and which she was kind enough to let me play with, when I was a very good little girl," said Miss Frost.
"I shouldn't have cared for that," said Barbara. "When mother used to lock up my doll, I dressed up the sofa cushions and played with them. Why didn't you?"
"When I was a little girl, I was not allowed to pull about the furniture, as little girls seem to do now-a-days," Miss Frost answered with significant emphasis.
"You must have been a very unhappy little girl, I think, poor Miss Frost," Barbara said, deep sympathy in her voice.
"It is time for little girls to have their supper and go to bed," Miss Frost said, changing the subject of conversation with quite a startling rapidity.
"But it is Christmas Eve," said Barbara. "Mayn't we stay up?"
"Certainly not. I never heard of such a thing—never," said Miss Frost. "See, I have brought you bread and jam, that's because it is Christmas Eve, think of the poor little boys and girls that only have bread and butter. Ah! is it not nice," and Miss Frost made a grimace supposed to be expressive of supreme delight.
"But we have got to hang up our stockings," said Paul.
"Pack of nonsense!" said Miss Frost. "Fold them up neatly, and put them in the chair beside your bed."
"But Santa Klaus won't be able to find them, you know," said Barbara. "We always hang up our stockings on Christmas Eve. Didn't you, when you were a little girl?"
"I don't remember that I ever did," said Miss Frost. "What do you think you'll find in them, eh?"
"A wax doll and a scrap-book, some sweets, and perhaps something else," said Barbara.
"Well, I wouldn't expect too much if I were you," said Miss Frost. "Him, whom you spoke of, has been very busy, and it is possible he may forget to look in—he does sometimes, I have heard."
"He has never forgotten us—never," said Barbara.
"Eat your supper, my dear, and don't go romping again, there's good children," said Miss Frost, and so saying she left the room.
After supper the little ones clustered round Robin, who told them a story.
It was all about the ship that was to come, and was so absorbing in its interest that the clock struck seven long before anyone had the least idea it was bedtime.
Miss Frost prided herself upon her punctuality, and made her appearance before the clock had ceased striking.
"Oh! please let us stay up just a little tiny minute longer," coaxed Bab.
Miss Frost was not to be cajoled. "Come to bed at once, and don't be naughty," she said.
"You don't expect 'me' to go to bed at seven, do you, Miss Frost?" enquired Robin, incredulity in her voice.
"Why not, Miss Robin?"
"Because I am nine years old, and mother lets me stay up till eight always," objected Robin.
Miss Frost gave in, but not without a protest.
When she was a little girl of nine she invariably went to bed at seven, she said, and it was a good rule.
The children, having hung up their stockings, kissed and hugged Robin and Miss Frost, and cuddled down in their warm beds to dream about Santa Klaus and the ship. When the light had been extinguished Robin followed Miss Frost into the passage.
"Please," she said, "may I run as far as the toy shop?"
Miss Frost was in a hurry, and did not wish to keep her friends in the parlour waiting.
Without pausing to consider the motive of the request, she answered quickly, and in the negative—"Read your book in the nursery, and at eight I will come to put out the candle," she said.
And so, without another word, she hurried away, leaving Robin in rebellious tears.
"Mother told me I was to make the little ones happy, and how am I do that I should like to know if I can't go out and buy them toys? If mother were here she would do it—I know she would. They will be expecting presents all night, and when they wake up the first thing they will do will be to look in their stockings, and then how horribly disappointed they will be!"
She went to the cupboard, and reaching up to the top shelf, where her money-box was, sprang down with it in her hand.
Poor little Robin! She had saved her pennies for a whole year. It had been an act of self-denial, for she did not like saving so well as spending. But she had had an object in view—a definite purpose—and when one has an object steadily before one, a little self-denial is necessary before achieving it.
She counted out her savings—there were pennies in abundance, a few sixpences, some threepenny-bits, a great many farthings, and a stray shilling or two, for shillings did not as a rule fall in Robin's way.
And all this self-denial! What did it mean?
Had she saved and hoarded for the sake of giving the little ones a happy Christmas?
Oh, no! When she had begun to amass this wealth her object had been quite other.
She had saved five shillings and sixpence, and with this money her object might have been carried out. For five and sixpence she might have purchased a large new cage for her favourite "Goldie," as she called her bird—just the one she had set her heart upon.
"How I wish mother had said something about Christmas Eve," she said, counting the money for a second time. "It does seem such a pity, and I did so want 'Goldie' to have a new cage. How I wish there were such a person as Santa Klaus, but of course there is not, or else why should mother have come in so softly last Christmas Eve, and filled our stockings herself. She will be so unhappy when she remembers that she forgot to tell me what to do. I suppose it would be best to give up the cage; how happy I could make the little ones with five shillings' worth of toys; and as for Miss Frost, I must choose between her and mother."
So she put on her hat and cloak, and managed to slip out of the house unobserved, the money in her pocket.
Her conscience smote her, it is true, for thus openly disobeying Miss Frost, but she silenced it by thinking that she was doing what her mother had told her, and that, after all, it was better to obey her than Miss Frost.
Her heart beat quickly, and her eyes sparkled with excitement, for it was a novel sensation to be thus out in the streets among the shops alone, and in secret.
There was so much to be seen that she could scarcely tear herself away from the shops.
All and each had some new attraction.
At last, and after frequent stoppages, she reached a toy shop, and went boldly in, conscious of having five shillings in her pocket.
The shop was full of people, so she had to wait until her turn came to be served.
There was an old gentleman seated at the counter reading the newspaper. Robin wondered how it was possible for him to be as indifferent as he seemed to the beautiful things lying about him.
There were, indeed, countless treasures in that toy shop, and if I had the time I would try to describe some of them. As for Robin, her eyes were riveted upon a bird cage, just the very one she had dreamt of—the identical one Dickey at home would appreciate; in fact for any bird, even the most fastidious, a most desirable mansion. But it was marked five shillings. Among the cages and basket work, for one side of the shop was devoted to such things, she saw a knitting basket which she longed to buy for mother; then there was a tobacco-pouch which would have suited father precisely; but no, these things were not for Robin.
"Some day, when I am rich, I will get them—when the ship comes home," she said to herself, and then, turning resolutely to the toys and bon-bons, which she knew the children would like best, she carefully made her choice.
The man was fastening up her purchases—there were a doll, a scrap-book, a whip, reins, a box of soldiers, crackers, and I don't know what besides—in fact, a most tempting display. The time had come to pay, and Robin put her hand into her pocket to draw out her purse, feeling proud of possessing so much money.
Alas! the purse was gone, and the pocket too. The shop began to swim before her eyes. She felt hot and faint, she could scarcely breathe.
Where could it be? What had happened?
Little maidens, little maidens, take warning, and do not venture out into the streets alone with five and sixpence in your pockets.
"Aren't you well, my dear?" said the old gentleman, kindly.
Robin answered nothing; but turning, fled into the street, leaving her packages in the hand of the astonished shopman.
Her pocket was gone, quite gone; it had been cut out! Poor Robin!
Her precious savings; her little hoard—her self-denial—all, all gone—useless!
No wonder she gave a choking sob and burst into tears.
Hardly knowing where she went, she ran down a long, dark street, where there were fewer people. She had lost, not only her money, but her way.
"My dear, what are you crying about?" said a kind voice. "Have you lost anything?"
She looked up and recognized the elderly gentleman who had been reading the newspaper in the toy shop.
"I—I have lost my money and—and my way," sobbed Robin.
"Bless my soul!" said the old gentleman. "What a horrible catastrophe. May I be allowed to ask how much?"
"Five shillings and sixpence," answered Robin, drying her eyes.
"Two half-crowns and a sixpence, eh?"
"No; shillings, sixpences, and pennies, and half-pennies, and farthings," explained Robin. "I had been saving up, you know, and I came out to buy toys and things to put in Barbara's, and Paul's, and Georgie's stockings."
"And do you mean to tell me that Barbara, Paul and Georgie wear stockings big enough to hold a five shillings' worth of goods?" exclaimed the old gentleman, with evident incredulity. "Why, they must be giants!"
Robin's sobs gave way to mirth.
"No; of course I was not going to put the doll and the scrap-book in, only the little things," she explained.
"What is your name, my dear?"
"Robin."
"Any relation to the Robin Red-breast? Barbara, Paul, and Georgie are your sister and brothers?"
Robin was astonished at the penetrating nature of the old gentleman's intellect.
"And you were going to buy them Christmas presents with your own money; all your little capital you were going to invest in toys, in fact."
Robin looked up, puzzled.
"I was going to buy them toys to make them forget what a dull Christmas it is, because, you know, father is ill, and mother had to go and nurse him, and so we are all alone. Then the little ones don't understand that there is not such a person as Santa Klaus, and they have hung up their stockings, which if I don't fill will—"
"Remain empty," remarked the old gentleman. "But surely, little maid, 'you' believe in Santa Klaus?"
"No, I don't," said Robin, with superior wisdom. "I am nine years old, and I guessed it was mother who put the things in our stockings, so I kept awake, and saw her come in. I was very sorry when I found out. I liked to think there really was a Santa Klaus."
"And so there is, of course," said the old gentleman.
"What! Do you believe in him?" cried Robin.
The old gentleman winked knowingly, then placed his finger to his lips with an air of supreme mystery.
"If I had thought there was I should have bought that bird cage," said Robin. "I wanted it dreadfully, and have saved all my money to get it; and now it is all gone."
"Well, the fact is, my dear, Santa Klaus has been playing you a trick," said the old gentleman.
Robin looked up wistfully.
"Do you think he has?" she asked, doubtfully, her eyes beginning to twinkle.
"Haven't a doubt of it—Santa Klaus is a very sly personage, very sly. Perhaps you can't believe it, my dear, but the fact is, I have discovered the identical sum that you have lost in my waistcoat pocket, and I have a shrewd suspicion that Santa Klaus knows how it came there."
"But is it in pennies, farthings, sixpences, and two shillings?" questioned Robin, "because, you know, mine was."
"That is precisely the point I was going to draw your attention to; I see that you are a very sharp little girl; it is conclusive, you see, my dear."
The old gentleman began to rattle the money in his pocket, and it sounded very pleasant in Robin's ears. "Oh! do let me see it!" she cried.
Her companion winked mysteriously, as if he had particular reasons of his own for refusing this natural request.
"Better not, my dear," he said, impressively. "Money has a habit of flying away from me when I take it out of my pocket. We'll let it repose in safety."
She looked up wonderingly into the kind face, and a rather troubled expression came into her bright eyes.
"We had better go back to the toy shop, and fetch your parcels; I told the man you had forgotten your purse," said the old gentleman.
"But is it true, 'really?'" asked Robin, much puzzled.
"Certainly; quite true."
"Then I wish Santa Klaus had not frightened me, because he has given me a headache," said Robin, plaintively.
"He is a mischievous dog, but it does not do for us to make personal remarks, he is rather huffy, and I think I had better keep your money, and pay the man, lest he should be up to some new trick."
"I always thought he was such a kind, little man," said Robin.
The old gentleman laughed immoderately.
"So he is; he is the best-natured fellow alive, only full of his fun," he said.
"Did he give you my pocket as well?" said Robin, incredulously.
"No; he kept that for a keep-sake, I expect. You must not forget to make yourself a new one. Where do you live, my dear?"
"At Miss Frost's, No. 6, Lovelace Terrace."
"Ah. Well, here we are at the toy shop. I'll fetch your parcels. Wait here for me."
Robin would have liked to have seen the money paid over the counter, for that would have proved without further doubt the truth of her new friend's statement.
She did not like to doubt the old gentleman's word, of course, but when a little girl has ceased to believe in the existence of Santa Klaus, it is difficult for her to conquer her incredulity all at once.
Presently he came out, with the packages in his arms, and they resumed their walk.
Robin soon forgot all her troubles, and her headache among them, her new friend was so kind and so entertaining.
She confided to him her disobedience to Miss Frost, and asked him if she had acted very wickedly in taking the matter into her own hands.
"There is Miss Frost herself, on the door-step, looking for you," said the old gentleman.
"Yes; and she looks very angry, too," Robin whispered, holding her friend's hand with a tighter clasp. "Do speak for me, and take my part, please."
"Never fear, my dear," said the old gentleman. "I'll take the entire blame, I assure you."
Robin could not but admire the noble resolution and daring of her companion, and much envied him his courage.
He went forward with a polite bow, confronting the awful Miss Frost with a bland smile.
"Excuse me, my dear madam," he said, "but my little friend and I have been looking at the shops; if there is any blame, I assure you it rests upon me alone."
Miss Frost smiled.
"Ah, sir, if that's the case, of course—but—the fact is, I was anxious, very anxious. May I enquire your name, sir?"
The old gentleman had handed his parcels to Robin. He stepped a few paces back and raised his hat.
"Madam," he said, "I am Santa Klaus!"
The next minute he had gone. I don't mean that he disappeared into space—he did not do that. He walked slowly and with stately pace to the end of the terrace, where he turned the corner and was lost to sight.
"What did the gentleman say his name was?" enquired Miss Frost.
"He said he was Santa Klaus," said Robin; "I don't understand it." Then, following Miss Frost into the passage, she added, in a tremulous voice, but with a brave little face, "It was not his fault, it was mine, Miss Frost. I went out to buy these toys for the children, and I lost my way. Will you forgive me, please? I—I hope you won't be very angry."
Miss Frost looked grave, but after administering a severe reproof, she kissed Robin and even helped her to arrange the toys.
"I think I'll hang up my stocking as well, but I don't expect to find anything in it, because you know, Miss Frost, I don't believe in Santa Klaus—not 'quite,' at least," she added thoughtfully.
When Robin awoke next morning she rubbed her eyes very hard, for what do you think she saw—there, at the foot of her bed, was the very identical bird cage she had seen in the shop. Surely she was dreaming. To assure herself of its reality, she rose from her bed and touched the visionary object. It was substantial, and so admitted of no further doubt. Then she awoke the others, and there was tremendous excitement.
"Robin, look at your stocking—it is full of candied fruit and bon-bons!" cried Barbara.
"So it is," said Robin. "Then it is true after all."
"What a dear, sweet darling, Santa Klaus is; how I do love him. I knew he wouldn't forget us," cried Barbara.
Then they laughed and clapped their hands, and, as it was still early, tumbled all four into one bed, and Robin related to them her last night's adventure with Santa Klaus, and it was the nicest story she had ever told them, because it was quite true.
But I have something more to tell you which was better far than the presents sent by Santa Klaus.
When Miss Frost came in with the hot water, she was laden with letters and Christmas cards, and there was a scramble, of course—a scramble in which, strange to say, Robin took no part.
The fact was, she was slowly and laboriously making out a letter from mother, and the contents of this letter was of a nature so pleasing that she could think of nothing else.
"Bab, Paul, Georgie, listen!" she cried. Then, as the uproar still continued, she mounted the table, and from this commanding position succeeded in obtaining a hearing.
"News! news! such news!" Robin cried. "Father is better and is coming home. He and mother are on their way now—only think of it!"
The shouting recommenced after that, and all four children fell to embracing each other.
Then they stationed themselves at the window waiting for the arrivals, and in the new and glad excitement poor Santa Klaus was for the time quite forgotten.
BY FRANCES CLARE,
AUTHOR OF "A CHILD'S PILGRIMAGE," "A STORE OF STORIES," &c.
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WATTIE Moate was the eldest child and only son of a small fruit farmer in Worcestershire. He was a brave, honest, manly lad, and the pride of his father and mother and good old grandmother and was devoted to his little sister, Hetty, who was seven years younger than himself, and the pet and darling of them all; and no wonder, for Hetty was one of the sweetest, dearest, prettiest little girls in the county of Worcestershire. Her eyes were as blue as a Highland lake in summer, her cheeks were like damask roses, her round arms were dimpled, her little fat hands were dimpled, and when she laughed—which she very often did—the corners of her cherry mouth were dimpled also. Of course she was a little spoilt with so many people to make much of her, and therefore she liked to do as she liked, and not as other and wiser folk liked, and she gave them all a great deal of trouble by the scrapes she got into, but she was so loving and winning, and so penitent when she had been naughty, that it was not difficult to forgive her. And after a time something happened that made her almost as thoughtful as her brother. I will tell you what it was.
When Hetty was seven years of age, and Wattie fourteen, their father, Farmer Moate, decided to try and "better himself," that is to say, to improve his fortune, and in order to do so he sold his little fruit farm and emigrated to the newly opened up State of Michigan, in the backwoods of America. But though he took the old carved bureau, the old eight-day clock, and the old spinning wheel with him as well as his wife and his children, he couldn't take the old grandmother, for she slept "under the daisies" in Bromsgrove churchyard, and when her little granddaughter forgot to be good the kind old grandmother could never plead for her forgiveness any more.
Farmer Moate's new house was called Creek Cot, and it stood in an open clearing near some great woods, even as the old Worcestershire farm house had done.
But here all resemblance ended, for the English house had been a red brick one, with a tiled roof, on which the yellow-flowered ginger root and the friendly house-leek grew and flourished, whilst the American dwelling was merely a log hut, or shanty, whose sole adornment was a coat of green paint.
And oh, how different was the vast American forest from the quiet Bromsgrove woods; for in the latter you would sometimes unwittingly startle a rabbit or hare, but in the former it might happen that a wolf or a panther would startle "you."
One day it happened that Hetty was not very well, and as there were many things needed in the humble home, and Farmer Moate wanted some implements, Mrs. Moate decided to go with her husband, in order to consult the doctor about Hetty's ailment and also to replenish the empty medicine chest—a very necessary piece of business; for far away in the backwoods the possession of a few simple drugs may sometimes mean the saving of a life. So, on the day of which I am speaking, Mr. Moate and his wife set out with their wagon to go to Cliftonville, the nearest town. But it was at least seven miles distant from Creek Cot, and the farmer did not altogether like leaving Wattie to take charge of the house, although the sturdy little fellow was almost inclined to be vexed at the very idea of anyone fearing for "him."
"Never trouble for me, daddy," he said. "I shall have a splendid time, and I'll take care of Hetty, never fear."
"I don't, my lad; I don't," cried the farmer. "God bless thee. You'll see mother and me back long before nightfall."
"All right," shouted the lad, and then he went into the cabin and tidied up: that is to say, he made up the fire (as it was a bitterly cold winter's morning), and put the kitchen in neat order. For you must know that Wattie was what country people in Worcestershire called a "handy boy," by which I think they mean that he could turn his willing brown hands to many and various uses.
After he had finished this task he took Hetty on his knee, and told her an amusing tale, which brought a smile on her pale little face, and she seemed so much better that when the story was ended Wattie went out into the clearing and brought in a good supply of logs for the fire; then he looked in the fowl pen, found two newly-laid eggs, brought them back into the shanty, boiled one for his sister, put the other by in the cupboard for his mother, and began to make Hetty a long-promised doll's house.
"It will be splendid when it's done," said the cheerful boy, as he cut up strips of white pine wood and glued them together, "and you won't make a hole in the roof for the dolls to go in by as you did in the last one, will you, darling, for Brother Wattie is taking extra pains with this?"
"I'll take great care of this one," replied Hetty, "because it's new, but you might please put me a back and a front door in if you've time, will you?"
"Yes; and I tell you what, Hetty, I mean to try and finish as much as I can of the house before daddy gets back from Cliftonville," said the eager Wattie, who little thought how much would have happened when he saw his father and mother again.
Time passed on.
Wattie and Hetty took their simple meal of bread and milk, and after that the first floor of the doll's new residence was completed and duly admired; then, as it was too dark for Wattie to get any more wood, the doll's house was set away on the top of the bureau until another day.
And still Mr. and Mrs. Moate did not return, and when night began to draw on the lad guessed that something had unexpectedly detained his parents, and began to feel a little, only a little, lonely, as well indeed he might, for Creek Cot stood quite by itself, and as far as eye could see stretched the great dark forest.
But you must remember that besides being handy and industrious, Walter Moate was also a brave little fellow, so he resolved not to give way to foolish fears, and as he had no one to cheer him up he determined to cheer up himself, and in order to do this he began to whistle.
He whistled all the tunes he had heard in "the Old Country," as his mother always called it; he whistled all the airs he had learnt in the New. He whistled "God save the Queen" as he put a big log of wood on the fire, and he had begun to whistle "The Star-spangled Banner" when he went outside the log cabin to put up the shutters.
But he never finished the tune; for to his horror he beheld some slowly moving, dark, and terrible forms—forms as of large, thin dogs in the distance—forms which skulked and prowled round the clearing outside his home.
And as he glanced at the dimly seen, but only too well recognized objects, a long, shrill, whining howl came borne on the keen, clear, frosty, air; and the lad, his worst fears confirmed, put his hands to his ears and cried—
"Oh, father, if only you were here! Oh do make haste home; it's the wolves!" For he had heard old hunters' stories, and though this was his very first winter in Michigan, he guessed at once what these terrible visitors were.
Hardly could his trembling fingers close the shutters, scarcely could his limbs bear him into the house, so feeble did he feel from fear. But he made all the haste he could, and once inside he shut the door and barred it with a feeling of thankfulness that he was inside, and longing, oh how fervently, for his father's return.
He looked at Hetty, who lay on the broad settle near the fire in a sweet and peaceful sleep, and made up his mind not to frighten her if he could possibly help it. "It would make her ill again," he thought.
"I must keep them outside somehow," he murmured; then he took down a wood-cutter's axe from the wall, planted himself near the strongly-barred door, and listened.
Listened as if there was nothing to do but listen—listened until it seemed as if all other senses had failed and were all merged in that one intense power of hearing.
And all at once he thought of grandmother, sitting as she used to sit and spin in the homestead near Bromsgrove woods, of grandmother telling his sister the story of Little Red Riding Hood.
But those days were past. Grandmother neither toiled nor spun any longer, and the wolves were at their own door.
Yes, they were at the very door, for their howling sounded quite close to his ear, and he saw the door shake and knew they were trying to force it; and again he put his hands to his ears, as if to shut out the sound which refused to be shut out.
Then the door all at once ceased shaking, and there was a curious gnawing sound. And the oil in the lamp sank down, the light grew dimmer, dimmer, dimmer; soon, very soon, they would be in total darkness—save, indeed, for the firelight—if the lamp were not replenished. So, trembling, Wattie refilled the lamp, and just as he lit it Hetty awoke and looked around her.
And her still sleepy blue eyes fell on a large hairy paw which was thrust through an aperture in the bottom of the door, where it joined the step of the roughly-built log cabin.
"Look, Wattie, look!" she exclaimed, "a doggie wants to get in. See, see, there's its paw."
"All right, love," said Wattie, in a voice which he tried to make cheerful, "all right; you go to sleep and leave me to see to the dogs."
But Hetty, who from her corner could not see very clearly what was going on, was more amused than frightened, and begged her brother not to be cross with the poor dog, but to "give it a bone, and then it would go away."
"But, darling, they're not dogs, they're wolves," said poor Wattie, feeling it was best to tell her.
"Wolves! What, like Red Riding Hood's wolf, Wattie? They won't hurt us, will they?"
"No, darling, I won't let them!" said Wattie, setting his teeth and looking stern, as he felt he could die, if need were, for his little sister. At this moment the paw came through again, and this time it was pushed farther into the room. Without a word Wattie seized his axe, and bringing it down with all his might, and with the skilful stroke he had learnt since he had been in the backwoods, he smote off the evilly intruding limb. A howl followed, then a silence, and then another paw was thrust under the door to share the fate of the former one.
Hetty lay quite still on the settle, and watched her heroic defender.
"Oh, Wattie, don't you wish father and mother would come? Why don't you get father's gun and shoot them? You can shoot now, you know; and didn't Mr. Hughes say that was what you would have to do if the wolves came around this winter?"
"Yes; but, Hetty dear, father took his gun with him—he never likes to go away without it. Oh, Hetty! do you remember Mr. Hughes saying that if anyone blew out a bladder and hung it in the wind that the wolves would never come very near it? Oh, if we only had a bladder!"
"Why, we have! Mother said she must buy some lard to-day when she looked at the empty bladder."
"Oh, you good girl to remember that! Where is it, Hetty?"
"Up in the loft. I saw it when I was up there with mother this morning. But I was poorly, you know, so I didn't care to play with it then, and I hung it up in the loft. Father blew it out and tied a piece of string to it, and told me I might have it to play with, as I couldn't buy balls out here in the backwoods."
"Oh, Hetty, God must have put it into father's heart to do that. Come, dear, take my hand while there's a minute's silence, and we'll baulk them yet."
Quickly the two ascended the ladder into the loft, and there, sure enough, was the bladder, fastened to a rafter and swaying about in the wind, which came keenly in through the rough little shutters of the window which lighted the loft.
Very quickly Wattie pushed open the shutter; very quickly, but very firmly, he tied the string to the hook which held the shutter, making sure that the other end of the string was fast to the bladder. Then he left it to flutter in the now rapidly-rising wind, and, with his little sister, descended the ladder again, and piled more logs on the fire and waited.
"Why," he said, after a pause of anxious watching, "Farmer Hughes must have known what he was talking about, after all!"
No paw was thrust under the door, although Wattie awaited it with uplifted axe. The fierce howling changed to a half-fearful whine, and it was more distant, too. After a while it almost ceased.
Presently, Hetty said, "I'm not a bit afraid, Wattie; I'll say my prayers and go to sleep. I know you'll take care of me," and she nestled into her brother's arms and fell asleep, thoroughly tired out; nor did she even awaken when Wattie started up at the sound of a shot at some distance, then another and another in quick succession, and then the welcome, welcome sound of his father's shout!
Gently laying the sleeping child on the settle, Wattie rushed to the door.
"My boy, what has happened? Have you been frightened by the wolves? I've settled some of the brutes to-night, at any rate. How is Hetty? We've been delayed because the doctor was away from home, and mother here is nearly out of her mind with anxiety about you. And what's that fluttering up at the loft window?"
Wattie soon related all that had happened after his father's departure, and when his mother hugged and kissed and cried over him, and his father called him a little hero, and even had tears in his eyes as he said it, Wattie felt prouder than ever he had done in his life, and thought he was richly rewarded for all that he had gone through during that terrible, never-to-be-forgotten night with the wolves.