The Parent's Assistant; Or, Stories for Children

by Maria Edgeworth

CHAPTER II.

Ev’n in the spring and playtime of the year,
That calls th’ unwonted villager abroad,
With all her little ones, a sportive train,
To gather king-cups in the yellow mead,
And prink their heads with daisies.

Cowper.

The dame-school, which was about a mile from the hamlet, was not a showy edifice; but it was reverenced as much by the young race of village scholars as if it had been the most stately mansion in the land; it was a low roofed, long, thatched tenement, sheltered by a few reverend oaks, under which many generations of hopeful children had gambolled in their turn.

The close shaven green, which sloped down from the hatch-door of the schoolroom, was paled round with a rude paling, which, though decayed in some parts by time, was not in any place broken by violence.

The place bespoke order and peace. The dame who governed was well obeyed, because she was just and well beloved, and because she was ever glad to give well earned praise and pleasure to her little subjects.

Susan had once been under her gentle dominion, and had been deservedly her favourite scholar. The dame often cited her as the best example to the succeeding tribe of emulous youngsters. She had scarcely opened the wicket which separated the green before the schoolroom door from the lane, when she heard the merry voices of the children, and saw the little troup issuing from the hatchway, and spreading over the green.

“Oh, there’s Susan!” cried her two little brothers, running, leaping, and bounding up to her; and many of the other rosy girls and boys crowded round her, to talk of their plays; for Susan was easily interested in all that made others happy; but she could not make them comprehend, that, if they all spoke at once it was not possible that she could hear what was said.

The voices were still raised one above another, all eager to establish some important observation about ninepins, or marbles, or tops, or bows and arrows, when suddenly music was heard and the crowd was silenced. The music seemed to be near the spot where the children were standing, and they looked round to see whence it could come. Susan pointed to the great oak-tree, and they beheld, seated under its shade, an old man playing upon his harp. The children all approached—at first timidly, for the sounds were solemn; but as the harper heard their little footsteps coming towards him, he changed his hand and played one of his most lively tunes. The circle closed, and pressed nearer and nearer to him; some who were in the foremost row whispered to each other, “He is blind!” “What a pity!” and “He looks very poor,—what a ragged coat he wears!” said others. “He must be very old, for all his hair is white; and he must have travelled a great way, for his shoes are quite worn out,” observed another.

All these remarks were made whilst he was tuning his harp, for when he once more began to play, not a word was uttered. He seemed pleased by their simple exclamations of wonder and delight, and, eager to amuse his young audience, he played now a gay and now a pathetic air, to suit their several humours.

Susan’s voice, which was soft and sweet, expressive of gentleness and good nature, caught his ear the moment she spoke. He turned his face eagerly to the place where she stood; and it was observed, that whenever she said that she liked any tune particularly he played it over again.

“I am blind,” said the old man, “and cannot see your faces; but I know you all asunder by your voices, and I can guess pretty well at all your humours and characters by your voices.”

“Can you so, indeed?” cried Susan’s little brother William, who had stationed himself between the old man’s knees. “Then you heard my sister Susan speak just now. Can you tell us what sort of person she is?”

“That I can, I think, without being a conjurer,” said the old man, lifting the boy up on his knee; “your sister Susan is good-natured.” The boy clapped his hands. “And good-tempered.” “Right,” said little William, with a louder clap of applause. “And very fond of the little boy who sits upon my knee.” “O right! right! quite right!” exclaimed the child, and “quite right” echoed on all sides.

“But how came you to know so much, when you are blind?” said William, examining the old man attentively.

“Hush,” said John, who was a year older than his brother, and very sage, “you should not put him in mind of his being blind.”

“Though I am blind,” said the harper, “I can hear, you know, and I heard from your sister herself all that I told you of her, that she was good-tempered and good-natured and fond of you.”

“Oh, that’s wrong—you did not hear all that from herself, I’m sure,” said John, “for nobody ever hears her praising herself.”

“Did not I hear her tell you,” said the harper, “when you first came round me, that she was in a great hurry to go home, but that she would stay a little while, since you wished it so much? Was not that good-natured? And when you said you did not like the tune she liked best, she was not angry with you, but said, ‘Then play William’s first, if you please,’—was not that good-tempered?”

“Oh,” interrupted William, “it’s all true; but how did you find out that she was fond of me?”

“That is such a difficult question,” said the harper, “that I must take time to consider.” The harper tuned his instrument, as he pondered, or seemed to ponder: and at this instant, two boys who had been searching for birds’ nests in the hedges, and who had heard the sound of the harp, came blustering up, and pushing their way through the circle, one of them exclaimed, “What’s going on here? Who are you, my old fellow? A blind harper! Well, play us a tune, if you can play ever a good one—play me—let’s see, what shall he play, Bob?” added he turning to his companion. “Bumper Squire Jones.”

The old man, though he did not seem quite pleased with the peremptory manner of the request, played, as he was desired, “Bumper Squire Jones”; and several other tunes were afterwards bespoke by the same rough and tyrannical voice.

The little children shrunk back in timid silence, and eyed the brutal boy with dislike. This boy was the son of Attorney Case; and as his father had neglected to correct his temper when he was a child, as he grew up it became insufferable. All who were younger and weaker than himself, dreaded his approach, and detested him as a tyrant.

When the old harper was so tired that he could play no more, a lad, who usually carried his harp for him, and who was within call, came up, and held his master’s hat to the company, saying, “Will you be pleased to remember us?” The children readily produced their halfpence, and thought their wealth well bestowed upon this poor, good-natured man, who had taken so much pains to entertain them, better even than upon the gingerbread woman, whose stall they loved to frequent. The hat was held some time to the attorney’s son before he chose to see it. At last he put his hand surlily into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a shilling. There were sixpennyworth of halfpence in the hat. “I’ll take these halfpence,” said he, “and here’s a shilling for you.”

“God bless you, sir,” said the lad; but as he took the shilling which the young gentleman had slily put into the blind man’s hand, he saw that it was not worth one farthing. “I am afraid it is not good, sir,” said the lad, whose business it was to examine the money for his master.

“I am afraid, then, you’ll get no other,” said young Case, with an insulting laugh.

“It never will do, sir,” persisted the lad; “look at it yourself; the edges are all yellow! you can see the copper through it quite plain. Sir, nobody will take it from us.”

“That’s your affair,” said the brutal boy, pushing away his hand. “You may pass it, you know, as well as I do, if you look sharp. You have taken it from me, and I shan’t take it back again, I promise you.”

A whisper of “that’s very unjust,” was heard. The little assembly, though under evident constraint, could no longer suppress their indignation.

“Who says it’s unjust?” cried the tyrant, sternly, looking down upon his judges.

Susan’s little brothers had held her gown fast, to prevent her from moving at the beginning of this contest, and she was now so much interested to see the end of it, that she stood still, without making any resistance.

“Is anyone here amongst yourselves a judge of silver?” said the old man.

“Yes, here’s the butcher’s boy,” said the attorney’s son; “show it to him.” He was a sickly-looking boy, and of a remarkably peaceful disposition. Young Case fancied that he would be afraid to give judgment against him. However, after some moments’ hesitation, and after turning the shilling round several times, he pronounced, “that, as far as his judgment went, but he did not pretend to be a downright certain sure of it, the shilling was not over and above good.” Then to Susan, to screen himself from manifest danger, for the attorney’s son looked upon him with a vengeful mien, “But here’s Susan here, who understands silver a great deal better than I do; she takes a power of it for bread, you know.”

“I’ll leave it to her,” said the old harper; “if she says the shilling is good, keep it, Jack.” The shilling was handed to Susan, who, though she had with becoming modesty forborne all interference, did not hesitate, when she was called upon, to speak the truth: “I think that this shilling is a bad one,” said she; and the gentle but firm tone in which she pronounced the words, for a moment awed and silenced the angry and brutal boy. “There’s another, then,” cried he; “I have sixpences and shillings too in plenty, thank my stars.”

Susan now walked away with her two little brothers, and all the other children separated to go to their several homes. The old harper called to Susan, and begged, that, if she was going towards the village, she would be so kind as to show him the way. His lad took up his harp, and little William took the old man by the hand. “I’ll lead him, I can lead him,” said he; and John ran on before them, to gather king-cups in the meadow.

There was a small rivulet, which they had to cross, and as a plank which served for a bridge over it was rather narrow, Susan was afraid to trust the old blind man to his little conductor; she therefore went on the tottering plank first herself, and then led the old harper carefully over. They were now come to a gate, which opened upon the high road to the village. “There is the high road straight before you,” said Susan to the lad, who was carrying his master’s harp; “you can’t miss it. Now I must bid you a good evening; for I’m in a great hurry to get home, and must go the short way across the fields here, which would not be so pleasant for you, because of the stiles. Good-bye.” The old harper thanked her, and went along the high road, whilst she and her brothers tripped on as fast as they could by the short way across the fields.

“Miss Somers, I am afraid, will be waiting for us,” said Susan. “You know she said she would call at six; and by the length of our shadows I’m sure it is late.”

When they came to their own cottage-door, they heard many voices, and they saw, when they entered, several ladies standing in the kitchen. “Come in, Susan; we thought you had quite forsaken us,” said Miss Somers to Susan, who advanced timidly. “I fancy you forgot that we promised to pay you a visit this evening, but you need not blush so much about the matter; there is no great harm done; we have only been here about five minutes; and we have been well employed in admiring your neat garden, and your orderly shelves. Is it you, Susan, who keeps these things in such nice order?” continued Miss Somers, looking round the kitchen.

Before Susan could reply, little William pushed forward, and answered, “Yes, ma’am, it is my sister Susan that keeps everything neat; and she always comes to school for us, too, which was what caused her to be so late.”

“Because as how,” continued John, “she was loth to refuse us the hearing a blind man play on the harp. It was we kept her, and we hopes, ma’am, as you are—as you seem so good, you won’t take it amiss.”

Miss Somers and her sister smiled at the affectionate simplicity with which Susan’s little brothers undertook her defence, and they were, from this slight circumstance, disposed to think yet more favourably of a family which seemed so well united. They took Susan along with them through the village. Many neighbours came to their doors, and far from envying, they all secretly wished Susan well as she passed.

“I fancy we shall find what we want here,” said Miss Somers, stopping before a shop, where unfolded sheets of pins and glass buttons glistened in the window, and where rolls of many coloured ribbons appeared ranged in tempting order. She went in, and was rejoiced to see the shelves at the back of the counter well-furnished with glossy tiers of stuffs, and gay, neat printed linens and calicoes.

“Now, Susan, choose yourself a gown,” said Miss Somers; “you set an example of industry and good conduct, of which we wish to take public notice, for the benefit of others.”

The shopkeeper, who was father to Susan’s friend Rose, looked much satisfied by this speech, and as if a compliment had been paid to himself, bowed low to Miss Somers, and then with alertness, which a London linen-draper might have admired, produced piece after piece of his best goods to his young customer—unrolled, unfolded, held the bright stuffs and calendered calicoes in various lights. Now stretched his arm to the highest shelves, and brought down in a trice what seemed to be beyond the reach of any but a giant’s arm; now dived into some hidden recess beneath the counter, and brought to light fresh beauties and fresh temptations.

Susan looked on with more indifference than most of the spectators. She was thinking much of her lamb, and more of her father.

Miss Somers had put a bright guinea into her hand, and had bid her pay for her own gown; but Susan, as she looked at the guinea, thought it was a great deal of money to lay out upon herself, and she wished, but did know like to ask, that she might keep it for a better purpose.

Some people are wholly inattentive to the lesser feelings, and incapable of reading the countenances of those on whom they bestow their bounty. Miss Somers and her sister were not of this roughly charitable class.

“She does not like any of these things,” whispered Miss Somers to her sister. Her sister observed, that Susan looked as if her thoughts were far distant from gowns.

“If you don’t fancy any of these,” said the civil shopkeeper to Susan, “we shall have a new assortment of calicoes for the spring season, soon from town.”

“Oh,” interrupted Susan, with a smile and a blush; “these are all pretty, and too good for me, but—”

“But what, Susan?” said Miss Somers. “Tell us what is passing in your little mind.” Susan hesitated. “Well then, we will not press you, you are scarcely acquainted with us yet; when you are, you will not be afraid, I hope, to speak your mind. Put this shining yellow counter,” continued she, pointing to the guinea, “in your pocket, and make what use of it you please. From what we know, and from what we have heard of you, we are persuaded that you will make a good use of it.”

“I think, madam,” said the master of the shop, with a shrewd, good natured look, “I could give a pretty good guess myself what will become of that guinea; but I say nothing.”

“No, that is right,” said Miss Somers; “we leave Susan entirely at liberty; and now we will not detain her any longer. Good night, Susan, we shall soon come again to your neat cottage.” Susan curtsied, with an expressive look of gratitude, and with a modest frankness in her countenance, which seemed to say, “I would tell you, and welcome, what I want to do with the guinea; but I am not used to speak before so many people. When you come to our cottage again you shall know all.”

When Susan had departed, Miss Somers turned to the obliging shopkeeper, who was folding up all the things he had opened. “You have had a great deal of trouble with us, sir,” said she; “and since Susan will not choose a gown for herself, I must.” She selected the prettiest; and whilst the man was rolling it in paper, she asked him several questions about Susan and her family, which he was delighted to answer, because he had now all opportunity of saying as much as he wished in her praise.

“No later back, ma’am, than last May morning,” said he, “as my daughter Rose was telling us, Susan did a turn, in her quiet way, by her mother, that would not displease you if you were to hear it. She was to have been Queen of the May, which in our little village, amongst the younger tribe, is a thing that is thought of a good deal; but Susan’s mother was ill, and Susan, after sitting up with her all night, would not leave her in the morning, even when they brought the crown to her. She put the crown upon my daughter Rose’s head with her own hands; and, to be sure, Rose loves her as well as if she was her own sister. But I don’t speak from partiality; for I am no relation whatever to the Prices—only a well-wisher, as everyone, I believe, who knows them is. I’ll send the parcel up to the Abbey, shall I, ma’am?”

“If you please,” said Miss Somers, “and, as soon as you receive your new things from town, let us know. You will, I hope, find us good customers and well-wishers,” added she, with a smile; “for those who wish well to their neighbours surely deserve to have well-wishers themselves.”

A few words may encourage the benevolent passions, and may dispose people to live in peace and happiness; a few words may set them at variance, and may lead to misery and lawsuits. Attorney Case and Miss Somers were both equally convinced of this, and their practice was uniformly consistent with their principles.

But now to return to Susan. She put the bright guinea carefully into the glove with the twelve shillings, which she had received from her companions on May day. Besides this treasure, she calculated that the amount of the bills for bread could not be less than eight or nine and thirty shillings; and as her father was now sure of a week’s reprieve, she had great hopes that, by some means or other, it would be possible to make up the whole sum necessary to pay for a substitute. “If that could but be done,” said she to herself, “how happy would my mother be. She would be quite stout again, for she certainly is a great deal better, since I told her that father would stay a week longer. Ah! but she would not have blessed Attorney Case, though, if she had known about my poor Daisy.”

Susan took the path that led to the meadow by the waterside, resolved to go by herself, and take leave of her innocent favourite. But she did not pass by unperceived. Her little brothers were watching for her return, and, as soon as they saw her, they ran after her, and overtook her as she reached the meadow.

“What did that good lady want with you?” cried William; but, looking up in his sister’s face, he saw tears in her eyes, and he was silent, and walked on quietly. Susan saw her lamb by the water-side. “Who are those two men?” said William. “What are they going to do with Daisy?” The two men were Attorney Case and the butcher. The butcher was feeling whether the lamb was fat.

Susan sat down upon the bank in silent sorrow; her little brothers ran up to the butcher, and demanded whether he was going to do any harm to the lamb. The butcher did not answer, but the attorney replied, “It is not your sister’s lamb any longer; it’s mine—mine to all intents and purposes.”

“Yours!” cried the children, with terror; “and will you kill it?”

“That’s the butcher’s business.”

The little boys now burst into piercing lamentations. They pushed away the butcher’s hand; they threw their arms round the neck of the lamb; they kissed its forehead—it bleated. “It will not bleat to-morrow!” said William, and he wept bitterly. The butcher looked aside, and hastily rubbed his eyes with the corner of his blue apron.

The attorney stood unmoved; he pulled up the head of the lamb, which had just stooped to crop a mouthful of clover. “I have no time to waste,” said he; “butcher, you’ll account with me. If it’s fat—the sooner the better. I’ve no more to say.” And he walked off, deaf to the prayers of the poor children.

As soon as the attorney was out of sight, Susan rose from the bank where she was seated, came up to her lamb, and stooped to gather some of the fresh dewy trefoil, to let it eat out of her hand for the last time. Poor Daisy licked her well known hand.

“Now, let us go,” said Susan.

“I’ll wait as long as you please,” said the butcher. Susan thanked him, but walked away quickly, without looking again at her lamb. Her little brothers begged the man to stay a few minutes, for they had gathered a handful of blue speedwell and yellow crowsfoot, and they were decking the poor animal. As it followed the boys through the village, the children collected as they passed, and the butcher’s own son was amongst the number. Susan’s steadiness about the bad shilling was full in this boy’s memory; it had saved him a beating. He went directly to his father to beg the life of Susan’s lamb.

“I was thinking about it, boy, myself,” said the butcher; “it’s a sin to kill a pet lamb, I’m thinking—any way, it’s what I’m not used to, and don’t fancy doing, and I’ll go and say as much to Attorney Case; but he’s a hard man; there’s but one way to deal with him, and that’s the way I must take, though so be I shall be the loser thereby; but we’ll say nothing to the boys, for fear it might be the thing would not take; and then it would be worse again to poor Susan, who is a good girl, and always was, as well as she may, being of a good breed, and well reared from the first.”

“Come, lads, don’t keep a crowd and a scandal about my door,” continued he, aloud, to the children; “turn the lamb in here, John, in the paddock, for to-night, and go your ways home.”

The crowd dispersed, but murmured, and the butcher went to the attorney. “Seeing that all you want is a good, fat, tender lamb, for a present for Sir Arthur, as you told me,” said the butcher, “I could let you have what’s as good or better for your purpose.”

“Better—if it’s better, I’m ready to hear reason.”

The butcher had choice, tender lamb, he said, fit to eat the next day; and as Mr. Case was impatient to make his offering to Sir Arthur, he accepted the butcher’s proposal, though with such seeming reluctance, that he actually squeezed out of him, before he would complete the bargain, a bribe of a fine sweetbread.

In the meantime Susan’s brothers ran home to tell her that her lamb was put into the paddock for the night; this was all they knew, and even this was some comfort to her. Rose, her good friend, was with her, and she had before her the pleasure of telling her father of his week’s reprieve. Her mother was better, and even said she was determined to sit up to supper in her wicker armchair.

Susan was getting this ready for supper, when little William, who was standing at the house door, watching in the dusk for his father’s return, suddenly exclaimed, “Susan! if here is not our old man!”

“Yes,” said the old harper, “I have found my way to you. The neighbours were kind enough to show me whereabouts you lived; for, though I didn’t know your name, they guessed who I meant by what I said of you all.” Susan came to the door, and the old man was delighted to hear her speak again. “If it would not be too bold,” said he, “I’m a stranger in this part of the country, and come from afar off. My boy has got a bed for himself here in the village; but I have no place. Could you be so charitable as to give an old blind man a night’s lodging?” Susan said she would step in and ask her mother; and she soon returned with an answer, that he was heartily welcome, if he could sleep upon the children’s bed, which was but small.

The old man thankfully entered the hospitable cottage. He struck his head against the low roof, as he stepped over the doorsill. “Many roofs that are twice as high are not half so good,” said he. Of this he had just had experience at the house of the Attorney Case, while he had asked, but had been roughly refused all assistance by Miss Barbara, who was, according to her usual custom, standing staring at the hall door.

The old man’s harp was set down in Farmer Price’s kitchen, and he promised to play a tune for the boys before they went to bed; their mother giving them leave to sit up to supper with their father. He came home with a sorrowful countenance; but how soon did it brighten, when Susan, with a smile, said to him, “Father, we’ve good news for you! good news for us all!—You have a whole week longer to stay with us; and perhaps,” continued she, putting her little purse into his hands,—“perhaps with what’s here, and the bread bills, and what may somehow be got together before a week’s at an end, we may make up the nine guineas for the substitute, as they call him. Who knows, dearest mother, but we may keep him with us for ever!” As she spoke, she threw her arms round her father, who pressed her to his bosom without speaking, for his heart was full. He was some little time before he could perfectly believe that what he heard was true; but the revived smiles of his wife, the noisy joy of his little boys, and the satisfaction that shone in Susan’s countenance, convinced him that he was not in a dream.

As they sat down to supper, the old harper was made welcome to his share of the cheerful though frugal meal.

Susan’s father, as soon as supper was finished, even before he would let the harper play a tune for his boys, opened the little purse, which Susan had given him. He was surprised at the sight of the twelve shillings, and still more, when he came to the bottom of the purse, to see the bright golden guinea.

“How did you come by all this money, Susan?” said he.

“Honestly and handsomely, that I’m sure of beforehand,” said her proud mother; “but how I can’t make out, except by the baking. Hey, Susan is this your first baking?”

“Oh, no, no,” said her father, “I have her first baking snug here, besides, in my pocket. I kept it for a surprise, to do your mother’s heart good, Susan. Here’s twenty-nine shillings, and the Abbey bill, which is not paid yet, comes to ten more. What think you of this, wife? Have we not a right to be proud of our Susan? Why,” continued he, turning to the harper, “I ask your pardon for speaking out so free before strangers in praise of my own, which I know is not mannerly; but the truth is the fittest thing to be spoken, as I think, at all times; therefore, here’s your good health, Susan; why, by-and-by she’ll be worth her weight in gold—in silver at least. But tell us, child, how came you by all this riches? and how comes it that I don’t go to-morrow? All this happy news makes me so gay in myself, I’m afraid I shall hardly understand it rightly. But speak on, child—first bringing us a bottle of the good mead you made last year from your own honey.”

Susan did not much like to tell the history of her guinea-hen—of the gown and of her poor lamb. Part of this would seem as if she was vaunting of her own generosity, and part of it she did not like to recollect. But her mother pressed to know the whole, and she related it as simply as she could. When she came to the story of her lamb, her voice faltered, and everybody present was touched. The old harper sighed once, and cleared his throat several times. He then asked for his harp, and, after tuning it for a considerable time, he recollected—for he had often fits of absence—that he sent for it to play the tune he had promised to the boys.

This harper came from a great distance, from the mountains of Wales, to contend with several other competitors for a prize, which had been advertised by a musical society about a year before this time. There was to be a splendid ball given upon the occasion at Shrewsbury, which was about five miles from our village. The prize was ten guineas for the best performer on the harp, and the prize was now to be decided in a few days.

All this intelligence Barbara had long since gained from her maid, who often paid visits to the town of Shrewsbury, and she had long had her imagination inflamed with the idea of this splendid music-meeting and ball. Often had she sighed to be there, and often had she revolved in her mind schemes for introducing herself to some genteel neighbours, who might take her to the ball in their carriage. How rejoiced, how triumphant was she, when this very evening, just about the time when the butcher was bargaining with her father about Susan’s lamb, a servant from the Abbey rapped at the door, and left a card for Mr. and Miss Barbara Case.

“There,” cried Bab, “I and papa are to dine and drink tea at the Abbey to-morrow. Who knows? I daresay, when they see that I’m not a vulgar person, and all that; and if I go cunningly to work with Miss Somers, as I shall, to be sure, I daresay, she’ll take me to the ball with her.”

“To be sure,” said the maid; “it’s the least one may expect from a lady who demeans herself to visit Susan Price, and goes about a-shopping for her. The least she can do for you is to take you in her carriage, which costs nothing, but is just a common civility, to a ball.”

“Then pray, Betty,” continued Miss Barbara, “don’t forget to-morrow, the first thing you do, to send off to Shrewsbury for my new bonnet. I must have it to dine in, at the Abbey, or the ladies will think nothing of me; and Betty, remember the mantua-maker too. I must see and coax papa to buy me a new gown against the ball. I can see, you know, something of the fashions to-morrow at the Abbey. I shall look the ladies well over, I promise you. And, Betty, I have thought of the most charming present for Miss Somers, as papa says it’s good never to go empty-handed to a great house, I’ll make Miss Somers, who is fond, as her maid told you, of such things—I’ll make Miss Somers a present of that guinea-hen of Susan’s; it’s of no use to me, so do you carry it up early in the morning to the Abbey, with my compliments. That’s the thing.”

In full confidence that her present and her bonnet would operate effectually in her favour, Miss Barbara paid her first visit at the Abbey. She expected to see wonders. She was dressed in all the finery which she had heard from her maid, who had heard from the ’prentice of a Shrewsbury milliner, was the thing in London; and she was much surprised and disappointed, when she was shown into the room where the Miss Somerses and the ladies of the Abbey were sitting, to see that they did not, in any one part of their dress, agree with the picture her imagination had formed of fashionable ladies. She was embarrassed when she saw books and work and drawings upon the table, and she began to think that some affront was meant to her, because the company did not sit with their hands before them.

When Miss Somers endeavoured to find out conversation that would interest her, and spoke of walks and flowers and gardening, of which she was herself fond, Miss Barbara still thought herself undervalued, and soon contrived to expose her ignorance most completely, by talking of things which she did not understand.

Those who never attempt to appear what they are not—those who do not in their manners pretend to anything unsuited to their habits and situation in life, never are in danger of being laughed at by sensible, well bred people of any rank; but affectation is the constant and just object of ridicule.

Miss Barbara Case, with her mistaken airs of gentility, aiming to be thought a woman, and a fine lady, whilst she was, in reality, a child and a vulgar attorney’s daughter, rendered herself so thoroughly ridiculous, that the good natured, yet discerning spectators were painfully divided between their sense of comic absurdity and a feeling of shame for one who could feel nothing for herself.

One by one the ladies dropped off. Miss Somers went out of the room for a few minutes to alter her dress, as it was the custom of the family, before dinner. She left a portfolio of pretty drawings and good prints, for Miss Barbara’s amusement; but Miss Barbara’s thoughts were so intent upon the harpers’ ball, that she could not be entertained with such trifles. How unhappy are those who spend their time in expectation! They can never enjoy the present moment. Whilst Barbara was contriving means of interesting Miss Somers in her favour, she recollected, with surprise, that not one word had yet been said of her present of the guinea-hen. Mrs. Betty, in the hurry of her dressing her young lady in the morning, had forgotten it; but it came just whilst Miss Somers was dressing; and the housekeeper came into her mistress’ room to announce its arrival.

“Ma’am,” said she, “here’s a beautiful guinea-hen just come, with Miss Barbara Case’s compliments to you.”

Miss Somers knew, by the tone which the housekeeper delivered this message, that there was something in the business which did not perfectly please her. She made no answer, in expectation that the housekeeper, who was a woman of a very open temper, would explain her cause of dissatisfaction. In this she was not mistaken. The housekeeper came close up to the dressing table, and continued, “I never like to speak till I’m sure, ma’am, and I’m not quite sure, to say certain, in this case, ma’am, but still I think it right to tell you, which can’t wrong anybody, what came across my mind about this same guinea-hen, ma’am; and you can inquire into it, and do as you please afterwards, ma’am. Some time ago we had fine guinea-fowls of our own, and I made bold, not thinking, to be sure, that all our own would die away from us, as they have done, to give a fine couple last Christmas to Susan Price, and very fond and pleased she was at the time, and I’m sure would never have parted with the hen with her good-will; but if my eyes don’t strangely mistake, this hen, that comes from Miss Barbara, is the selfsame identical guinea-hen that I gave to Susan. And how Miss Bab came by it is the thing that puzzles me. If my boy Philip was at home, maybe, as he’s often at Mrs. Price’s (which I don’t disapprove), he might know the history of the guinea-hen. I expect him home this night, and if you have no objection, I will sift the affair.”

“The shortest way, I think,” said Henrietta, “would be to ask Miss Case herself about it, which I will do this evening.”

“If you please, ma’am,” said the housekeeper, coldly; for she knew that Miss Barbara was not famous in the village for speaking truth.

Dinner was now served. Attorney Case expected to smell mint sauce, and, as the covers were taken from off the dishes, looked around for lamb; but no lamb appeared. He had a dexterous knack of twisting the conversation to his point. Sir Arthur was speaking, when they sat down to dinner, of a new carving knife, which he lately had had made for his sister. The attorney immediately went from carving-knives to poultry; thence to butcher’s meat. Some joints, he observed, were much more difficult to carve than others. He never saw a man carve better than the gentleman opposite him, who was the curate of the parish. “But, sir,” said the vulgar attorney, “I must make bold to differ with you in one point, and I’ll appeal to Sir Arthur. Sir Arthur, pray may I ask, when you carve a forequarter of lamb, do you, when you raise the shoulder, throw in salt, or not?” This well prepared question was not lost upon Sir Arthur. The attorney was thanked for his intended present; but mortified and surprised to hear Sir Arthur say that it was a constant rule of his never to accept of any presents from his neighbours. “If we were to accept a lamb from a rich neighbour on my estate,” said he, “I am afraid we should mortify many of our poor tenants, who can have little to offer, though, perhaps, they may bear us thorough good-will notwithstanding.”

After the ladies left the dining-room, as they were walking up and down the large hall, Miss Barbara had a fair opportunity of imitating her keen father’s method of conversing. One of the ladies observed, that this hall would be a charming place for music. Bab brought in harps and harpers, and the harpers’ ball, in a breath. “I know so much about it,—about the ball I mean,” said she, “because a lady in Shrewsbury, a friend of papa’s, offered to take me with her; but papa did not like to give her the trouble of sending so far for me, though she has a coach of her own.” Barbara fixed her eyes upon Miss Somers as she spoke; but she could not read her countenance as distinctly as she wished, because Miss Somers was at this moment letting down the veil of her hat.

“Shall we walk out before tea?” said Miss Somers to her companions; “I have a pretty guinea-hen to show you.” Barbara, secretly drawing propitious omens from the guinea-hen, followed with a confidential step. The pheasantry was well filled with pheasants, peacocks, etc., and Susan’s pretty little guinea-hen appeared well, even in this high company. It was much admired. Barbara was in glory; but her glory was of short duration.

Just as Miss Somers was going to inquire into the guinea-hen’s history, Philip came up, to ask permission to have a bit of sycamore, to turn a nutmeg box for his mother. He was an ingenious lad, and a good turner for his age. Sir Arthur had put by a bit of sycamore, on purpose for him; and Miss Somers told him where it was to be found. He thanked her: but in the midst of his bow of thanks his eye was struck by the sight of the guinea-hen, and he involuntarily exclaimed, “Susan’s guinea-hen, I declare!” “No, it’s not Susan’s guinea-hen,” said Miss Barbara, colouring furiously; “it is mine, and I have made a present of it to Miss Somers.”

At the sound of Bab’s voice, Philip turned—saw her—and indignation, unrestrained by the presence of all the amazed spectators, flashed in his countenance.

“What is the matter, Philip?” said Miss Somers, in a pacifying tone; but Philip was not inclined to be pacified. “Why, ma’am,” said he, “may I speak out?” and, without waiting for permission, he spoke out, and gave a full, true, and warm account of Rose’s embassy, and of Miss Barbara’s cruel and avaricious proceedings.

Barbara denied, prevaricated, stammered, and at last was overcome with confusion; for which even the most indulgent spectators could scarcely pity her.

Miss Somers, however, mindful of what was due to her guest, was anxious to dispatch Philip for his piece of sycamore. Bab recovered herself as soon as he was out of sight; but she further exposed herself by exclaiming, “I’m sure I wish this pitiful guinea-hen had never come into my possession. I wish Susan had kept it at home, as she should have done!”

“Perhaps she will be more careful now that she has received so strong a lesson,” said Miss Somers. “Shall we try her?” continued she. “Philip will, I daresay, take the guinea-hen back to Susan, if we desire it.”

“If you please, ma’am,” said Barbara, sullenly; “I have nothing more to do with it.”

So the guinea-hen was delivered to Philip, who set off joyfully with his prize, and was soon in sight of Farmer Price’s cottage. He stopped when he came to the door. He recollected Rose and her generous friendship for Susan. He was determined that she should have the pleasure of restoring the guinea-hen. He ran into the village. All the children who had given up their little purse on May day were assembled on the play-green. They were delighted to see the guinea-hen once more. Philip took his pipe and tabor, and they marched in innocent triumph towards the whitewashed cottage.

“Let me come with you—let me come with you,” said the butcher’s boy to Philip. “Stop one minute! my father has something to say to you.” He darted into his father’s house. The little procession stopped, and in a few minutes the bleating of a lamb was heard. Through a back passage, which led into the paddock behind the house, they saw the butcher leading a lamb.

“It is Daisy!” exclaimed Rose—“It’s Daisy!” repeated all her companions. “Susan’s lamb! Susan’s lamb!” and there was a universal shout of joy.

“Well, for my part,” said the good butcher, as soon as he could be heard,—“for my part, I would not be so cruel as Attorney Case for the whole world. These poor brute beasts don’t know aforehand what’s going to happen to them; and as for dying, it’s what we must all do some time or another; but to keep wringing the hearts of the living, that have as much sense as one’s self, is what I call cruel; and is not this what Attorney Case has been doing by poor Susan and her whole family, ever since he took a spite against them? But, at anyrate, here’s Susan’s lamb safe and sound. I’d have taken it back sooner, but I was off before day to the fair, and am but just come back. Daisy, however, has been as well off in my paddock as he would have been in the field by the waterside.”

The obliging shopkeeper, who showed the pretty calicoes to Susan, was now at his door, and when he saw the lamb, and heard that it was Susan’s, and learned its history, he said that he would add his mite; and he gave the children some ends of narrow riband, with which Rose decorated her friend’s lamb.

The pipe and tabor now once more began to play, and the procession moved on in joyful order, after giving the humane butcher three cheers; three cheers which were better deserved than “loud huzzas” usually are.

Susan was working in her arbour, with her little deal table before her. When she heard the sound of the music, she put down her work and listened. She saw the crowd of children coming nearer and nearer. They had closed round Daisy, so that she did not see it; but as they came up to the garden gate she saw that Rose beckoned to her. Philip played as loud as he could, that she might not hear, till the proper moment, the bleating of the lamb. Susan opened the garden-wicket, and at this signal the crowd divided, and the first thing that Susan saw, in the midst of her taller friends, was little smiling Mary, with the guinea-hen in her arms.

“Come on! Come on!” cried Mary, as Susan started with joyful surprise; “you have more to see.”

At this instant the music paused, Susan heard the bleating of a lamb, and scarcely daring to believe her senses, she pressed eagerly forward, and beheld poor Daisy!—she burst into tears. “I did not shed one tear when I parted with you, my dear little Daisy!” said she. “It was for my father and mother. I would not have parted with you for anything else in the whole world. Thank you, thank you all,” added she, to her companions, who sympathized in her joy, even more than they had sympathized in her sorrow. “Now, if my father was not to go away from us next week, and if my mother was quite stout, I should be the happiest person in the world!”

As Susan pronounced these words, a voice behind the little listening crowd cried, in a brutal tone, “Let us pass, if you please; you have no right to stop up the public road!” This was the voice of Attorney Case, who was returning with his daughter Barbara from his visit to the Abbey. He saw the lamb, and tried to whistle as he went on. Barbara also saw the guinea-hen, and turned her head another way, that she might avoid the contemptuous, reproachful looks of those whom she only affected to despise. Even her new bonnet, in which she had expected to be so much admired, was now only serviceable to hide her face and conceal her mortification.

“I am glad she saw the guinea-hen,” cried Rose, who now held it in her hands.

“Yes,” said Philip, “she’ll not forget May day in a hurry.”

“Nor I neither, I hope,” said Susan, looking round upon her companions with a most affectionate smile: “I hope, whilst I live, I shall never forget your goodness to me last May day. Now I’ve my pretty guinea-hen safe once more, I should think of returning your money.”

“No! no! no!” was the general cry. “We don’t want the money—keep it, keep it—you want it for your father.”

“Well,” said Susan, “I am not too proud to be obliged. I will keep your money for my father. Perhaps some time or other I may be able to earn—”

“Oh,” interrupted Philip, “don’t let us talk of earning; don’t let us talk to her of money now; she has not had time hardly to look at poor Daisy and her guinea-hen. Come, we must go about our business, and let her have them all to herself.”

The crowd moved away in consequence of Philip’s considerate advice: but it was observed that he was the very last to stir from the garden-wicket himself. He stayed, first, to inform Susan that it was Rose who tied the ribands on Daisy’s head. Then he stayed a little longer to let her into the history of the guinea-hen, and to tell her who it was that brought the hen home from the Abbey.

Rose held the sieve, and Susan was feeding her long lost favourite, whilst Philip leaned over the wicket, prolonging his narration. “Now, my pretty guinea-hen,” said Susan—“my naughty guinea-hen, that flew away from me, you shall never serve me so again. I must cut your nice wings; but I won’t hurt you.”

“Take care,” cried Philip; “you’d better, indeed you’d better let me hold her whilst you cut her wings.”

When this operation was successfully performed, which it certainly could never have been if Philip had not held the hen for Susan, he recollected that his mother had sent him with a message to Mrs. Price. This message led to another quarter of an hour’s delay; for he had the whole history of the guinea-hen to tell over again to Mrs. Price, and the farmer himself luckily came in whilst it was going on, so it was but civil to begin it afresh; and then the farmer was so rejoiced to see his Susan so happy again with her two little favourites that he declared he must see Daisy fed himself; and Philip found that he was wanted to hold the jug full of milk, out of which Farmer Price filled the pan for Daisy? Happy Daisy! who lapped at his ease, whilst Susan caressed him, and thanked her fond father and her pleased mother.

“But, Philip,” said Mrs. Price, “I’ll hold the jug—you’ll be late with your message to your mother; we’ll not detain you any longer.”

Philip departed, and as he went out of the garden-wicket, he looked up, and saw Bab and her maid Betty staring out of the window, as usual. On this, he immediately turned back to try whether he had shut the gate fast, lest the guinea-hen might stray out, and fall again into the hands of the enemy.

Miss Barbara, in the course of this day, felt considerable mortification, but no contrition. She was vexed that her meanness was discovered, but she felt no desire to cure herself of any of her faults. The ball was still uppermost in her vain, selfish soul. “Well,” said she to her confidante, Betty, “you hear how things have turned out; but if Miss Somers won’t think of asking me to go out with her, I’ve a notion I know who will. As papa says, it’s a good thing to have two strings to one’s bow.”

Now, some officers, who were quartered at Shrewsbury, had become acquainted with Mr. Case. They had gotten into some quarrel with a tradesman of the town, and Attorney Case had promised to bring them through the affair, as the man threatened to take the law of them. Upon the faith of this promise, and with the vain hope that, by civility, they might dispose him to bring in a reasonable bill of costs, these officers sometimes invited Mr. Case to the mess; and one of them, who had lately been married, prevailed upon his bride sometimes to take a little notice of Miss Barbara. It was with this lady that Miss Barbara now hoped to go to the harpers’ ball.

“The officers and Mrs. Strathspey, or, more properly, Mrs. Strathspey and the officers, are to breakfast here, to-morrow, do you know,” said Bab to Betty. “One of them dined at the Abbey, to-day, and told papa that they’d all come. They are going out on a party, somewhere into the country, and breakfast here on their way. Pray, Betty, don’t forget that Mrs. Strathspey can’t breakfast without honey. I heard her say so myself.”

“Then, indeed,” said Betty, “I’m afraid Mrs. Strathspey will be likely to go without her breakfast here; for not a spoonful of honey have we, let her long for it ever so much.”

“But, surely,” said Bab, “we can contrive to get some honey in the neighbourhood.”

“There’s none to be bought, as I know of,” said Betty.

“But is there none to be begged or borrowed?” said Bab, laughing. “Do you forget Susan’s beehive? Step over to her in the morning with my compliments, and see what you can do. Tell her it’s for Mrs. Strathspey.”

In the morning Betty went with Miss Barbara’s compliments to Susan, to beg some honey for Mrs. Strathspey, who could not breakfast without it. Susan did not like to part with her honey, because her mother loved it, and she therefore gave Betty but a small quantity. When Barbara saw how little Susan sent, she called her a miser, and she said she must have some more for Mrs. Strathspey. “I’ll go myself and speak to her. Come with me, Betty,” said the young lady, who found it at present convenient to forget her having declared, the day that she sucked up the broth, that she never would honour Susan with another visit. “Susan,” said she, accosting the poor girl, whom she had done everything in her power to injure, “I must beg a little more honey from you for Mrs. Strathspey’s breakfast. You know, on a particular occasion such as this, neighbours must help one another.”

“To be sure they should,” added Betty.

Susan, though she was generous, was not weak; she was willing to give to those she loved, but not disposed to let anything be taken from her, or coaxed out of her, by those she had reason to despise. She civilly answered, that she was sorry she had no more honey to spare.

Barbara grew angry, and lost all command of herself, when she saw that Susan, without regarding her reproaches, went on looking through the glass pane in the beehive. “I’ll tell you what, Susan Price,” said she, in a high tone, “the honey I will have, so you may as well give it to me by fair means. Yes or no! Speak! Will you give it me or not? Will you give me that piece of the honey-comb that lies there?”

“That bit of honey-comb is for my mother’s breakfast,” said Susan; “I cannot give it you.”

“Can’t you?” said Bab, “then see if I don’t take it!” She stretched across Susan for the honey-comb, which was lying by some rosemary leaves that Susan had freshly gathered for her mother’s tea. Bab grasped, but at her first effort she only reached the rosemary. She made a second dart at the honey-comb, and, in her struggle to obtain it, she overset the beehive. The bees swarmed about her. Her maid Betty screamed and ran away. Susan, who was sheltered by a laburnum tree, called to Barbara, upon whom the black clusters of bees were now settling, and begged her to stand still, and not to beat them away. “If you stand quietly you won’t be stung, perhaps.” But instead of standing quietly, Bab buffeted and stamped and roared, and the bees stung her terribly. Her arms and her face swelled in a frightful manner. She was helped home by poor Susan and treacherous Mrs. Betty, who, now the mischief was done, thought only of exculpating herself to her master.

“Indeed, Miss Barbara,” said she, “this was quite wrong of you to go and get yourself into such a scrape. I shall be turned away for it, you’ll see.”

“I don’t care whether you are turned away or not,” said Barbara; “I never felt such pain in my life. Can’t you do something for me? I don’t mind the pain either so much as being such a fright. Pray, how am I to be fit to be seen at breakfast by Mrs. Strathspey; and I suppose I can’t go to the ball either to-morrow, after all!”

“No, that you can’t expect to do, indeed,” said Betty, the comforter. “You need not think of balls; for those lumps and swellings won’t go off your face this week. That’s not what pains me; but I’m thinking of what your papa will say to me when he sees you, miss.”

Whilst this amiable mistress and maid were in their adversity reviling one another, Susan, when she saw that she could be of no further use, was preparing to depart, but at the house-door, she was met by Mr. Case. Mr. Case had revolved things in his mind; for his second visit at the Abbey pleased him as little as his first, owing to a few words which Sir Arthur and Miss Somers dropped in speaking of Susan and Farmer Price. Mr. Case began to fear that he had mistaken his game in quarrelling with this family. The refusal of his present dwelt upon the attorney’s mind; and he was aware that, if the history of Susan’s lamb ever reached the Abbey, he was undone. He now thought that the most prudent course he could possibly follow would be to hush up matters with the Prices with all convenient speed. Consequently, when he met Susan at his door, he forced a gracious smile. “How is your mother, Susan?” said he. “Is there anything in our house can be of service to her?” On hearing his daughter he cried out, “Barbara, Barbara—Bab! come downstairs, child, and speak to Susan Price.” But as no Barbara answered, her father stalked upstairs directly, opened the door, and stood amazed at the spectacle of her swelled visage.

Betty instantly began to tell the story of Barbara’s mishap her own way. Bab contradicted her as fast as she spoke. The attorney turned the maid away on the spot; and partly with real anger, and partly with feigned affectation of anger, he demanded from his daughter how she dared to treat Susan Price so ill, “when,” as he said, “she was so neighbourly and obliging as to give you some of her honey? Couldn’t you be content, without seizing upon the honey-comb by force? This is scandalous behaviour, and what, I assure you, I can’t countenance.”

Susan now interceded for Barbara; and the attorney, softening his voice, said that “Susan was a great deal too good to her; as you are, indeed,” added he, “to everybody. I forgive her for your sake.” Susan curtsied, in great surprise; but her lamb could not be forgotten, and she left the attorney’s house as soon as she could, to make her mother’s rosemary tea breakfast.

Mr. Case saw that Susan was not so simple as to be taken in by a few fair words. His next attempt was to conciliate Farmer Price. The farmer was a blunt, honest man, and his countenance remained inflexibly contemptuous, when the attorney addressed him in his softest tone.

So stood matters the day of the long expected harpers’ ball. Miss Barbara Case, stung by Susan’s bees, could not, after all her manœuvres, go with Mrs. Strathspey to the ball. The ballroom was filled early in the evening. There was a numerous assembly. The harpers, who contended for the prize, were placed under the music-gallery at the lower end of the room. Amongst them was our old blind friend, who, as he was not so well clad as his competitors, seemed to be disdained by many of the spectators. Six ladies and six gentlemen were now appointed to be judges of the performance. They were seated in a semicircle, opposite to the harpers. The Miss Somerses, who were fond of music, were amongst the ladies in the semicircle; and the prize was lodged in the hands of Sir Arthur. There was now silence. The first harp sounded, and as each musician tried his skill, the audience seemed to think that each deserved the prize. The old blind man was the last. He tuned his instrument; and such a simple, pathetic strain was heard as touched every heart. All were fixed in delighted attention; and when the music ceased, the silence for some moments continued.

The silence was followed by a universal buzz of applause. The judges were unanimous in their opinions, and it was declared that the old blind harper, who played the last, deserved the prize.

The simple, pathetic air which won the suffrages of the whole assembly, was his own composition. He was pressed to give the words belonging to the music; and at last he modestly offered to repeat them, as he could not see to write. Miss Somers’ ready pencil was instantly produced; and the old harper dictated the words of his ballad, which he called—“Susan’s Lamentation for her Lamb.”

Miss Somers looked at her brother from time to time, as she wrote; and Sir Arthur, as soon as the old man had finished, took him aside, and asked him some questions, which brought the whole history of Susan’s lamb and of Attorney Case’s cruelty to light.

The attorney himself was present when the harper began to dictate his ballad. His colour, as Sir Arthur steadily looked at him, varied continually; till at length, when he heard the words “Susan’s Lamentation for her Lamb,” he suddenly shrunk back, skulked through the crowd, and disappeared. We shall not follow him; we had rather follow our old friend, the victorious harper.

No sooner had he received the ten guineas, his well merited prize, than he retired to a small room belonging to the people of the house, asked for pen, ink and paper, and dictated, in a low voice, to his boy, who was a tolerably good scribe, a letter, which he ordered him to put directly into the Shrewsbury post-office. The boy ran with the letter to the post-office. He was but just in time, for the postman’s horn was sounding.

The next morning, when Farmer Price, his wife, and Susan, were sitting together, reflecting that his week’s leave of absence was nearly at an end, and that the money was not yet made up for John Simpson, the substitute, a knock was heard at the door, and the person who usually delivered the letters in the village put a letter into Susan’s hand, saying, “A penny, if you please—here’s a letter for your father.”

“For me!” said Farmer Price; “here’s the penny then, but who can it be from, I wonder? Who can think of writing to me, in this world?” He tore open the letter; but the hard name at the bottom of the page puzzled him—“your obliged friend, Llewellyn.”

“And what’s this?” said he, opening a paper that was inclosed in the letter. “It’s a song, seemingly; it must be somebody that has a mind to make an April fool of me.”

“But it is not April, it is May, father,” said Susan.

“Well, let us read the letter, and we shall come to the truth all in good time.”

Farmer Price sat down in his own chair, for he could not read entirely to his satisfaction in any other, and read as follows:—

“My Worthy Friend,—I am sure you will be glad to hear that I have had good success this night. I have won the ten guinea prize, and for that I am in a great measure indebted to your sweet daughter Susan; as you will see by a little ballad I inclose for her. Your hospitality to me has afforded to me an opportunity of learning some of your family history. You do not, I hope, forget that I was present when you were counting the treasure in Susan’s little purse, and that I heard for what purpose it was all destined. You have not, I know, yet made up the full sum for your substitute, John Simpson; therefore do me the favour to use the five guinea bank note which you will find within the ballad. You shall not find me as hard a creditor as Attorney Case. Pay me the money at your own convenience. If it is never convenient to you to pay it, I shall never ask it. I shall go my rounds again through this country, I believe, about this time next year, and will call to see how you do, and to play the new tune for Susan and the dear little boys.

“I should just add, to set your heart at rest about the money, that it does not distress me at all to lend it to you. I am not quite so poor as I appear to be. But it is my humour to go about as I do. I see more of the world under my tattered garb than, perhaps, I should ever see in a better dress. There are many of my profession who are of the same mind as myself in this respect; and we are glad, when it lies in our way, to do any kindness to such a worthy family as yours.—So, fare ye well.

“Your obliged Friend,
“Llewellyn.”

Susan now, by her father’s desire, opened the ballad. He picked up the five guinea bank note, whilst she read, with surprise, “Susan’s Lamentation for her Lamb.” Her mother leaned over her shoulder to read the words; but they were interrupted, before they had finished the first stanza, by another knock at the door. It was not the postman with another letter. It was Sir Arthur and his sisters.

They came with an intention, which they were much disappointed to find that the old harper had rendered vain—they came to lend the farmer and his good family the money to pay for his substitute.

“But, since we are here,” said Sir Arthur, “let me do my own business, which I had like to have forgotten. Mr. Price, will you come out with me, and let me show you a piece of your land, through which I want to make a road. Look there,” said Sir Arthur, pointing to the spot, “I am laying out a ride round my estate, and that bit of land of yours stops me.”

“Why, sir,” said Price, “the land’s mine, to be sure, for that matter; but I hope you don’t look upon me to be that sort of person that would be stiff about a trifle or so.”

“The fact is,” said Sir Arthur, “I had heard you were a litigious, pig-headed fellow; but you do not seem to deserve this character.”

“Hope not, sir,” said the farmer; “but about the matter of the land, I don’t want to take any advantage of your wishing for it. You are welcome to it; and I leave it to you to find me out another bit of land convenient to me that will be worth neither more nor less; or else to make up the value to me some way or other. I need say no more about it.”

“I hear something,” continued Sir Arthur, after a short silence—“I hear something, Mr. Price, of a flaw in your lease. I would not speak to you about it whilst we were bargaining about your land, lest I should over-awe you; but, tell me, what is this flaw?”

“In truth, and the truth is the fittest thing to be spoken at all times,” said the farmer, “I didn’t know myself what a flaw, as they call it, meant, till I heard of the word from Attorney Case; and, I take it, a flaw is neither more nor less than a mistake, as one should say. Now, by reason a man does not make a mistake on purpose, it seems to me to be the fair thing, that if a man finds out his mistake, he might set it right; but Attorney Case says this is not law; and I’ve no more to say. The man who drew up my lease made a mistake; and if I must suffer for it, I must,” said the farmer. “However, I can show you, Sir Arthur, just for my own satisfaction and yours, a few lines of a memorandum on a slip of paper, which was given me by your relation, the gentleman who lived here before, and let me my farm. You’ll see, by that bit of paper, what was meant; but the attorney says, the paper’s not worth a button in a court of justice, and I don’t understand these things. All I understand is the common honesty of the matter. I’ve no more to say.”

“This attorney, whom you speak of so often,” said Sir Arthur, “you seem to have some quarrel with. Now, would you tell me frankly what is the matter between—?”

“The matter between us, then,” said Price, “is a little bit of ground, not worth much, that is there open to the lane at the end of Mr. Case’s garden, sir, and he wanted to take it in. Now I told him my mind, that it belonged to the parish, and that I never would willingly give my consent to his cribbing it in that way. Sir, I was the more loath to see it shut into his garden, which, moreover, is large enough of all conscience without it, because you must know, Sir Arthur, the children in our village are fond of making a little play-green of it; and they have a custom of meeting on May day at a hawthorn that stands in the middle of it, and altogether I was very loath to see ’em turned out of it by those who have no right.”

“Let us go and see this nook,” said Sir Arthur. “It is not far off, is it?”

“Oh, no, sir, just hard by here.”

When they got to the ground, Mr. Case, who saw them walking together, was in a hurry to join them, that he might put a stop to any explanations. Explanations were things of which he had a great dread; but, fortunately, he was upon this occasion a little too late.

“Is this the nook in dispute?” said Sir Arthur.

“Yes; this is the whole thing,” said Price.

“Why, Sir Arthur,” interposed the politic attorney, with an assumed air of generosity, “don’t let us talk any more about it. Let it belong to whom it will, I give it up to you.”

“So great a lawyer, Mr. Case, as you are,” replied Sir Arthur, “must know, that a man cannot give up that to which he has no legal title; and in this case it is impossible that, with the best intentions to oblige me in the world, you can give up this bit of land to me, because it is mine already, as I can convince you effectually by a map of the adjoining land, which I have fortunately safe amongst my papers. This piece of ground belonged to the farm on the opposite side of the road, and it was cut off when the lane was made.”

“Very possibly. I daresay you are quite correct; you must know best,” said the attorney, trembling for the agency.

“Then,” said Sir Arthur, “Mr. Price, you will observe that I now promise this little green to the children for a play-ground; and I hope they may gather hawthorn many a May day at this their favourite bush.” Mr. Price bowed low, which he seldom did, even when he received a favour himself. “And now, Mr. Case,” said Sir Arthur, turning to the attorney, who did not know which way to look, “you sent me a lease to look over.”

“Ye-ye-yes,” stammered Mr. Case. “I thought it my duty to do so; not out of any malice or ill-will to this good man.”

“You have done him no injury,” said Sir Arthur, coolly. “I am ready to make him a new lease, whenever he pleases, of his farm, and I shall be guided by a memorandum of the original bargain, which he has in his possession. I hope I never shall take an unfair advantage of anyone.”

“Heaven forbid, sir,” said the attorney, sanctifying his face, “that I should suggest the taking an unfair advantage of any man, rich or poor; but to break a bad lease is not taking an unfair advantage.”

“You really think so?” said Sir Arthur.

“Certainly I do, and I hope I have not hazarded your good opinion by speaking my mind concerning the flaw so plainly. I always understood that there could be nothing ungentlemanlike, in the way of business, in taking advantage of a flaw in a lease.”

“Now,” said Sir Arthur, “you have pronounced judgment undesignedly in your own case. You intended to send me this poor man’s lease; but your son, by some mistake, brought me your own, and I have discovered a fatal error in it.”

“A fatal error!” said the alarmed attorney.

“Yes, sir,” said Sir Arthur, pulling the lease out of his pocket. “Here it is. You will observe that it is neither signed nor sealed by the grantor.”

“But, you won’t take advantage of me, surely, Sir Arthur?” said Mr. Case, forgetting his own principles.

“I shall not take advantage of you, as you would have taken of this honest man. In both cases I shall be guided by memoranda which I have in my possession. I shall not, Mr. Case, defraud you of one shilling of your property. I am ready, at a fair valuation, to pay the exact value of your house and land; but upon this condition—that you quit the parish within one month!”

Attorney Case was thus compelled to submit to the hard necessity of the case, for he knew that he could not legally resist. Indeed he was glad to be let off so easily; and he bowed and sneaked away, secretly comforting himself with the hope, that when they came to the valuation of the house and land he should be the gainer, perhaps of a few guineas. His reputation he justly held very cheap.

“You are a scholar; you write a good hand; you can keep accounts, cannot you?” said Sir Arthur to Mr. Price, as they walked home towards the cottage. “I think I saw a bill of your little daughter’s drawing out the other day, which was very neatly written. Did you teach her to write?”

“No, sir,” said Price, “I can’t say I did that; for she mostly taught it herself, but I taught her a little arithmetic, as far as I knew, on our winter nights, when I had nothing better to do.”

“Your daughter shows that she has been well taught,” said Sir Arthur; “and her good conduct and good character speak strongly in favour of her parents.”

“You are very good, very good indeed, sir, to speak in this sort of way,” said the delighted father.

“But I mean to do more than pay you with words,” said Sir Arthur. “You are attached to your own family, perhaps you may become attached to me, when you come to know me, and we shall have frequent opportunities of judging of one another. I want no agent to squeeze my tenants, or do my dirty work. I only want a steady, intelligent, honest man, like you, to collect my rents, and I hope, Mr. Price, you will have no objection to the employment.”

“I hope, sir,” said Price, with joy and gratitude glowing in his honest countenance, “that you’ll never have cause to repent your goodness.”

“And what are my sisters about here?” said Sir Arthur, entering the cottage, and going behind his sisters, who were busily engaged in measuring an extremely pretty coloured calico.

“It is for Susan, my dear brother,” said they. “I know she did not keep that guinea for herself,” said Miss Somers. “I have just prevailed upon her mother to tell me what became of it. Susan gave it to her father; but she must not refuse a gown of our choosing this time; and I am sure she will not, because her mother, I see, likes it. And, Susan, I hear that instead of becoming Queen of the May this year, you were sitting in your sick mother’s room. Your mother has a little colour in her cheeks now.”

“Oh, ma’am,” interrupted Mrs. Price, “I’m quite well. Joy, I think, has made me quite well.”

“Then,” said Miss Somers, “I hope you will be able to come out on your daughter’s birthday, which, I hear, is the 25th of this month. Make haste and get quite well before that day; for my brother intends that all the lads and lassies of the village shall have a dance on Susan’s birthday.”

“Yes,” said Sir Arthur, “and I hope on that day, Susan, you will be very happy with your little friends upon their play-green. I shall tell them that it is your good conduct which has obtained it for them; and if you have anything to ask, any little favour for any of your companions, which we can grant, now ask, Susan. These ladies look as if they would not refuse you anything that is reasonable; and, I think, you look as if you would not ask anything unreasonable.”

“Sir,” said Susan, after consulting her mother’s eyes, “there is, to be sure, a favour I should like to ask; it is for Rose.”

“Well, I don’t know who Rose is,” said Sir Arthur, smiling; “but, go on.”

“Ma’am, you have seen her, I believe; she is a very good girl, indeed,” said Mrs. Price. “And works very neatly, indeed,” continued Susan, eagerly, to Miss Somers; “and she and her mother heard you were looking out for someone to wait upon you.”

“Say no more,” said Miss Somers; “your wish is granted. Tell Rose to come to the Abbey, to-morrow morning, or, rather, come with her yourself; for our housekeeper, I know, wants to talk to you about a certain cake. She wishes, Susan, that you should be the maker of the cake for the dance; and she has good things ready looked out for it already, I know. It must be large enough for everybody to have a slice, and the housekeeper will ice it for you. I only hope your cake will be as good as your bread. Fare ye well.”

How happy are those who bid farewell to a whole family, silent with gratitude, who will bless them aloud when they are far out of hearing!

“How do I wish, now,” said Farmer Price, “and it’s almost a sin for one that has had such a power of favours done him, to wish for anything more; but how I do wish, wife, that our good friend, the harper was only here at this time. It would do his old, warm heart good. Well, the best of it is, we shall be able next year, when he comes his rounds, to pay him his money with thanks, being all the time, and for ever, as much obliged to him as if we kept it. I long, so I do, to see him in this house again, drinking, as he did, just in this spot, a glass of Susan’s mead, to her very good health.”

“Yes,” said Susan, “and the next time he comes, I can give him one of my guinea-hen’s eggs, and I shall show my lamb, Daisy.”

“True, love,” said her mother, “and he will play that tune and sing that pretty ballad. Where is it? for I have not finished it.”

“Rose ran away with it, mother, but I’ll step after her, and bring it back to you this minute,” said Susan.

Susan found her friend Rose at the hawthorn, in the midst of a crowded circle of her companions, to whom she was reading “Susan’s Lamentation for her Lamb.”

“The words are something, but the tune—the tune—I must have the tune,” cried Philip. “I’ll ask my mother to ask Sir Arthur to try and find out which way that good old man went after the ball; and if he’s above ground, we’ll have him back by Susan’s birthday, and he shall sit here—just exactly here by this, our bush, and he shall play—I mean, if he pleases—that same tune for us, and I shall learn it—I mean, if I can—in a minute.”

The good news that Farmer Price was to be employed to collect the rents, and that Attorney Case was to leave the parish in a month, soon spread over the village. Many came out of their houses to have the pleasure of hearing the joyful tidings confirmed by Susan herself. The crowd on the play-green increased every minute.

“Yes,” cried the triumphant Philip, “I tell you it’s all true, every word of it. Susan’s too modest to say it herself; but I tell ye all, Sir Arthur gave us this play-green for ever, on account of her being so good.”

You see, at last Attorney Case, with all his cunning has not proved a match for “Simple Susan.”

THE WHITE PIGEON.

The little town of Somerville, in Ireland, has, within these few years, assumed the neat and cheerful appearance of an English village. Mr. Somerville, to whom this town belongs, wished to inspire his tenantry with a taste for order and domestic happiness, and took every means in his power to encourage industrious, well behaved people to settle in his neighbourhood. When he had finished building a row of good slated houses in his town, he declared that he would let them to the best tenants he could find, and proposals were publicly sent to him from all parts of the country.

By the best tenants, Mr. Somerville did not, however, mean the best bidders; and many, who had offered an extravagant price for the houses, were surprised to find their proposals rejected. Amongst these was Mr. Cox, an alehouse keeper, who did not bear a very good character.

“Please your honour, sir,” said he to Mr. Somerville, “I expected, since I bid as fair and fairer for it than any other, that you would have let me the house next the apothecary’s. Was not it fifteen guineas I mentioned in my proposal? and did not your honour give it against me for thirteen?”

“My honour did just so,” replied Mr. Somerville, calmly.

“And please your honour, but I don’t know what it is I or mine have done to offend you. I’m sure there is not a gentleman in all Ireland I’d go further to sarve. Would not I go to Cork to-morrow for the least word from your honour?”

“I am much obliged to you, Mr. Cox, but I have no business at Cork at present,” answered Mr. Somerville, drily.

“It is all I wish,” exclaimed Mr. Cox, “that I could find out and light upon the man that has belied me to your honour.”

“No man has belied you, Mr. Cox, but your nose belies you much, if you do not love drinking a little, and your black eye and cut chin belie you much if you do not love quarrelling a little.”

“Quarrel! I quarrel, please your honour! I defy any man, or set of men, ten mile round, to prove such a thing, and I am ready to fight him that dares to say the like of me. I’d fight him here in your honour’s presence, if he’d only come out this minute, and meet me like a man.”

Here Mr. Cox put himself into a boxing attitude, but observing that Mr. Somerville looked at his threatening gesture with a smile, and that several people, who had gathered round him as he stood in the street, laughed at the proof he gave of his peaceable disposition, he changed his attitude, and went on to vindicate himself against the charge of drinking.

“And as to drink, please your honour, there’s no truth in it. Not a drop of whisky, good or bad, have I touched these six months, except what I took with Jemmy M’Doole the night I had the misfortune to meet your honour coming home from the fair of Ballynagrish.”

To this speech Mr. Somerville made no answer, but turned away to look at the bow window of a handsome new inn, which the glazier was at this instant glazing. “Please your honour, that new inn is not let, I hear, as yet,” resumed Mr. Cox; “if your honour recollects, you promised to make me a compliment of it last Seraphtide was twelvemonth.”

“Impossible!” cried Mr. Somerville, “for I had no thoughts of building an inn at that time.”

“Oh, I beg your honour’s pardon but if you’d be just pleased to recollect, it was coming through the gap in the bog meadows, forenent Thady O’Connor, you made me the promise—I’ll leave it to him, so I will.”

“But I will not leave it to him, I assure you,” cried Mr. Somerville; “I never made any such promise. I never thought of letting this inn to you.”

“Then your honour won’t let me have it?”

“No, you have told me a dozen falsehoods. I do not wish to have you for a tenant.”

“Well, God bless your honour; I’ve no more to say, but God bless your honour,” said Mr. Cox; and he walked away, muttering to himself, as he slouched his hat over his face, “I hope I’ll live to be revenged on him!”

Mr. Somerville the next morning went with his family to look at the new inn, which he expected to see perfectly finished; but he was met by the carpenter, who, with a rueful face, informed him that six panes of glass in the large bow-window had been broken during the night.

“Ha! perhaps Mr. Cox has broken my windows, in revenge for my refusing to let him my house,” said Mr. Somerville; and many of the neighbours, who knew the malicious character of this Mr. Cox, observed that this was like one of his tricks. A boy of about twelve years old, however, stepped forward and said, “I don’t like Mr. Cox, I’m sure; for once he beat me when he was drunk; but, for all that, no one should be accused wrongfully. He could not be the person that broke these windows last night, for he was six miles off. He slept at his cousin’s last night, and he has not returned home yet. So I think he knows nothing of the matter.”

Mr. Somerville was pleased with the honest simplicity of this boy, and observing that he looked in eagerly at the staircase, when the house door was opened, he asked him whether he would like to go in and see the new house. “Yes, sir,” said the boy, “I should like to go up those stairs, and to see what I should come to.”

“Up with you, then!” said Mr. Somerville; and the boy ran up the stairs. He went from room to room with great expressions of admiration and delight. At length, as he was examining one of the garrets, he was startled by a fluttering noise over his head; and looking up, he saw a white pigeon, who, frightened at his appearance, began to fly round and round the room, till it found its way out of the door, and flew into the staircase.

The carpenter was speaking to Mr. Somerville upon the landing-place of the stairs; but, the moment he spied the white pigeon, he broke off in the midst of a speech about the nose of the stairs, and exclaimed, “There he is, please your honour! There’s he that has done all the damage to our bow-window—that’s the very same wicked white pigeon that broke the church windows last Sunday was se’nnight; but he’s down for it now; we have him safe, and I’ll chop his head off, as he deserves, this minute.”

“Stay! O stay! don’t chop his head off: he does not deserve it,” cried the boy, who came running out of the garret with the greatest eagerness—“I broke your window, sir,” said he to Mr. Somerville. “I broke your window with this ball; but I did not know that I had done it, till this moment, I assure you, or I should have told you before. Don’t chop his head off,” added the boy to the carpenter, who had now the white pigeon in his hands.

“No,” said Mr. Somerville, “the pigeon’s head shall not be chopped off, nor yours either, my good boy, for breaking a window. I am persuaded by your open, honest countenance, that you are speaking the truth; but pray explain this matter to us; for you have not made it quite clear. How happened it that you could break my windows without knowing it? and how came you to find it out at last?”

“Sir,” said the boy, “if you’ll come up here, I’ll show you all I know, and how I came to know it.”

Mr. Somerville followed the boy into the garret, who pointed to a pane of glass that was broken in a small window that looked out upon a piece of waste ground behind the house. Upon this piece of waste ground the children of the village often used to play. “We were playing there at ball yesterday evening,” continued the boy, addressing himself to Mr. Somerville, “and one of the lads challenged me to hit a mark in the wall, which I did; but he said I did not hit it, and bade me give him up my ball as the forfeit. This I would not do; and when he began to wrestle with me for it, I threw the ball, as I thought, over the house. He ran to look for it in the street, but could not find it, which I was very glad of; but I was very sorry just now to find it myself lying upon this heap of shavings, sir, under this broken window; for, as soon as I saw it lying there, I knew I must have been the person that broke the window; and through this window came the white pigeon. Here’s one of his white feathers sticking in the gap.”

“Yes,” said the carpenter, “and in the bow-window room below there’s plenty of his feathers to be seen; for I’ve just been down to look. It was the pigeon broke them windows, sure enough.”

“But he could not have got in had I not broke this little window,” said the boy, eagerly; “and I am able to earn sixpence a day, and I’ll pay for all the mischief, and welcome. The white pigeon belongs to a poor neighbour, a friend of ours, who is very fond of him, and I would not have him killed for twice as much money.”

“Take the pigeon, my honest, generous lad,” said Mr. Somerville, “and carry him back to your neighbour. I forgive him all the mischief he has done me, tell your friend, for your sake. As to the rest, we can have the windows mended; and do you keep all the sixpences you earn for yourself.”

“That’s what he never did yet,” said the carpenter. “Many’s the sixpence he earns, but not a halfpenny goes into his own pocket: it goes every farthing to his poor father and mother. Happy for them to have such a son!”

“More happy for him to have such a father and mother,” exclaimed the boy. “Their good days they took all the best care of me that was to be had for love or money, and would, if I would let them, go on paying for my schooling now, falling as they be in the world; but I must learn to mind the shop now. Good morning to you, sir; and thank you kindly,” said he to Mr. Somerville.

“And where does this boy live, and who are his father and mother? They cannot live in town,” said Mr. Somerville, “or I should have heard of them.”

“They are but just come into the town, please your honour,” said the carpenter. “They lived formerly upon Counsellor O’Donnel’s estate; but they were ruined, please your honour, by taking a joint lease with a man, who fell afterwards into bad company, ran out all he had, so could not pay the landlord; and these poor people were forced to pay his share and their own too, which almost ruined them. They were obliged to give up the land; and now they have furnished a little shop in this town with what goods they could afford to buy with the money they got by the sale of their cattle and stock. They have the good-will of all who know them; and I am sure I hope they will do well. The boy is very ready in the shop, though he said only that he could earn sixpence a day. He writes a good hand, and is quick at casting up accounts, for his age. Besides, he is likely to do well in the world, because he is never in idle company, and I’ve known him since he was two foot high, and never heard of his telling a lie.”

“This is an excellent character of the boy, indeed,” said Mr. Somerville, “and from his behaviour this morning I am inclined to think that he deserves all your praises.”

Mr. Somerville resolved to inquire more fully concerning this poor family, and to attend to their conduct himself, fully determined to assist them if he should find them such as they had been represented.

In the meantime, this boy, whose name was Brian O’Neill, went to return the white pigeon to its owner. “You have saved its life,” said the woman to whom it belonged, “and I’ll make you a present of it.” Brian thanked her; and he from that day began to grow fond of the pigeon. He always took care to scatter some oats for it in his father’s yard; and the pigeon grew so tame at last that it would hop about the kitchen, and eat off the same trencher with the dog.

Brian, after the shop was shut up at night, used to amuse himself with reading some little books which the schoolmaster who formerly taught him arithmetic was so good as to lend him. Amongst these he one evening met with a little book full of the history of birds and beasts; he looked immediately to see whether the pigeon was mentioned amongst the birds, and, to his great joy, he found a full description and history of his favourite bird.

“So, Brian, I see your schooling has not been thrown away upon you; you like your book, I see, when you have no master over you to bid you read,” said his father, when he came in and saw Brian reading his book very attentively.

“Thank you for having me taught to read, father,” said Brian. “Here I’ve made a great discovery: I’ve found out in this book, little as it looks, father, a most curious way of making a fortune; and I hope it will make your fortune, father; and if you’ll sit down, I’ll tell it to you.”

Mr. O’Neill, in hopes of pleasing his son rather than in the expectation of having his fortune made, immediately sat down to listen; and his son explained to him, that he had found in his book an account of pigeons who carried notes and letters: “and, father,” continued Brian, “I find my pigeon is of this sort; and I intend to make my pigeon carry messages. Why should not he? If other pigeons have done so before him, I think he is as good, and, I daresay, will be as easy to teach as any pigeon in the world. I shall begin to teach him to-morrow morning; and then, father, you know people often pay a great deal for sending messengers; and no boy can run, no horse can gallop, so fast as a bird can fly; therefore the bird must be the best messenger, and I should be paid the best price. Hey, father?”

“To be sure, to be sure, my boy,” said his father, laughing; “I wish you may make the best messenger in Ireland of your pigeon; but all I beg, my dear boy, is that you won’t neglect our shop for your pigeon; for I’ve a notion we have a better chance of making a fortune by the shop than by the white pigeon.”

Brian never neglected the shop; but in his leisure hours he amused himself with training his pigeon; and after much patience he at last succeeded so well, that one day he went to his father and offered to send him word by his pigeon what beef was a pound in the market of Ballynagrish, where he was going.

“The pigeon will be home long before me, father; and he will come in at the kitchen window, and light upon the dresser; then you must untie the little note which I shall have tied under his left wing, and you’ll know the price of beef directly.”

The pigeon carried his message well; and Brian was much delighted with his success. He soon was employed by the neighbours, who were aroused by Brian’s fondness of his swift messenger; and soon the fame of the white pigeon was spread amongst all who frequented the markets and fairs of Somerville.

At one of these fairs a set of men of desperate fortunes met to drink, and to concert plans of robberies. Their place of meeting was at the ale-house of Mr. Cox, the man who, as our readers may remember, was offended by Mr. Somerville’s hinting that he was fond of drinking and of quarrelling, and who threatened vengeance for having been refused the new inn.

Whilst these men were talking over their scheme, one of them observed, that one of their companions was not arrived. Another said, “No.” “He’s six miles off,” said another; and a third wished that he could make him hear at that distance. This turned the discourse upon the difficulties of sending messages secretly and quickly. Cox’s son, a lad of about nineteen, who was one of this gang, mentioned the white carrier-pigeon, and he was desired to try all means to get it into his possession. Accordingly, the next day young Cox went to Brian O’Neill, and tried, at first by persuasion and afterwards by threats, to prevail upon him to give up the pigeon. Brian was resolute in his refusal, more especially when the petitioner began to bully him.

“If we can’t have it by fair means, we will by foul,” said Cox; and a few days afterwards the pigeon was gone. Brian searched for it in vain—inquired from all the neighbours if they had seen it, and applied, but to no purpose, to Cox. He swore that he knew nothing about the matter. But this was false, for it was he who during the night-time had stolen the white pigeon. He conveyed it to his employers, and they rejoiced that they had gotten it into their possession, as they thought it would serve them for a useful messenger.

Nothing can be more shortsighted than cunning. The very means which these people took to secure secrecy were the means of bringing their plots to light. They endeavoured to teach the pigeon, which they had stolen, to carry messages for them in a part of the country at some distance from Somerville; and when they fancied that it had forgotten its former habits, and its old master, they thought that they might venture to employ him nearer home. The pigeon, however, had a better memory than they imagined. They loosed him from a bag near the town of Ballynagrish in hopes that he would stop at the house of Cox’s cousin, which was on its road between Ballynagrish and Somerville. But the pigeon, though he had been purposely fed at this house for a week before this trial, did not stop there, but flew on to his old master’s house in Somerville, and pecked at the kitchen window, as he had formerly been taught to do. His father, fortunately, was within hearing, and poor Brian ran with the greatest joy to open the window and to let him in.

“O, father, here’s my white pigeon come back of his own accord,” exclaimed Brian; “I must run and show him to my mother.” At this instant the pigeon spread his wings, and Brian discovered under one of its wings a small and very dirty looking billet. He opened it in his father’s presence. The scrawl was scarcely legible; but these words were at length deciphered:—

“Thare are eight of uz sworn; I send yo at botom thare names. We meat at tin this nite at my faders, and have harms and all in radiness to brak into the grate ’ouse. Mr. Summervill is to lye out to nite—kip the pigeon untill to-morrow. For ever yours,

Murtagh Cox, Jun.”

Scarcely had they finished reading this note, than both father and son exclaimed, “Let us go and show it to Mr. Somerville.” Before they set out, they had, however, the prudence to secure the pigeon, so that he should not be seen by anyone but themselves. Mr. Somerville, in consequence of this fortunate discovery, took proper measures for the apprehension of the eight men who had sworn to rob his house. When they were all safely lodged in the county gaol, he sent for Brian O’Neill and his father; and after thanking them for the service they had done him, he counted out ten bright guineas upon a table, and pushed them towards Brian, saying, “I suppose you know that a reward of ten guineas was offered some weeks ago for the discovery of John Mac Dermod, one of the eight men whom we have just taken up?”

“No, sir,” said Brian; “I did not know it, and I did not bring that note to you to get ten guineas, but because I thought it was right. I don’t want to be paid for doing it.”

“That’s my own boy,” said his father. “We thank you, sir; but we’ll not take the money; I don’t like to take the price of blood.”

“I know the difference, my good friends,” said Mr. Somerville, “between vile informers and courageous, honest men.”

“Why, as to that, please your honour, though we are poor, I hope we are honest.”

“And, what is more,” said Mr. Somerville, “I have a notion that you would continue to be honest, even if you were rich. Will you, my good lad,” continued Mr. Somerville, after a moment’s pause—“will you trust me with your pigeon a few days?”

“O, and welcome, sir,” said the boy, with a smile; and he brought the pigeon to Mr. Somerville when it was dark, and nobody saw him.

A few days afterwards, Mr. Somerville called at O’Neill’s house, and bid him and his son follow him. They followed till he stopped opposite to the bow-window of the new inn. The carpenter had just put up a sign, which was covered over with a bit of carpeting.

“Go up the ladder, will you?” said Mr. Somerville to Brian, “and pull that sign straight, for it hangs quite crooked. There, now it is straight. Now pull off the carpet, and let us see the new sign.”

The boy pulled off the cover, and saw a white pigeon painted upon the sign, and the name of O’Neill in large letters underneath.

“Take care you do not tumble down and break your neck upon this joyful occasion,” said Mr. Somerville, who saw that Brian’s surprise was too great for his situation. “Come down from the ladder, and wish your father joy of being master of the new inn called the ‘White Pigeon.’ And I wish him joy of having such a son as you are. Those who bring up their children well, will certainly be rewarded for it, be they poor or rich.”

THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

“Mamma,” said Rosamond, after a long silence, “do you know what I have been thinking of all this time?”

“No, my dear.—What?”

“Why, mamma, about my cousin Bell’s birthday; do you know what day it is?”

“No, I don’t remember.”

“Dear mother! don’t you remember it’s the 22nd of December; and her birthday is the day after to-morrow? Don’t you recollect now? But you never remember about birthdays, mamma. That was just what I was thinking of, that you never remember my sister Laura’s birthday, or—or—or mine, mamma.”

“What do you mean my dear? I remember your birthday perfectly well.”

“Indeed! but you never keep it, though.”

“What do you mean by keeping your birthday?”

“Oh, mamma, you know very well—as Bell’s birthday is kept. In the first place, there is a great dinner.”

“And can Bell eat more upon her birthday than upon any other day?”

“No; nor I should not mind about the dinner, except the mince-pies. But Bell has a great many nice things—I don’t mean nice eatable things, but nice new playthings, given to her always on her birthday; and everybody drinks her health, and she’s so happy.”

“But stay, Rosamond, how you jumble things together! Is it everybody’s drinking her health that makes her so happy? or the new playthings, or the nice mince pies? I can easily believe that she is happy whilst she is eating a mince pie, or whilst she is playing; but how does everybody’s drinking her health at dinner make her happy?”

Rosamond paused, and then said she did not know. “But,” added she, “the nice new playthings, mother!”

“But why the nice new playthings? Do you like them only because they are new?”

“Not only—I do not like playthings only because they are new; but Bell does, I believe—for that puts me in mind—Do you know, mother, she had a great drawer full of old playthings that she never used, and she said that they were good for nothing, because they were old; but I thought many of them were good for a great deal more than the new ones. Now you shall be judge, mamma; I’ll tell you all that was in the drawer.”

“Nay, Rosamond, thank you, not just now; I have not time to listen to you.”

“Well then, mamma, the day after to-morrow I can show you the drawer. I want you to judge very much, because I am sure I was in the right. And, mother,” added Rosamond, stopping her as she was going out of the room, “will you—not now, but when you’ve time—will you tell me why you never keep my birthday—why you never make any difference between that day and any other day?”

“And will you, Rosamond—not now, but when you have time to think about it—tell me why I should make any difference between your birthday and any other day?”

Rosamond thought, but she could not find out any reason; besides, she suddenly recollected that she had not time to think any longer; for there was a certain work-basket to be finished, which she was making for her cousin Bell, as a present upon her birthday. The work was at a stand for want of some filigree-paper, and, as her mother was going out, she asked her to take her with her, that she might buy some. Her sister Laura went with them.

“Sister,” said Rosamond, as they were walking along, “what have you done with your half-guinea?”

“I have it in my pocket.”

“Dear! you will keep it for ever in your pocket. You know, my godmother when she gave it to you, said you would keep it longer than I should keep mine; and I know what she thought by her look at the time. I heard her say something to my mother.”

“Yes,” said Laura, smiling; “she whispered so loud that I could not help hearing her too. She said I was a little miser.”

“But did not you hear her say that I was very generous? and she’ll see that she was not mistaken. I hope she’ll be by when I give my basket to Bell—won’t it be beautiful? There is to be a wreath of myrtle, you know, round the handle, and a frost ground, and then the medallions—”

“Stay,” interrupted her sister, for Rosamond, anticipating the glories of her work-basket, talked and walked so fast that she had passed, without perceiving it, the shop where the filigree-paper was to be bought. They turned back. Now it happened that the shop was the corner house of a street, and one of the windows looked out into a narrow lane. A coach full of ladies stopped at the door, just before they went in, so that no one had time immediately to think of Rosamond and her filigree-paper, and she went to the window where she saw her sister Laura looking earnestly at something that was passing in the lane.

Opposite to the window, at the door of a poor-looking house, there was sitting a little girl weaving lace. Her bobbins moved as quick as lightning, and she never once looked up from her work. “Is not she very industrious?” said Laura; “and very honest, too?” added she in a minute afterwards; for just then a baker with a basket of rolls on his head passed, and by accident one of the rolls fell close to the little girl. She took it up eagerly, looked at it as if she was very hungry, then put aside her work, and ran after the baker to return it to him. Whilst she was gone, a footman in a livery, laced with silver, who belonged to the coach that stood at the shop door, as he was lounging with one of his companions, chanced to spy the weaving pillow, which she had left upon a stone before the door. To divert himself (for idle people do mischief often to divert themselves) he took up the pillow, and entangled all the bobbins. The little girl came back out of breath to her work; but what was her surprise and sorrow to find it spoiled. She twisted and untwisted, placed and replaced, the bobbins, while the footman stood laughing at her distress. She got up gently, and was retiring into the house, when the silver laced footman stopped her, saying, insolently, “Sit still, child.”

“I must go to my mother, sir,” said the child; “besides, you have spoiled all my lace. I can’t stay.”

“Can’t you?” said the brutal footman, snatching her weaving-pillow again, “I’ll teach you to complain of me.” And he broke off, one after another, all the bobbins, put them into his pocket, rolled her weaving-pillow down the dirty lane, then jumped up behind his mistress’ coach, and was out of sight in an instant.

“Poor girl!” exclaimed Rosamond, no longer able to restrain her indignation at this injustice; “poor little girl!”

At this instant her mother said to Rosamond—“Come, now, my dear, if you want this filigree paper, buy it.”

“Yes, madam,” said Rosamond; and the idea of what her godmother and her cousin Bell would think of her generosity rushed again upon her imagination. All her feelings of pity were immediately suppressed. Satisfied with bestowing another exclamation upon the “Poor little girl!” she went to spend her half-guinea upon her filigree basket. In the meantime, she that was called the “little miser” beckoned to the poor girl, and, opening the window, said, pointing to the cushion, “Is it quite spoiled?”

“Quite! quite spoiled! and I can’t, nor mother neither, buy another; and I can’t do anything else for my bread.” A few, but very few, tears fell as she said this.

“How much would another cost?” said Laura.

“Oh, a great—great deal.”

“More than that?” said Laura, holding up her half-guinea.

“Oh, no.”

“Then you can buy another with that,” said Laura, dropping the half-guinea into her hand; and she shut the window before the child could find words to thank her, but not before she saw a look of joy and gratitude, which gave Laura more pleasure probably than all the praise which could have been bestowed upon her generosity.

Late on the morning of her cousin’s birthday, Rosamond finished her work-basket. The carriage was at the door—Laura came running to call her; her father’s voice was heard at the same instant; so she was obliged to go down with her basket but half wrapped up in silver paper—a circumstance at which she was a good deal disconcerted; for the pleasure of surprising Bell would be utterly lost if one bit of the filigree should peep out before the proper time. As the carriage went on, Rosamond pulled the paper to one side and to the other, and by each of the four corners.

“It will never do, my dear,” said her father, who had been watching her operations. “I am afraid you will never make a sheet of paper cover a box which is twice as large as itself.”

“It is not a box, father,” said Rosamond, a little peevishly; “it’s a basket.”

“Let us look at this basket,” said he, taking it out of her unwilling hands, for she knew of what frail materials it was made, and she dreaded its coming to pieces under her father’s examination. He took hold of the handle rather roughly; when, starting off the coach seat, she cried, “Oh, sir! father! sir! you will spoil it indeed!” said she, with increased vehemence, when, after drawing aside the veil of silver paper, she saw him grasp the myrtle wreathed handle. “Indeed, sir, you will spoil the poor handle.”

“But what is the use of the poor handle,” said her father, “if we are not to take hold of it? And pray,” continued he, turning the basket round with his finger and thumb, rather in a disrespectful manner, “pray, is this the thing you have been about all this week? I have seen you all this week dabbling with paste and rags; I could not conceive what you were about. Is this the thing?”

“Yes, sir. You think, then, that I have wasted my time, because the basket is of no use; but then it is a present for my Cousin Bell.”

“Your Cousin Bell will be very much obliged to you for a present that is of no use. You had better have given her the purple jar.”

“Oh, father! I thought you had forgotten that—it was two years ago; I’m not so silly now. But Bell will like the basket, I know, though it is of no use.”

“Then you think Bell is sillier now than you were two years ago,—well, perhaps that is true; but how comes it, Rosamond, now that you are so wise, that you are fond of such a silly person?”

“I, father?” said Rosamond, hesitating, “I don’t think I am very fond of her.”

“I did not say very fond.”

“Well, but I don’t think I am at all fond of her.”

“But you have spent a whole week in making this thing for her.”

“Yes, and all my half guinea besides.”

“Yet you think her silly, and you are not fond of her at all; and you say you know this thing will be of no use to her.”

“But it is her birthday, sir; and I am sure she will expect something, and everybody else will give her something.”

“Then your reason for giving is because she expects you to give her something. And will you, or can you, or should you, always give, merely because others expect, or because somebody else gives?”

“Always?—no, not always.”

“Oh, only on birthdays.”

Rosamond, laughing: “Now you are making a joke of me, papa, I see; but I thought you liked that people should be generous,—my godmother said that she did.”

“So do I, full as well as your godmother; but we have not yet quite settled what it is to be generous.”

“Why is it not generous to make presents?” said Rosamond.

“That is the question which it would take up a great deal of time to answer. But, for instance, to make a present of a thing that you know can be of no use to a person you neither love nor esteem, because it is her birthday, and because everybody gives her something, and because she expects something, and because your godmother says she likes that people should be generous, seems to me, my dear Rosamond, to be, since I must say it, rather more like folly than generosity.”

Rosamond looked down upon the basket, and was silent. “Then I am a fool, am I?” said she looking up at last.

“Because you have made one mistake? No. If you have sense enough to see your own mistakes, and can afterwards avoid them, you will never be a fool.”

Here the carriage stopped, and Rosamond recollected that the basket was uncovered.

Now we must observe, that Rosamond’s father had not been too severe upon Bell when he called her a silly girl. From her infancy she had been humoured; and at eight years old she had the misfortune to be a spoiled child. She was idle, fretful, and selfish; so that nothing could make her happy. On her birthday she expected, however, to be perfectly happy. Everybody in the house tried to please her, and they succeeded so well, that between breakfast and dinner she had only six fits of crying. The cause of five of these fits no one could discover: but the last, and most lamentable, was occasioned by a disappointment about a worked muslin frock; and accordingly, at dressing time, her maid brought it to her, exclaiming, “See here, miss, what your mamma has sent you on your birthday. Here’s a frock fit for a queen—if it had but lace round the cuffs.”

“And why has not it lace around the cuffs? mamma said it should.”

“Yes, but mistress was disappointed about the lace; it is not come home.”

“Not come home, indeed! and didn’t they know it was my birthday? But then I say I won’t wear it without the lace—I can’t wear it without the lace, and I won’t.”

The lace, however, could not be had; and Bell at length submitted to let the frock be put on.

“Come, Miss Bell, dry your eyes,” said the maid who educated her; “dry your eyes, and I’ll tell you something that will please you.”

“What, then?” said the child, pouting and sobbing.

“Why—but you must not tell that I told you.”

“No,—but if I am asked?”

“Why, if you are asked, you must tell the truth, to be sure. So I’ll hold my tongue, miss.”

“Nay, tell me, though, and I’ll never tell—if I am asked.”

“Well, then,” said the maid, “your cousin Rosamond is come, and has brought you the most beautifullest thing you ever saw in your life; but you are not to know anything about it till after dinner, because she wants to surprise you; and mistress has put it into her wardrobe till after dinner.”

“Till after dinner!” repeated Bell, impatiently; “I can’t wait till then; I must see it this minute.” The maid refused her several times, till Bell burst into another fit of crying, and the maid, fearing that her mistress would be angry with her, if Bell’s eyes were red at dinner time, consented to show her the basket.

“How pretty!—but let me have it in my own hands,” said Bell, as the maid held the basket up out of her reach.

“Oh, no, you must not touch it; for if you should spoil it, what would become of me?”

“Become of you, indeed!” exclaimed the spoiled child, who never considered anything but her own immediate gratification—“Become of you, indeed! what signifies that—I sha’n’t spoil it; and I will have it in my own hands. If you don’t hold it down for me directly, I’ll tell that you showed it to me.”

“Then you won’t snatch it?”

“No, no, I won’t indeed,” said Bell; but she had learned from her maid a total disregard of truth. She snatched the basket the moment it was within her reach. A struggle ensued, in which the handle and lid were torn off, and one of the medallions crushed inwards, before the little fury returned to her senses.

Calmed at this sight, the next question was, how she should conceal the mischief which she had done. After many attempts, the handle and lid were replaced; the basket was put exactly in the same spot in which it had stood before, and the maid charged the child, “to look as if nothing was the matter.”

We hope that both children and parents will here pause for a moment to reflect. The habits of tyranny, meanness, and falsehood, which children acquire from living with bad servants, are scarcely ever conquered in the whole course of their future lives.

After shutting up the basket they left the room, and in the adjoining passage they found a poor girl waiting with a small parcel in her hand. “What’s your business?” said the maid.

“I have brought home the lace, madam, that was bespoke for the young lady.”

“Oh, you have, have you, at last?” said Bell; “and pray why didn’t you bring it sooner?” The girl was going to answer, but the maid interrupted her, saying—“Come, come, none of your excuses; you are a little idle, good-for-nothing thing, to disappoint Miss Bell upon her birthday. But now you have brought it, let us look at it!”

The little girl gave the lace without reply, and the maid desired her to go about her business, and not to expect to be paid; for that her mistress could not see anybody, because she was in a room full of company.

“May I call again, madam, this afternoon?” said the child, timidly.

“Lord bless my stars!” replied the maid, “what makes people so poor, I wonders! I wish mistress would buy her lace at the warehouse, as I told her, and not of these folks. Call again! yes, to be sure. I believe you’d call, call, call twenty times for twopence.”

However ungraciously the permission to call again was granted, it was received with gratitude. The little girl departed with a cheerful countenance; and Bell teazed her maid till she got her to sew the long wished-for lace upon her cuffs.

Unfortunate Bell!—All dinner time passed, and people were so hungry, so busy, or so stupid, that not an eye observed her favourite piece of finery. Till at length she was no longer able to conceal her impatience, and turning to Laura, who sat next to her, she said, “You have no lace upon your cuffs. Look how beautiful mine is!—is not it? Don’t you wish your mamma could afford to give some like it? But you can’t get any if she would, for this was made on purpose for me on my birthday, and nobody can get a bit more anywhere, if they would give the world for it.”

“But cannot the person who made it,” said Laura, “make any more like it?”

“No, no, no!” cried Bell; for she had already learned, either from her maid or her mother, the mean pride which values things not for being really pretty or useful, but for being such as nobody else can procure. “Nobody can get any like it, I say,” repeated Bell; “nobody in all London can make it but one person, and that person will never make a bit for anybody but me, I am sure. Mamma won’t let her, if I ask her not.”

“Very well,” said Laura, coolly, “I do not want any of it; you need not be so violent: I assure you that I don’t want any of it.”

“Yes, but you do, though,” said Bell, more angrily.

“No, indeed,” said Laura, smiling.

“You do, in the bottom of your heart; but you say you don’t to plague me, I know,” cried Bell, swelling with disappointed vanity. “It is pretty for all that, and it cost a great deal of money too, and nobody shall have any like it, if they cried their eyes out.”

Laura received this declaration in silence—Rosamond smiled; and at her smile the ill-suppressed rage of the spoiled child burst forth into the seventh and loudest fit of crying which had yet been heard on her birthday.

“What’s the matter, my pet?” cried her mother; “come to me, and tell me what’s the matter.” Bell ran roaring to her mother; but no otherwise explained the cause of her sorrow than by tearing the fine lace with frantic gestures from her cuffs, and throwing the fragments into her mother’s lap. “Oh! the lace, child!—are you mad?” said her mother, catching hold of both her hands. “Your beautiful lace, my dear love—do you know how much it cost?”

“I don’t care how much it cost—it is not beautiful, and I’ll have none of it,” replied Bell, sobbing; “for it is not beautiful.”

“But it is beautiful,” retorted her mother; “I chose the pattern myself. Who has put it into your head, child, to dislike it? Was it Nancy?”

“No, not Nancy, but them, mamma,” said Bell, pointing to Laura and Rosamond.

“Oh, fie! don’t point,” said her mother, putting down her stubborn finger; “nor say them, like Nancy; I am sure you misunderstood. Miss Laura, I am sure, did not mean any such thing.”

“No, madam; and I did not say any such thing, that I recollect,” said Laura, gently. “Oh, no, indeed!” cried Rosamond, warmly, rising in her sister’s defence.

No defence or explanation, however, was to be heard, for everybody had now gathered round Bell, to dry her tears, and to comfort her for the mischief she had done to her own cuffs. They succeeded so well, that in about a quarter of an hour the young lady’s eyes, and the reddened arches over her eyebrows came to their natural colour; and the business being thus happily hushed up, the mother, as a reward to her daughter for her good humour, begged that Rosamond would now be so good as to produce her “charming present.”

Rosamond, followed by all the company, amongst whom, to her great joy, was her godmother, proceeded to the dressing room. “Now I am sure,” thought she, “Bell will be surprised, and my godmother will see she was right about my generosity.”

The doors of the wardrobe were opened with due ceremony, and the filigree basket appeared in all its glory. “Well, this is a charming present, indeed!” said the godmother, who was one of the company; “my Rosamond knows how to make presents.” And as she spoke, she took hold of the basket, to lift it down to the admiring audience. Scarcely had she touched it, when, lo! the basket fell to the ground, and only the handle remained in her hand. All eyes were fixed upon the wreck. Exclamations of sorrow were heard in various tones; and “Who can have done this?” was all that Rosamond could say. Bell stood in sullen silence, which she obstinately preserved in the midst of the inquiries that were made about the disaster.

At length the servants were summoned, and amongst them, Nancy, Miss Bell’s maid and governess. She affected much surprise when she saw what had befallen the basket, and declared that she knew nothing of the matter, but that she had seen her mistress in the morning put it quite safe into the wardrobe; and that, for her part, she had never touched it, or thought of touching it, in her born days. “Nor Miss Bell, neither, ma’am,—I can answer for her; for she never knew of its being there, because I never so much as mentioned it to her, that there was such a thing in the house, because I knew Miss Rosamond wanted to surprise her with the secret; so I never mentioned a sentence of it—did I, Miss Bell?”

Bell, putting on the deceitful look which her maid had taught her, answered boldly, “No;” but she had hold of Rosamond’s hand, and at the instant she uttered this falsehood she squeezed it terribly. “Why do you squeeze my hand so?” said Rosamond, in a low voice; “what are you afraid of?”

“Afraid of!” cried Bell, turning angrily; “I’m not afraid of anything,—I’ve nothing to be afraid about.”

“Nay, I did not say you had,” whispered Rosamond; “but only if you did by accident—you know what I mean—I should not be angry if you did—only say so.”

“I say I did not!” cried Bell, furiously; “Mamma, mamma! Nancy! my cousin Rosamond won’t believe me! That’s very hard. It’s very rude, and I won’t bear it—I won’t.”

“Don’t be angry, love. Don’t,” said the maid.

“Nobody suspects you, darling,” said her mother; “but she has too much sensibility. Don’t cry, love; nobody suspected you. But you know,” continued she, turning to the maid, “somebody must have done this, and I must know how it was done. Miss Rosamond’s charming present must not be spoiled in this way, in my house, without my taking proper notice of it. I assure you I am very angry about it, Rosamond.”

Rosamond did not rejoice in her anger, and had nearly made a sad mistake by speaking aloud her thoughts—“I was very foolish—” she began and stopped.

“Ma’am,” cried the maid, suddenly, “I’ll venture to say I know who did it.”

“Who?” said everyone, eagerly. “Who?” said Bell, trembling.

“Why, miss, don’t you recollect that little girl with the lace, that we saw peeping about in the passage? I’m sure she must have done it; for here she was by herself half an hour or more, and not another creature has been in mistress’ dressing-room, to my certain knowledge, since morning. Those sort of people have so much curiosity. I’m sure she must have been meddling with it,” added the maid.

“Oh, yes, that’s the thing,” said the mistress, decidedly. “Well, Miss Rosamond, for your comfort she shall never come into my house again.”

“Oh, that would not comfort me at all,” said Rosamond; “besides, we are not sure that she did it, and if—” A single knock at the door was heard at this instant. It was the little girl, who came to be paid for her lace.

“Call her in,” said the lady of the house; “let us see her directly.”

The maid, who was afraid that the girl’s innocence would appear if she were produced, hesitated; but upon her mistress repeating her commands, she was forced to obey. The girl came in with a look of simplicity; but when she saw a room full of company she was a little abashed. Rosamond and Laura looked at her and one another with surprise, for it was the same little girl whom they had seen weaving lace.

“Is not it she?” whispered Rosamond to her sister.

“Yes, it is; but hush,” said Laura, “she does not know us. Don’t say a word, let us hear what she will say.”

Laura got behind the rest of the company as she spoke, so that the little girl could not see her.

“Vastly well!” said Bell’s mother; “I am waiting to see how long you will have the assurance to stand there with that innocent look. Did you ever see that basket before?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the girl.

“Yes, Ma’am!” cried the maid; “and what else do you know about it? You had better confess it at once, and mistress, perhaps, will say no more about it.”

“Yes, do confess it,” added Bell, earnestly.

“Confess what, madam?” said the little girl; “I never touched the basket, madam.”

“You never touched it; but you confess,” interrupted Bell’s mother, “that you did see it before. And, pray, how came you to see it? You must have opened my wardrobe.”

“No, indeed, ma’am,” said the little girl; “but I was waiting in the passage, ma’am, and this door was partly open; and looking at the maid, you know, I could not help seeing it.”

“Why, how could you see through the doors of my wardrobe?” rejoined the lady.

The maid, frightened, pulled the little girl by the sleeve.

“Answer me,” said the lady, “where did you see this basket?” Another stronger pull.

“I saw it, madam, in her hands,” looking at the maid; “and—”

“Well, and what became of it afterwards?”

“Ma’am”—hesitating—“miss pulled, and by accident—I believe, I saw, ma’am—miss, you know what I saw.”

“I do not know—I do not know; and if I did, you had no business there; and mamma won’t believe you, I am sure.” Everybody else, however, did believe; and their eyes were fixed upon Bell in a manner which made her feel rather ashamed.

“What do you all look at me so for? Why do you all look so? And am I to be put to shame on my birthday?” cried she, bursting into a roar of passion; “and all for this nasty thing!” added she, pushing away the remains of the basket, and looking angrily at Rosamond.

“Bell! Bell! O, fie! fie!—Now I am ashamed of you; that’s quite rude to your cousin,” said her mother, who was more shocked at her daughter’s want of politeness than at her falsehood. “Take her away, Nancy, till she has done crying,” added she to the maid, who accordingly carried off her pupil.

Rosamond, during this scene, especially at the moment when her present was pushed away with such disdain, had been making reflections upon the nature of true generosity. A smile from her father, who stood by, a silent spectator of the catastrophe of the filigree basket, gave rise to these reflections; nor were they entirely dissipated by the condolence of the rest of the company, nor even by the praises of her godmother, who, for the purpose of condoling with her, said, “Well, my dear Rosamond, I admire your generous spirit. You know I prophesied that your half-guinea would be gone the soonest. Did I not, Laura?” said she, appealing, in a sarcastic tone, to where she thought Laura was. “Where is Laura? I don’t see her.” Laura came forward. “You are too prudent to throw away your money like your sister. Your half-guinea, I’ll answer for it, is snug in your pocket—Is it not?”

“No, madam,” answered she, in a low voice.

But low as the voice of Laura was, the poor little lace-girl heard it; and now, for the first time, fixing her eyes upon Laura, recollected her benefactress. “Oh, that’s the young lady!” she exclaimed, in a tone of joyful gratitude, “the good, good young lady, who gave me the half-guinea, and would not stay to be thanked for it; but I will thank her now.”

“The half-guinea, Laura!” said her godmother. “What is all this?”

“I’ll tell you, madam, if you please,” said the little girl.

It was not in expectation of being praised for it, that Laura had been generous, and therefore everybody was really touched with the history of the weaving-pillow; and whilst they praised, felt a certain degree of respect, which is not always felt by those who pour forth eulogiums. Respect is not an improper word, even applied to a child of Laura’s age; for let the age or situation of the person be what it may, they command respect who deserve it.

“Ah, madam!” said Rosamond to her godmother, “now you see—you see she is not a little miser. I’m sure that’s better than wasting half a guinea upon a filigree basket; is it not, ma’am?” said she, with an eagerness which showed that she had forgotten all her own misfortunes in sympathy with her sister. “This is being really generous, father, is it not?”

“Yes, Rosamond,” said her father, and he kissed her; “this is being really generous. It is not only by giving away money that we can show generosity; it is by giving up to others anything that we like ourselves: and therefore,” added he, smiling, “it is really generous of you to give your sister the thing you like best of all others.”

“The thing I like the best of all others, father,” said Rosamond, half pleased, half vexed. “What is that, I wonder? You don’t mean praise, do you, sir?”

“Nay, you must decide that yourself, Rosamond.”

“Why, sir,” said she, ingenuously, “perhaps it was ONCE the thing I liked best; but the pleasure I have just felt makes me like something else much better.”

ETON MONTEM.

[Extracted from the “Courier” of May, 1799.]

“Yesterday this triennial ceremony took place, with which the public are too well acquainted to require a particular description. A collection, called Salt, is taken from the public, which forms a purse, to support the Captain of the School in his studies at Cambridge. This collection is made by the Scholars, dressed in fancy dresses, all round the country.

“At eleven o’clock, the youths being assembled in their habiliments at the College, the Royal Family set off from the Castle to see them, and, after walking round the Courtyard, they proceeded to Salt Hill in the following order:—

“His Majesty, his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, and the Earl of Uxbridge.

“Their Royal Highnesses the Dukes of Kent and Cumberland, Earl Morton, and General Gwynne, all on horseback, dressed in the Windsor uniform, except the Prince of Wales, who wore a suit of dark blue, and a brown surtout over.

“Then followed the Scholars, preceded by the Marechal Serjeant, the Musicians of the Staffordshire Band, and Mr. Ford, Captain of the Seminary, the Serjeant Major, Serjeants, Colonels, Corporals, Musicians, Ensign, Lieutenant, Steward, Salt Bearers, Polemen, and Runners.

“The cavalcade was brought up by her Majesty and her amiable daughters in two carriages, and a numerous company of equestrians and pedestrians, all eager to behold their Sovereign and his family. Among the former, Lady Lade was foremost in the throng; only two others dared venture their persons on horseback in such a multitude.

“The King and Royal Family were stopped on Eton Bridge by Messrs. Young and Mansfield, the Salt Bearers, to whom their Majesties delivered their customary donation of fifty guineas each.

“At Salt Hill, his Majesty, with his usual affability, took upon himself to arrange the procession round the Royal carriages; and even when the horses were taken off, with the assistance of the Duke of Kent, fastened the traces round the pole of the coaches, to prevent any inconvenience.

“An exceeding heavy shower of rain coming on, the Prince took leave, and went to the ‘Windmill Inn,’ till it subsided. The King and his attendants weathered it out in their great-coats.

“After the young gentlemen walked round the carriage, Ensign Vince and the Salt Bearers proceeded to the summit of the hill; but the wind being boisterous, he could not exhibit his dexterity in displaying his flag, and the space being too small before the carriages, from the concourse of spectators, the King kindly acquiesced in not having it displayed under such inconvenience.

“Their Majesties and the Princesses then returned home, the King occasionally stopping to converse with the Dean of Windsor, the Earl of Harrington, and other noblemen.

“The Scholars partook of an elegant dinner at the ‘Windmill Inn,’ and in the evening walked on Windsor Terrace.

“Their Royal Highnesses the Prince of Wales and Duke of Cumberland, after taking leave of their Majesties, set off for town, and honoured the Opera House with their presence in the evening.

“The profit arising from the Salt collected, according to account, amounted to 800 pounds.

“The Stadtholder, the Duke of Gordon, Lord and Lady Melbourne, Viscount Brome, and a numerous train of fashionable nobility, were present.

“The following is an account of their dresses, made as usual, very handsomely, by Mrs. Snow, milliner, of Windsor:—

“Mr. Ford, Captain, with eight Gentlemen to attend him as servitors.

“Mr. Sarjeant, Marechal.

“Mr. Bradith, Colonel.

“Mr. Plumtree, Lieutenant.

“Mr. Vince, Ensign.

“Mr. Young, College Salt Bearer; white and gold dress, rich satin bag, covered with gold netting.

“Mr. Mansfield, Oppidan, white, purple, and orange dress, trimmed with silver; rich satin bag, purple and silver: each carrying elegant poles, with gold and silver cord.

“Mr. Keity, yellow and black velvet; helmet trimmed with silver.

“Mr. Bartelot, plain mantle and sandals, Scotch bonnet, a very Douglas. “Mr. Knapp, flesh-colour and blue; Spanish hat and feathers.

“Mr. Ripley, rose-colour; helmet.

“Mr. Islip (being in mourning), a scarf; helmet, black velvet; and white satin.

“Mr. Tomkins, violet and silver; helmet.

“Mr. Thackery, lilac and silver; Roman Cap.

“Mr. Drury, mazarin blue; fancy cap.

“Mr. Davis, slate-colour and straw.

“Mr. Routh, pink and silver, Spanish hat.

“Mr. Curtis, purple, fancy cap.

“Mr. Lloyd, blue; ditto.

“At the conclusion of the ceremony the Royal Family returned to Windsor, and the boys were all sumptuously entertained at the tavern at Salt Hill. About six in the evening all the boys returned in the order of procession, and, marching round the great square of Eton, were dismissed. The captain then paid his respects to the Royal Family, at the Queen’s Lodge, Windsor, previously to his departure for King’s College, Cambridge, to defray which expense the produce of the Montem was presented to him.

“The day concluded by a brilliant promenade of beauty, rank, and fashion, on Windsor Terrace, enlivened by the performance of several bands of music.

“The origin of the procession is from the custom by which the Manor was held.

“The custom of hunting the Ram belonged to Eton College, as well as the custom of Salt; but it was discontinued by Dr. Cook, late Dean of Ely. Now this custom we know to have been entered on the register of the Royal Abbey of Bec, in Normandy, as one belonging to the Manor of East or Great Wrotham, in Norfolk, given by Ralph de Toni to the Abbey of Bec, and was as follows:—When the harvest was finished the tenants were to have half an acre of barley, and a ram let loose; and if they caught him he was their own to make merry with; but if he escaped from them he was the Lord’s. The Etonians, in order to secure the ram, houghed him in the Irish fashion, and then attacked him with great clubs. The cruelty of this proceeding brought it into disuse, and now it exists no longer.—See Register of the Royal Abbey of Bec, folio 58.

“After the dissolution of the alien priories, in 1414, by the Parliament of Leicester, they remained in the Crown till Henry VI., who gave Wrotham Manor to Eton College; and if the Eton Fellows would search, they would perhaps find the Manor in their possession, that was held by the custom of Salt.”