“Never mind, Master Philip; if you doesn’t behave, you must expect to be punished; but it’ll do you good, like physic. Just you try to be a first-rate boy, and you’ll be back here in a good deal less than no time.”
“Master Philip, indeed!” cried the farmer. “Pretty well for a stable-boy! You’ll be plain Phil as long as you live with me, I can tell you. Stop that plaguy snuffling and sighing, making such a dismal whistling about my ears! it’s enough to knock a sloop over. If you are ever so good, you will never make up for the loss of my Jack, and I’ll be bound his poor little sister Essie is crying for him this very moment.”
The wretched boy choked down his sobs, and crept into a corner among the corn-bags, where he hid himself, wiping away the big tears that fell silently. Soon the slow motion of the wagon soothed him. He lay for a while drowsily watching the trees and the wild roses growing on the fences, that sent their faint sweet perfume in to him with a gentle wave of their pretty heads; and presently, as the horses turned into a road which lay through a cool, quiet wood, the myriad leaves of which made a deep shade, our young friend gave a final sigh, and, opening his mouth and shutting his eyes, forgot all his troubles, and snored tunefully to the end of the journey.
After four hours’ driving, just as the sun was setting, the farmer turned down a crooked lane, perfectly alive with grasshoppers, and soon came in sight of a straggling red house, at the door of which stood a nice-looking woman, and a little pale, yellow-haired girl, supported by crutches. In another moment out rushed a very small brown dog, who fairly “barked himself sideways,” in his intense joy at seeing his master; then he jumped up so high that he fell over backwards,—the whole time wagging his ridiculous morsel of a tail so fast, that it looked like six tails all going round like a windmill.
The farmer jumped out of the wagon, and, heartily kissing his wife, stooped down and tenderly stroked the soft locks of the little pale crippled child; then lifting her in his arms, he kissed her five or six times, saying between each kiss, in a deep loving voice, “My little Essie—my little Essie.”
“My little father,” laughed Essie, patting the big man’s cheek, “what a dear, good little man you are.”
At the sound of her soft, gentle voice, and the pat of her small hand, the farmer hugged her closer to his breast. Then he looked down into her sweet blue eyes, and said, “O-h, Essie!” The great love that flowed out with these two words, no pen can show.
“Tell me, little father,” whispered Essie, “have you got the bad boy with you?”
“Yes, big darling,” said the farmer.
Then he carried her to the side of the wagon, and showed her a great, red-faced boy, fast asleep on the corn-sacks.