Mrs. Hardy was a washerwoman, and her visitor knew that sometimes there was but scant room in her kitchen for strangers; indeed, she often wondered how the children managed on a wet day, and how the little ones escaped scalds and burns. However, this being Friday evening, the actual work was over, and the big deal table was piled with heaps of snowy linen, which Mrs. Hardy and her daughter Martha were sorting out and packing in nice large baskets, ready to be carried home the next day.

"Oh, come in, Mrs. Eyre; you needn't be afraid of the wash-tubs or the hot irons to-day. We've finished everything, ma'am."

"And such lots of things," said Mrs. Eyre, as she took the seat offered her by Martha. "I am sure I don't know how you get through it all, Mrs. Hardy."

"Well, ma'am, it takes a power of method. When I first took up this business, often I had all the ironing to do on Saturday, or the most of it; and then 'twas hurry-scurry in the evening to get the things home. I used to get so worried that I fairly thought I'd die. And one Saturday morning, who should come in but your good mother, ma'am, that's in heaven now; and the pleasant way she had. There was I on that chair in the corner, crying, and all the children crying round me. So says she, 'My poor Hannah, are you fretting so badly yet?' I dried my eyes and felt ashamed—for she thought I was crying for my poor man that had died about a year before; and I had to confess that I was crying because I didn't see how to get the ironing done. But indeed I have too much talk—all this don't matter to you."

"Ah, but it does—anything about my dear mother matters to me. Go on with your work, Mrs. Hardy, and tell me the rest of your story. I'm very sure she helped you."

"That she did, ma'am. The place was in a mess, with half-done collars and cuffs on the chairs, and the rector's shirts piled on the table; some of the linen in the baskets, and more on the stool over there. Well, not a word did she say about that, though I knew she saw the untidy way the place was in well enough. Says she, 'The first thing, Hannah, is to get the ironing finished, and then you and I will have a talk. Suppose you send the children out, all but Annie and Matty, who can bring us the hot irons. I am a good ironer, and I'll help you all I can,' says she; and tucked up her sleeves and went to work as if she'd done nothing else all her life. So pleasant with the two girls too, with a word when they brought the irons, that they worked as willing as possible. And of course I wasn't idle; so, before I thought it could be done, the clothes were in the basket. Annie and Matty carried them off; and your dear mother sat down and talked to me."

"'It's all method, Hannah,' she says. 'People sometimes ask me how I get through so much work, and am never in a hurry; now it is just method,' says she. And before she left me she wrote out that paper that you see on the wall there. See, ma'am. 'Monday, collect the wash, put the things in soak, and boil such articles as must be boiled. Tuesday—' You see, ma'am? it's all laid out. 'And make your girls help you when they come home from school; it will be much better for them than running about idle; be pleasant with them, and they will like it well.' Ah, she was a great help to me that day, the dear lady."

"I think she had a willing hearer, Mrs. Hardy."

"Yes, ma'am, because she had a pleasant, kindly, friendly way. It wasn't, 'My good woman, your house is little better than a pigsty,' or, 'Hannah Hardy, why don't you manage a little better about your work?'—not she. Ah, a real lady she was, and a real friend to me."

"But people may often mean very kindly who have not my dear mother's pleasant ways. That kind of manner is a great gift, but some people have not got it, and that they cannot help. They must do the best they can."

"The best they could do, Mrs. Eyre, meaning no offence, would be to stay at home. Folks are only human after all, if they are washerwomen; and they have their feelings."

"Miss Posnett was very kind that time I had a bad whitlow," put in Martha.

"Who's named Miss Posnett?" inquired her mother. "Mind your manners, Matty, and name no names."

"All this time, Mrs. Hardy, I have not told you my errand here to-day. You know the doctors say that my little Flora must not be allowed to walk, or even to stand. She has never been strong since her bad fall. Neither will they allow her to be drawn about in a little carriage, because she gets so dreadfully cold. They say she must be carried. The consequence of this is that I must have a girl to help me, for I never could carry her—she is light enough, but I am not very strong. Now I remember what a comfort your Annie was to me during the short time I had her, and I want to know if you can spare me one of your other girls. It may be only for a time, for Flora may get well and strong again, but I would teach her as I taught Annie, and then when she leaves me she could get a good place, as Annie has done."

"Lady Drysdale says that Annie is a right good servant, and that even the grand nurse is pleased with her. Well, it would be the making of Matty, but I can't spare her, and that's the plain truth. Though I hate refusing you, ma'am."

"But is not Hetty fifteen? Older, I think, than Matty was when Annie came to me."

"No doubt, ma'am. But Matty was Matty, and Hetty is Hetty. There's a sight of difference in girls!"

"Mother," said Matty, "I know you could not spare me, and I shouldn't like to leave you. But if Mrs. Eyre would try Hetty. She is very strong, and very willing. Fond of children too, and used to them—very good-tempered Hetty is. Don't give Mrs. Eyre a bad opinion of poor Hetty, mother, for it's my belief she would do well."

Mrs. Hardy left off working and sat down, in a curiously divided frame of mind. Hetty had been peculiarly heedless and troublesome that whole week, and was just now crying in the bedroom behind the kitchen, after what her mother called "a raking good scolding." It was hard to keep silence, for she had been very angry, and yet she had a notion that Hetty might do better away from home, and from all the temptations to idleness that beset her there. Not that the girl was exactly idle, for she could work well, and liked to work, but let any one interrupt her, if it were only a kitten running into the kitchen, or a noise in the street, and the work was forgotten. Only last night she had been bringing a hot iron from the fire, when a fiddle struck up a doleful air outside, and Hetty clapped down the iron on the ironing blanket and ran out of the house. Mrs. Hardy had been apprised of her carelessness by the horrible smell of the burning blanket, in which there was, of course, a big hole. It was the last of many sins, and no one could deny that the "raking good scolding" was well deserved.

"Matty, are you in your right mind?" asked Mrs. Hardy.

"Yes, mother. If Hetty was in Mrs. Eyre's service, or carrying Miss Flo while Mrs. Eyre drew the little carriage, she would be safe enough. And she would do her best, and indeed, ma'am, Hetty is a good girl. Mother will tell you, she never was known to tell a lie yet."

"It is true enough," Mrs. Hardy admitted.

"There's not a bit of harm in Hetty. I'll even allow that she means well. But I couldn't find it in my conscience to recommend you to try her, ma'am. There's Mrs. Simmons' Emma, she's sixteen, and a steady girl."

"No, no; I will not have her. I heard Emma Simmons using such coarse, violent language to her brother the other day. I would not like my children to hear it."

"You will never hear a bad word from Hetty, ma'am," said Matty. "She is heedless, she does forget things, I know. But she's a good girl, that knows the Commandments, and wants to keep them; and mother knows that too. Will you see her, ma'am? I know she'd do well with you. Hetty, come here."

The door of the inner room opened—Hetty must have been pretty close to it. Out she came—a tall, well-made girl, much taller than neat little Matty. Mrs. Eyre knew her face very well, which was lucky, for just now any one might have objected to her, as likely to frighten the children. Her eyes were quite lost in her swollen eyelids and cheeks, her poor lips were swelled, her whole face was crimson, and her apron was soaking wet, having been freely cried into. Her stuff skirt was torn in several places, her calico bodice displayed two corking pins where buttons were wanting. Her thick, short, brown hair hung over her forehead; altogether, as she sneaked into the room and stood, ashamed to look up, she presented a most forlorn appearance.

"Hetty, did you hear what we were saying?" asked Matty.

"Yes; I couldn't help hearing."

The girl had a very sweet voice, and spoke nicely, Mrs. Eyre observed.

"You're a nice-looking article to be looking for a situation," remarked Mrs. Hardy. "Now, how often would you clap the child on the ground and run off, if you heard the squeak of Blind Davie's fiddle?"

"Mother, sure you know, when the children were little, 'twas always me that kept them best. I love little children, and I would never hurt one—and you know that, mother."

"Well, I don't think you would, to say true," answered the mother. "Try her for a month, Mrs. Eyre, without wages. Washing is a scattery trade, no doubt—takes a power of method. And Hetty has no method."

"Oh, do, Mrs. Eyre—please do! If—if—I didn't see—or hear—Oh, ma'am, do try me! I'll do my best to please you."

"Well, Hetty, I will try you. Come to me on Monday."

"To-morrow, ma'am, if you like. I could have her ready."

"Monday will do. Come early, Hetty. I will try you for a month, and after that, if you stay with me, I will pay you at the rate of five pounds a year, paid quarterly, and we will count this first month in your first quarter. You will have plenty to do, but you look strong and healthy, so you will not find it too much. But you must try to remember what I tell you to do."

"I will try, indeed, ma'am. I am real tired of always being wrong."

"Then good-bye until Monday. And don't cry any more, Hetty; crying never did any good yet. If you will remember that you are one of Christ's servants as well as mine, and that to please Him should be your first thought, I am sure you will get over your heedless ways. Good-bye, Mrs. Hardy. I must go now."

But Mrs. Hardy followed her visitor out of the house and shut the door.

"I wouldn't let her go to you, ma'am, only I do think she may do well with you. She is fond of children, and children take to her at once. My little Bob, that was a sickly baby, was never so good as when Hetty had him. And I know things go on here that take her mind off her work. People coming and going, and the door obliged to be kept open, and all. She may be more correct-like when there's none of that going on. But don't you be soft with her. She's a girl that takes a deal of scolding, and I'm just afraid you are not one to give her enough of it. And if you praise her, ma'am, her head's turned directly. She's not a bit like Annie; so don't expect it."

"Ah, well, I will try her for a month, Mrs. Hardy. I can promise no more than that."

"Nor would I ask more, ma'am. Good-bye, ma'am, and thank you. If you tame our Hetty,—Heedless Hetty, as our boys call her,—I'll say you could do anything."

"I shall try to make her tame herself, Mrs. Hardy."

"She'll never do that, ma'am."

"Ah, Mrs. Hardy, you don't remember that she will not have to do it in her own strength. That would be too much for any of us. But think of the words, 'If any lack wisdom, let him ask of God, who giveth liberally, and upbraideth not.' My mother said to me once, 'The difficulty does not lie so much in your faults as in the fact that you do not see that they are sins; and even when you do see this, you do not go the right way to be cured of them; for nothing but the love of God shed abroad in our hearts by His Holy Spirit can cure the least fault.' But I must really get home now; so good-bye, Mrs. Hardy."

Mrs. Hardy went indoors again. She found that the two girls had finished putting the things into the baskets, and she did not observe that Hetty, in the hurry of her mind, had put three heavy sheets on the top of Miss Posnett's stiff collars and frilled nightcaps. But when Miss Posnett sent those articles back on Monday, it was well for Hetty that she was out of the way.

"Hetty," began Mrs. Hardy, "you are in luck for once, and I hope you're aware of it. Mrs. Eyre ain't rich, but a lady down to her very shoes, and she'll be kind to you. If you lose this chance, I think you'd better emigrate to some savage place where folk won't mind your wild ways; only mind they're no cannibals, for you're plump and young, and if they found you of no use, they might think it better to eat you."

"Mother! how can you?" cried Hetty.

"Take off that dress now, and give it a good patching. Matty, look up all her things; we must mend and wash them. And then I'll go and buy her some neat aprons. Oh, dear, look at her Sunday frock! Did you sleep in it, Hetty? Here, Matty—your fingers are cleverer than mine; mend this, like a good girl. Even if we get her back in a week, let us send her out decent."

[CHAPTER II.]

LITTLE FLO.

IF Hetty had been allowed to follow her own way, she would have gone to Adelaide Terrace at six o'clock in the morning, to show her zeal, but her mother would not hear of it.

"You'd find her in bed, most likely, and some one would have to get up to let you in. No; at nine Mr. Eyre goes off to his business, and you be there soon after nine. Try and keep out of mischief till then—if you can."

As the clock struck nine, Matty and Hetty set out together, carrying between them the small wooden, paper-covered box which contained Hetty's very modest outfit. She could easily have carried it alone, but Matty thought it looked better between them, and perhaps was not sorry to make sure that Heedless Hetty went at once to her new home, and reached it in a presentable state. Hetty had cried, of course, when saying good-bye to her mother and brothers, but for all that she was in fine spirits, and full to the lips of the most excellent resolutions.

"Matty," said she, "you tell Dan that he may leave off calling me Heedless Hetty. I mean to learn to be a good servant, as Annie did; and when I come home, it's Handy Hetty that Dan will be calling me."

"Look where you're going! There now! You've stepped into that puddle—the only one in the road—and dirted your shoe, that Dan blacked so lovely for you!"

"Oh, so I have! Wait! I must rub it off," cried Hetty, and setting down her end of the box into the puddle which had already soiled her shoe, she ran to the side of the road, where she had espied some grass.

"Well, of all the girls!" said Matty to herself, as she tried to see if the box was very wet. "Heedless Hetty will suit well enough yet a bit. Come along; there'll be a scraper and a mat at Mrs. Eyre's, and if I could see you safe there, I'd be glad."

Hetty came back, looking a little ashamed of herself. She did not refer to her message to Dan, and in a few moments they reached No. 1, Adelaide Terrace.

"Set the box down on the step. Give me a kiss, Hetty. Dear heart! Do try to do well here. Mind, if you don't, even I must allow that it is your own fault, and you'll never be worth anything if you don't take hold now and mind what you're about. You've got all your senses like other girls, and it is high time you began to use them."

"I do try, Matty. I never mean to do wrong. But somehow I do forget things so easily."

"Because you don't try to keep your mind fixed on what you're doing, and so you're at the mercy of every little thing that happens. Just heedless—that's about it, Hetty dear. Do you ever pray to be made heedful?"

"Oh, Matty! I'd never think of asking such a thing. I pray to be made good, and holy, and kept from saying bad words, like Emma Simmons, or stealing, like—"

"Now listen, Hetty. You've no temptations to do those things, thanks to your good, careful mother. It's just as if a railway man in the station down yonder should pray that he might not be drowned, when there is not so much as a pond in the place big enough to hold him, and never give a thought to the real dangers he lives among. You pray for what you really want, Hetty. That kind of prayer is only words. Promise me you will, dear—quick! For I must ring now."

"I'll try. Oh, Matty, whatever shall I do without you? I wish—"

But the door opened, and the figure of an ancient dame, who spent her mornings in doing Mrs. Eyre's rough work, appeared before them.

"So here's our new nursemaid," said she, laughing at Hetty's dolorous face. "Which of you is coming here?"

"This is Hetty," said the elder sister.

"Ah, I wish it was you," was the reply.

Hetty would have felt less abashed had she known that the speaker would have made the same remark if Matty had been the new maid.

"Good-bye, Hetty. I'll try to see you some evening; but you know we'll be very busy, wanting your help."

Matty lifted the box into the hall, pushed her sister in very gently, and went quickly away. Hetty felt and looked very forlorn; and, but for the amused smile on Mrs. Goodenough's wrinkled face, she would have begun to cry again. But now a door opened, and Mrs. Eyre, with her baby in her arms, came into the narrow hall.

"Hetty, how nice and early you have come! Leave your box there for the present, and come here to Miss Flo; she is very anxious to see you."

She led Hetty into the parlour, where all her children were assembled. There were four—two little girls, a boy of about three, and the baby, who was a boy also.

The eldest girl, whom they called Lina, was a pretty, active, healthy-looking little maiden, about six years old, very good-tempered, and very fond of her own way—which, after all, is not a very uncommon liking. Then came Flora, who was five, but such a tiny creature that it was hard to believe that she was so old. Little Edgar, the eldest boy, was quite as big and far heavier than this poor wee fairy. She lay on a sofa near the window, and her small face, which was usually very grave and pathetic in its sad patience, was all alive now with anxiety and curiosity. She had lovely dark eyes and pretty brown curls, but her face was too white and pinched to be called pretty, though she had been a lovely baby. She fixed her eyes on Hetty's face, and a little shy, timid smile crept over her own; then she said, in a soft, clear little voice,—

"Is this Hetty? Oh, mamma, she looks kind. I shall not be afraid of Hetty."

She spoke quite plainly and distinctly, much more so than did Lina, who often gabbled so fast that it was hard to understand her.

"This is Hetty, who will carry my little Flo so safely that there will be nothing to be afraid of. My little Flo—she likes Hetty, I think."

"I like Hetty. Her eyes look kind. Please, Hetty, stoop and kiss me. Will you be kind, Hetty, and patient with me? I'm sometimes peevish, I'm afraid."

"Kind? Oh, Miss Flora, that I will!" said Hetty earnestly.

"But don't cry, Hetty. Why should you cry?"

"Well, miss, you see I've just said good-bye to my sister. But I won't cry," Hetty answered, with a choke in her voice. The sight of the child had touched her soft heart.

"Now, Hetty, before you take off your hat, please take Miss Lina to school. It is close by, and she knows the way. Make haste back, for Miss Flo is longing to be out in the sunshine."

"So you see, Flo," cried Lina, "after all your saying that Hetty is to be yours, I am to have her first." And Lina nodded her curly head at the little one.

"She belongs to me," Flo calmly replied. "But I will not be selfish. You can have her now."

Lina laughed, and ran off for her hat. All the way to school she chattered unceasingly, but Hetty had no idea what it was all about. She had left the child at her school, and was on her way back, when she met her brother Ned, who was on his way to the shop where he was errand boy.

"Hilloa, Hetty! Is this you?"

"I've been leaving Miss Lina at school. Oh, Ned, if you only saw Miss Flo! she's such a little darling."

"I'm glad I met you. Look here; I'm going to give you this sixpence. I can do without it, and I find that mother gave you no money. It's not respectable not to have a penny in your pocket. Here; don't buy sweeties with it."

"Thank you, Ned. I'll pay it back when I get wages. You know I'm to get none till I'm here three months."

"I know. That's why I give you that sixpence. I think mother's much mistaken," added this wise youth, aged twelve, "making little of you like that. I say! I shall be late; good-bye."

Hetty put the sixpence in her pocket, and walked on very slowly; for she was wondering what she would buy with that handsome sum of money. She found her mistress on the steps, looking out rather anxiously for her.

"Oh, here you are, Hetty. I began to be afraid that you had lost your way."

"I met our Ned, ma'am, and stopped to talk with him."

"Your brother? Well, there was no harm in that, but when I send you with a message, you must always come back as quickly as possible. You'll remember this, Hetty."

"Yes, ma'am," replied Hetty; and Mrs. Eyre rejoiced to see that she could "take a word" without looking sulky. Perhaps she would have been less pleased had she known that Hetty forgot all about the word in two minutes, or less, being still mentally engaged in spending that sixpence.

"I have dressed the children; help me down the step with the perambulator. But before we go out, bring your box up here to the nursery. That is your bed; put the box beside it. That is right. Now come along, for I want to get out as soon as possible. It is good for the children to be out in the air."

They entered the parlour. Little Flora was ready to go out; she had on a shady hat, and was wrapped up in a soft woollen shawl.

"Now, Hetty, lift her up; do not move too fast, nor jerk her in any way. She is very easily hurt, and still more easily frightened. That is well done; you are stronger than I am."

"She took me up just as papa does," Flora said, highly pleased. "Nice, strong Hetty." And she patted Hetty's round cheek with her little thin hand.

Hetty carried her out, and down the step, as tenderly and carefully as if she had been made of eggs; indeed, more carefully by far than if she had been a basket of eggs, for Mrs. Hardy had been heard to say that Hetty seemed to think that eggs were pebbles. Mrs. Eyre put the two little boys into their carriage, and then they all set out.

There was a common not far-off, which had been a large one when Little Hayes was a village, but which had been very much encroached upon by builders. Still, a pretty strip of wild land remained, and the air was very sweet and pleasant. They found out a cozy, sheltered nook, and there Mrs. Eyre took the two boys out of the little carriage and put them down on the grass. Edgar trotted about, or lay on his back, just as he liked, and baby rolled after him as best he could. Mrs. Eyre sat down and took some knitting out of her pocket.

"Are you tired, Hetty?" asked little Flora.

"Not a bit tired, Miss Flo."

"Then don't sit down yet," whispered the child; "I like moving about so much. You know I have to lie quiet all day."

"Do not go out of sight, Hetty," said Mrs. Eyre.

Hetty walked up and down, Flora prattling away in her quiet, distinct voice; but there was no danger that Hetty would not attend, for Flo had an inquiring mind, and asked lots of questions.

"Are you very sorry to come and live with us, Hetty?"

"No, miss; very glad. It's time I was of use."

"You are of use. You carry me quite beautiful. I do not ache so much while you carry me. But—don't you love your own mamma?"

"That I do, Miss Flo. I love them all."

"Tell me about them. How many brothers and sisters have you?"

Hetty told her, making a long story of it, such as children love. In her pleasure at finding that she could amuse the child, she wandered on and on, until she heard Mrs. Eyre calling her.

"Do not go out of sight," said she again.

"No, ma'am," replied Hetty. But when next Mrs. Eyre looked for her, she was out of sight again. However, she was back very soon, and Mrs. Eyre did not like to be always finding fault. At one o'clock they set off for home, calling for Lina on their way.

Mrs. Eyre and the children had their dinner in the parlour, and Mrs. Goodenough and Hetty had theirs in the kitchen. Then Mrs. Goodenough, having washed up everything and made up the kitchen fire, put on her bonnet and went away.

Hetty sat alone in the neat little kitchen, wondering what she was to do next. From this subject of meditation she passed to that of her solitary sixpence, which, little as it may seem, was the largest sum of money Hetty had ever had at one time. And Mrs. Hardy had been wise in not giving her any, even though Mr. Ned, in his great wisdom, did not think so; for she knew of old that even a halfpenny would burn in Hetty's pocket till she could get out to spend it. Now to do that she must get out by herself, and that was just what her mother and Matty did not wish for her.

Meantime Mrs. Eyre had been well pleased to hear, from little Flo, that Hetty had carried her most comfortably, and had amused her with plenty of innocent chatter. She came down to the kitchen presently, and began collecting such things as she required for some cookery she meant to get done.

Hetty asked to be allowed to carry the tray, which she did very successfully; but she set it down half on and half off the table, and there would soon have been a fine crash if Mrs. Eyre had not perceived this in time.

"You must always see that your tray is quite on the table, Hetty. That would have fallen the moment I touched it. Go up to Miss Flo now. Baby is asleep in the cradle, and Lina and Edgar will go and play in the garden. I must do some cooking—your master dines at the shop, but very early, and of course he needs a good supper. Try to amuse the poor little thing, for this is rather a restless time with her. Keep her lying quiet, flat on her back, if possible. Her walk did her good—she ate quite a good dinner, for her."

Hetty ran upstairs, and found Flora alone. She was crying—not noisily, like a healthy child, but quite silently, great round tears dropping on her white pillow.

"Oh, Miss Flo, what's the matter with you?"

"Oh, Hetty, is this you? I thought you were going to stay and help mamma, and then I was ashamed of being vexed, because mamma has so much to do; and Lina is no help—she's so giddy. Besides, I am afraid I am cross."

"Oh, no, not cross, my poor little dear! Come, shall I sing you some of the songs I learned at school?"

"I—don't—know. Yes, please sing one—only one, Hetty."

Hetty sang, "Pussy sitting by the fire," and Flo laughed.

"Sing more, do, Hetty; your voice is pleasant. Now Lina learns songs at her school, but she has a squeak in her voice that hurts my head. I was afraid you might squeak, but you don't. Sing me another song!"

Hetty sang, and sang, until she saw that the child was in a sweet sleep.

[CHAPTER III.]

FLO'S KITTEN.

MRS. EYRE was busy in the kitchen for an hour or more. Then she came gently into the parlour, and found Flo sleeping and Hetty crying. She beckoned the girl out into the hall.

"What is wrong, Hetty?"

"Nothing, ma'am. I didn't mean to cry, but I'm that sorry for little Miss Flo. 'Tis so hard on her, the little creature! Oh, ma'am, will she ever be well?"

"I cannot tell you that, Hetty. God knows, and you know He loves her. The great London doctor thought she would recover—Dr. Haddon, our doctor here, was not so hopeful."

"And what is it, ma'am? Was she hurt in any way? I seem to remember mother saying it was a fall, but I did not heed it."

"Yes; two years ago she had a fall. She fell down the kitchen stairs. She did not seem so much hurt at first, but she must have got some terrible twist or strain, for not one day's health has she had since then, and as to growing, if I did not know it was impossible, I would say she has grown smaller. If we even knew exactly what was wrong,—but no one can find out. Come, Hetty, I have a lot of mending to do. Can you work nicely?"

"Not like Matty, ma'am. She's fond of it."

"And you are not?"

"Not I, ma'am. I'd rather scrub floors any day."

"Ah, well, we can't do only what we like, you know. Try to mend this for me. Miss Flo will not sleep long."

She might have slept a little longer, though, if Lina had not bounced into the room, clattering in her thick boots, to get something that she and Edgar wanted. Flora started, and probably hurt herself, for she began to cry piteously.

This occupied Mrs. Eyre, and Lina made off, for she knew very well that she had done wrong. However, she did not escape, for when Flo was quieted, Mrs. Eyre went out into the tiny strip of ground at the back of the house, which she called the garden, and brought in both the children. Edgar was supplied with a box of wooden bricks, with which he made himself happy in a quiet corner, and Lina was placed on a chair with her face to the wall, and kept there for some time.

"I have spoken to you for your heedless, noisy ways very often, Lina. You know that Flo is never to be startled, yet you rush in, making as much noise as a big rough boy."

"I forgot," said Lina; and she cried a little as she sat in punishment.

Foolish Hetty thought that Mrs. Eyre was hard upon the child, but it had been well for her if her mother had taught her to think of what she was doing when she was Lina's age.

Mr. Eyre came home very tired at seven o'clock. He was accountant and book-keeper at Messrs. Miller & Cartwright's great establishment, in the city of which the place where he lived was now a suburb, though it retained its old name of Little Hayes, given when it was a village three or four miles from B—. Tram lines now came to the end of the trim new road, with its red brick terraces, crescents, and villas; but the straggling village street in which the Hardys lived was as yet unchanged. Every year, to Mrs. Eyre's great grief, a new villa or a row of small 'genteel' houses appeared like magic on the pretty bit of common; she feared that before her children were grown up there would be no common left for them to play on.

Mr. Eyre came out of town on the tram-car, and Mrs. Eyre had tea ready in five minutes after he arrived. She had made a little meat pie, and had prepared a green salad that Mr. Eyre said would have made a man eat even if he were not hungry: which, he added, was not his case. Hetty had her tea all by herself in the kitchen, and was young enough to feel quite grand at having her own little teapot. Indeed, she could not feel lonely while she had that sixpence in her pocket.

The remaining days of that week passed uneventfully, until Saturday came. Mrs. Eyre was watchful, and Hetty had no great opportunity of distinguishing herself. She felt very well satisfied with herself, for, as she said, "The first week was nearly over, and she had only broken one plate, and sat down on Mrs. Goodenough's bonnet, which seemed none the worse."

But the week was not quite over.

"Celia," said Mr. Eyre, "this is Saturday, you know, and I shall be home by four o'clock. Now that you have that good-natured girl to see after Flo, don't you think you and the others might come out for a walk? It seems ages since we had a walk together, and these long evenings are delightful."

Mrs. Eyre, poor thing, felt nervous at leaving Flo even for a short time, knowing as she did that Hetty was rather giddy. Still, it was very hard upon her John to have to take his weekly walk alone, when all he cared for was to have his wife and children with him. She thought it would be unreasonable to refuse. So it was arranged that they were to be ready to set forth when he came home.

"Hetty, as I'm going to walk in the evening, I shall not go now. Will you take Miss Flo, and walk up and down before these houses? Now, Hetty, do not on any account leave the terrace."

"Mamma, why may not I go in the evening too?" asked Flo, in her precise little voice. "Hetty could carry me. Oh, mamma, do please let me go."

"No, my dearie; you know the doctor said you must not be out in the evening. Now my little Flo must be good—not selfish, you know."

"May Hetty take me up to the common? I do not like being here in the road."

"It is only for one day, dear. Now you know I want you to be good. Here's your nice pretty shawl. Let me—"

"I want to wear a jacket, like Lina, mamma. I hate being wrapped up in a shawl!"

"This is best for you, love. You know putting on a jacket hurts you."

"Come, Miss Flo," said Hetty. "I'll tell you stories all the time—new ones."

"Don't be f'etful, Flo," remarked Lina, who did not go to school on Saturday.

"You would be fr-r-r-etful if you were me," Flo answered, sounding the r very finely. "Yes, and more, too."

Hetty carried her off, thus bringing these personal remarks to a conclusion.

When Mr. Eyre came home, he found the party ready to set off. Going into the parlour for a word with Flo, he found her apparently asleep; so he stole out, and got the other children quietly out of the house, shutting the door softly. Hetty, sitting darning socks, presently saw a pair of tearful eyes opened.

"Hetty, it is wicked, I know, but I do feel that it is very hard on me."

"Miss Flo, dear, you know it is God's will, and He knows what is good for us. Mother always says so. She tells us not to murmur, because God sends what is good for us."

"Yes; but it's easy to say that," replied poor little Flo tearfully.

"Well, miss, when father died, quite sudden, and mother was left to feed and clothe us all without any help, not one word of a grumble did she ever say; but said it was God's doing, and He'd help her to bear it."

"Your mother must be very good, Hetty."

"That she is, Miss Flo. Come now, shall we play cat's cradle, or draughts? or shall I get Master Edgar's bricks, and we'll fix this tray with one end on the back of the sofa, and the other on the back of this chair; yes, it's quite steady. You were wishing only yesterday that you could have a play with these bricks. Now we'll see if we can build a tower, as Master Edgar does."

The bricks were a novelty, and as such they pleased the child for about half an hour. But Flo could only begin the tower; she could not stretch up her little arms to build it very high. Hetty was not very expert, and altogether the tower was a failure. Then poor Flo began to reflect again that it was very sad for her to be left at home when the others went on the common with papa.

"But you were there only yesterday, Miss Flo."

"Oh, but when papa goes, it is quite different. They will walk on and on, ever so far; they will get into a lane at the other side of the common, where there are flowers, woodbine, and pink and white roses, so pretty! They will stop at Mr. Gibson's, and see his lambs. I saw them last year, for then I could go in the little carriage, you know. They were so pretty; they skipped and jumped about so merry. I like to see things jump and run about. But I never see anything now, since papa brought the big doctor from London to see me. He was here, you know, to see some rich lady, and papa went to him, and told him about me, and he came. It was good of him, I know, but I wish he had not been so good, for he said I must lie still, and never be wheeled in the carriage. Oh, Hetty, take away the tray and the bricks. I think I hate them; it can't be wrong to hate dead bricks—only live things you know. What makes you cry, Hetty?"

"Because I am so sorry for you, Miss Flo, and I'd do anything to make you happy. Oh, Miss Flora, I have the loveliest thought! Mrs. Fenton, that lives not far from here, and is a friend of mother's, she has a beautiful Persian cat that her mistress—I mean the lady in London that was her mistress before she married—sent her for a Christmas box. And Minnie—that's her name—has kittens, and I know that last week they were not all given away, because she offered mother one, but mother couldn't have a second cat. Now I'm very sure that Mrs. Fenton would give me that kitten for you, and as soon as ever your mamma comes home, we'll ask if you may have it."

"Oh, Hetty, how lovely! What a very nice girl you are, Hetty! Mamma will let me have it, I know; for she said lately that she wished I had a kitten. What colour is it, Hetty?"

"Snow-white, with beautiful blue eyes; a real blue, not green, like common cats. And its fur is long and soft, and its tail as thick as a fur boa. They were the prettiest kittens I ever saw, and so merry! Mrs. Fenton had a big cork tied by a cord to the back of a chair, and those kittens were jumping at it and tumbling over each other; it was a sight to see. I'm only afraid they may be all gone, every one admires them so."

"This very moment," said Flo solemnly, "Mrs. Fenton may be going to give away the last of the kittens—the very last. Hetty, I'm afraid I'm going to cry. I should love that kitten so."

"Oh, don't cry, Miss Flo. Look, now; you promise me to lie quite quiet until I come back, and I'll just run round to Mrs. Fenton's, and sec if there's a kitten to be had."

"I will indeed; I'll lie here and never move. I always do when I promise. Do go, Hetty. I am longing for the kitten."

Without stopping to think, Hetty ran off. It really was but a step; she would have been back with Flo in ten minutes, but for one little obstacle. It was raining now, though the evening had promised so well. Hetty ran to Mrs. Fenton's, made her request, and got the kitten, the very last. Mrs. Fenton had made up her mind to keep it for herself, but gladly gave it when she heard for whom it was wanted. Hetty flew back through the fast-increasing rain, and very soon reached the door, when it suddenly dawned on her that having shut the said door when she left the house, she had no means of entering. If she knocked for ever, there was no one to let her in; and what would be worse, Flo might get frightened—might even try to reach the door. Clasping the kitten in her arms, Hetty sat down on the wet step, and cried in utter desolation.

She would be sent home at once, that was quite certain. For had not Mrs. Eyre told her not to leave Miss Flo, except to run down to the kitchen and put the pudding, which she had prepared, into the oven?—that pudding which was to form the great feature in the hungry children's meal when the walkers came home.

Hetty knew that if she were that moment in the kitchen, putting the pudding into the oven, instead of lamenting herself on the door-step, and adding to the dampness of the evening by shedding floods of tears, it would be too late, for she had quite forgotten to do it at the right time. This reflection did not raise her spirits, and the kitten began to wish itself back with its mother, so cold and damp and alarmed did it feel.

Presently steps were heard; then a voice saying cheerfully, "There, Lina; well done—you have run like a lamplighter. Are you very wet, Celia? Here we are safe at home, and nobody a bit the worse. Hilloa! What's this? Who are you, girl? What are you doing here? Why, Celia, it is Hetty!"

"Hetty!" exclaimed Mrs. Eyre, hurrying forward. "Oh, Hetty! how did this happen? Some one knocked, I suppose, and the door shut of itself; that happened to me once. Oh, my poor little Flo! You should have been more careful, Hetty. John, dear, open the door; you have the latchkey."

John put his hand into his pocket, felt all about, tried other pockets, and finally said, "What a stupid! I forgot to bring it. Now I must clamber over the garden wall; which I shouldn't mind only for my good clothes. Well, it can't be helped."

"Let me go, sir; I never thought of that!" cried Hetty. "I'm sure I can get over, sir. And then I'll let you in, and give Miss Flo the kitten. You'll let me do that before I have to go, won't you, ma'am?"

She ran along the side of the house towards the garden wall, and as she went she tied the kitten up in her apron. Putting the struggling little bundle on the top of the wall, she was over in a moment, for she was very active. Seizing the kitten, she ran into the house; she had soiled her neat calico apron, and torn two long strips out of it; but she was quite past fretting over that. She flew up the kitchen stairs and opened the hall door.

Mrs. Eyre hurried in and looked at Flo; the child was asleep, and seemed very comfortable.

"Oh, ma'am, you need not be afraid for Miss Flo, for I was very careful not to make any noise, and she was willing for me to go. I know you told me not to leave her, but I forgot. The poor little thing fretted so because she could not see the lambs, and I told her I thought I could get her a kitten, and then she wanted to get it at once; but I forgot what you said about leaving her, and I shut the door. Oh, dear, I am very sorry."

"Is that you, Hetty? How quick you went!" cried Flo, whom the sound of voices had awakened. "Had Mrs. Fenton a kitten left?"

"Oh, Miss Flo! Yes, my dear, she had. I've got it here."

She went up to the sofa, and Mrs. Eyre saw how the child's face brightened.

"Why, you are wet, Hetty! Is it raining? Oh! oh! what a beauty! Oh! you dear, darling kitten. Hetty, you are so kind; I will not fret a bit more. See how she curls herself up in my arms! And, oh, Hetty, it's actually purring! I didn't know such little cats could purr."

Hetty stooped and kissed the child; then she went out into the hall, where Mr. and Mrs. Eyre stood, watching the little scene. Lina was watching, too, with her hands full of sweet wild flowers; the two little boys were in the basket carriage, and were both asleep.

"Ma'am," said Hetty, "must I go to-night? I'm very, very sorry. It was dreadful careless of me—and to forget the pudding, too! I'll go this moment if you wish it, ma'am."

"Not to-night, Hetty. There is no real harm done, I am thankful to say. To-morrow I will decide. You may go down now, and get the things ready for tea. Put the pudding into the oven; we must use it cold to-morrow. The children must have some bread and jam to-night."

Here Edgar, who was generally a good-tempered child, and not given to greediness, raised a howl because he could have no pudding. He was only half awake, which must be his excuse. The noise roused Flo from rapt contemplation of the kitten.

"Oh, mamma! Have you come home? Come here and see what Hetty has brought me."

"Edgar, stop that noise at once! I'm ashamed of you; run upstairs with Lina. Yes, Flo, I see. It is a very pretty kitten—a Persian, I think."

"And Hetty was so kind, mamma; so sorry to see me cry, because I could not go with you all. She ran ever so quick to get the kitten from Mrs. Fenton, and I promised not to move, and I fell asleep; so she was back in a moment. Mamma, Hetty's mother is a very good woman. When her father died, she said it was God's will, and she did not fret. Hetty told me because I was fretting. Wasn't she very good, mamma? her mother, I mean."

Here Hetty came in with the tea-tray, and Flo was soon very busy, feeding her kitten with some milk, and laughing with delight to see its little tongue go in and out as it lapped.

[CHAPTER IV.]

"WHAT'S IN A NAME?"

POOR Hetty! she thought herself the most unfortunate girl in the world. How vexed her mother would be if she were sent home! And Matty would be so sorry, and Dan would laugh. But worst of all, little Flo would miss her; and she had become very fond of the frail, suffering child.

However, she got up very early, and put all her belongings into her box, to be ready if she had to go. Then she crept softly downstairs, and got through a great deal of work. She swept and dusted the parlour, setting out the breakfast table; she lighted the kitchen fire, and set on the kettle. In fact, when Mrs. Eyre came down, rather later than usual, for she had been tired the night before, she found the greater part of her usual Sunday morning's work done.

"Oh, thank you, Hetty. I slept so long this morning. I thought we should be ever so late."

"Ma'am," said Hetty, "do you wish me to go away now?"

"Do you wish to go, Hetty?"

"No, ma'am," and Hetty began to cry; "but I am always forgetting things. Mother says I'll never be worth a pin."

"What's all this about?" said another voice; and Hetty saw her master in the doorway.

"Hetty is very sorry, John; and what do you think?"

"Well, I was very angry last night, but thinking it over, it seems to me that we might give her another chance. She did it to make the child happy, and I don't think she will forget again."

"Sir, I don't think I could, not about leaving Miss Flo; but as to the pudding, I really couldn't say, because I am so dreadful heedless."

"We'll say nothing about the pudding this time," said he, laughing. "But don't be content to be heedless—no one need do that. I am going out for a turn, Celia; but I shall be in good time for breakfast, never fear."

"Well, Hetty, that is settled, and I am glad to keep you. For you are so kind to my poor little Flo that I should be very sorry to send you home; but indeed you must try to be steadier, or one could never feel any real trust in you."

"Indeed, it's a great misfortune," Hetty said dismally; "and it's very good of you and master to try me again."

"Don't call it a misfortune, Hetty—it is more than that. If you loved your Master and Saviour as you love Miss Flo—for indeed I know you do love her—you would be as anxious to please Him as you are to please my poor little girl. And then we should have no more forgetting or carelessness, because such things are wrong, and grieve Him."

Mrs. Eyre went upstairs then, hoping that Hetty looked a little thoughtful, and would ponder over what she had said. But Hetty could do nothing but rejoice over her escape. So happy did she feel, that she unconsciously began to sing.

Mr. Eyre, Lina, and Edgar went to morning service, and Hetty was to go also; then she was to go home, and to return in time for her mistress to go to evening service, Mr. Eyre remaining at home with the children. He would be very glad to have Hetty's help, for generally the baby refused to go to sleep on these occasions, and his crying made poor Flo cross.

"Well, Hetty, I won't say but I'm glad to see you here again. I declare, child, we've missed you a good bit," Mrs. Hardy remarked, when the family reached home. "And how do you get on now?"

"Oh, I got on right well until yesterday. But I was dreadful yesterday, mother." And Hetty proceeded to give a full account of her misfortunes. "I thought they'd send me home at once; but they are so kind, and Miss Flo is such a darling, it would just break my heart to leave her now."

"Well, you needn't cry over it now, Hetty. I daresay you blubbered plenty at the time." At which there was a general laugh at Hetty's expense. "But if you want to stay, you'll have to mind yourself. They won't overlook many pranks like that. I wonder how they kept their hands off you, I declare."

"Oh, they're not that sort at all," answered Hetty. "I'd better be going now, maybe; but I couldn't be easy in my mind until I had told you this."

"You won't be expected until five o'clock. I settled that with your mistress. So sit down, and we'll have dinner. After dinner you can all go and have a walk if you like."

"And mother'll take her nap," said Dan.

"Well, I want it, Dan. I'm not so young as you, and I work very hard."

After dinner the young people all went up to the common, but Dan and Ned soon met some lads they knew, and deserted their sisters and the little ones. The children played about, and Matty and Hetty had a nice quiet talk. Hetty had much to tell, for the week spent with the Eyres had been such a new life that it seemed as if she had been away from home a month at least. Matty gave her lots of good advice, but she had such a gentle, kind way of advising, that no one was ever annoyed by it.

"You know, Hetty," she said, "you are a Christian—you believe in the Lord Jesus, and mean to serve Him. And you must mind what He says about eye service—and it is eye service when you forget what has been said to you the moment your mistress's eye is off you."

"But—I only wanted to please poor little Miss Flo."

"Hetty, dear, think more of pleasing Him than of pleasing Miss Flo. If you'd thought for a moment, 'What would He tell me to do now?' you'd have remembered that you were not to leave the child."

Hetty listened, and thought how good Matty was, and how much she wished she was like her. But she had such a sad habit of only half attending to what was said to her, that she did not really take in the sense of her sister's words.

Hetty went home in good time, and took care of the baby so skilfully that he never cried once.

For a while all went well. Hetty had got such a fright that she really put her mind to her work, and when she did so, no girl could do better than she. But presently the impression made by her Saturday's adventure began to fade from her mind, which began to wander about "wool-gathering," as of old. Her day-dreams were very innocent, being principally concerned with that still unspent sixpence. The weather was fine, and they were out on the common for several hours of each day. Flo enjoyed this, and the fresh air made her sleepy, so that the day did not seem so long. Moreover, the kitten was a great pleasure to her. It was a frisky, jolly little kitten when awake, but it had good capacities for sleep, so that Flo and her kitten took their naps together in great comfort.

For some days Flora was in great anxiety about a name for the kitten, which she called Kit provisionally. A name pretty enough for so pretty a kitten was very hard to find—at least, so Flora thought.

Every one suggested names. Hetty thought Pinkie very pretty, and the kitten had such a dear little pink nose; but Flo scouted the idea with contempt. Mrs. Goodenough mentioned Fluffy, but that was regarded as an insult to the kitten's personal appearance. Lina said that all cats ought to be called Pussy. Flo was obliged to pretend not to hear this, she thought it so silly. Mrs. Eyre thought Pet would do nicely, but it did not satisfy Flo.

At last, waking up from a nice nap just in time for tea, Flora announced that the kitten must be named that very night, or she would begin to think that Kit was her real name. As the little creature, like all Persian cats, was quite deaf, there did not seem to be much danger of this.

"Now every one of you must think of a new name; none of those you have said before. Think hard, now. I'll give you time."

She counted twenty, and then said, "Now, mamma, you first."

"Queen Elizabeth would be a very grand name."

"I'm very sorry, mamma, but it is too long. No one would ever say Elizabeth, and I don't like Queen by itself. Now, Hetty, what's your new name?"

"Miss Flo, I've told you every name I ever knew a cat to be called."

"But I don't want an old name. I wish for quite a new one."

"Well, would you like Darling, miss? My sister Annie had a kitten once called Darling."

"It's a pretty name, but I wonder you will tell me names that have been used before."

"I never knew a cat called My Lady, Flo," said her mother.

"Call her Nebunezzar," said Lina.

"Nebuchadnezzar, Lina! Don't be childish," Flo answered, with dignity. "It must be My Lady, I suppose. Here comes papa! He shall choose."

On the case being stated to Mr. Eyre, he gravely replied, "Flo, your cat is a Persian cat, or will be, if she lives; so she ought to have a Persian name, and you can choose between Zelica and Nourmahal."

"Oh, papa! such lovely names! Say them again, please."

Mr. Eyre having done so, she said, "I choose Zelica, papa. For though I could say Nourmahal, I don't think Lina would, and I don't see how it could be shortened. Zelica! it is really a lovely name—you are sure it is Persian, papa?"

"Quite sure, my dear. I found them for you in 'Lalla Rookh.' A Persian story, you know."

"Come here, Kit. Your name, my own dear pet, is Zelica. Don't tell me she can't hear me—see how she listens with her pretty blue eyes! Zelica, my dear! Lina, can you say it? It is an easy word."

So the vexed question was happily settled, and Zelica had a bit of blue ribbon tied round her neck, to mark the day. This gave Hetty plenty to do, for Zelica evidently thought that the right thing was to get the blue ribbon off as soon as possible, and to run away as fast as she could with Hetty at her heels, and her little mistress's delighted laugh sounding sweet and clear from the sofa. Then Flo tied the ribbon on again, and the whole performance was repeated, until Mrs. Eyre could not but admire Hetty's endless patience. But I suspect that Hetty enjoyed the fun quite as much as Flo did, and as to the waste of time that would have distressed busy Mrs. Eyre, Hetty cared nothing for that. Indeed, I think myself that she was very well employed.

One evening Mr. Eyre came home rather early, saying that he had a headache, and felt very tired.

"Mr. Cartwright asked me to post this letter, Celia, but I felt so done up that I took the tram the whole way. Could Hetty run to the post office in Little Hayes for me?"

"Certainly she can."

"Here then, Hetty. It is of consequence, and you have only just time to get it posted; so make no delay anywhere."

"But you may pay your mother a visit on your way back," added Mrs. Eyre; "for you pass the door, you know."

Hetty took the letter and set off. She was quite close to the post office, when unfortunately she espied a Punch and Judy show a little way off, and it at once struck her that with two of Flo's dolls and that squeaky voice she could amuse the child wonderfully. To acquire the squeak, she stopped to listen, and thought no more of letter or post till the show was over. Then she went on to the office—to find the post box shut.

"Oh dear, dear what am I to do? and I'm sure I didn't stay five minutes!"

"Five minutes!" echoed a woman who knew her. "Say twenty, Heedless Hetty. Knock at the shutter there; maybe they'll take it."

Hetty groaned and timidly knocked at the cruel little green shutter which covered the box, as well as a tiny window above it. After two or three knocks it flew open, and a boy looked out—Fred Smith, a great friend of Dan Hardy.

"Oh, Fred! do take in this letter! My master said it was of consequence, and must go to-night, and I stopped to look at a Punch and Judy—do take it."

"But the bag's gone!" cried Fred. "It's too late from this office to-night. Never mind, Hetty, give it here, and I'll slip it into the bag to-morrow morning, and then no one need know about Punch."

"But it would be deceit," said Hetty, drawing back, "and master might get blamed. I must tell him. Good-bye, Fred; you mean it kindly, but I couldn't do it—nor you wouldn't do it yourself; either."

"I'm afraid I would," Fred answered, with a half laugh.

"Oh, no! Sure it is just the same thing as a lie."

With these words Hetty turned and ran off. She passed her mother's door without slackening her pace, and was soon at Adelaide Terrace. She would have been a good deal surprised had she heard what Fred Smith said as he watched her flying round the corner,—