“THE TWO CHILDREN WITH LITTLE LOUIE WERE PLAYING IN THE LAUNDRY.”

MABEL’S MISHAP

BY
Amy E. Blanchard

Author of “Kittyboy’s Christmas,” “Taking a Stand,”
“A Dear Little Girl,” etc.

Philadelphia
George W. Jacobs & Co.
103-105 So. Fifteenth Street

Copyright, 1900 By
GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

[“THE TWO CHILDREN, WITH LITTLE LOUIE, WERE PLAYING IN THE LAUNDRY.”]

[“O, HAROLD, HERE IT IS!”]

[“SHE OCCUPIED HERSELF WITH TRYING TO PLAY MARBLES.”]

CHAPTER I.

IT was raining dismally. Mabel, leaning her arms on the broad window-sill, watched the drops trickling down the panes. Before her was an array of paper dolls in gay tissue dresses. They sat perched upon pasteboard chairs in front of a circle of queer creatures with flat heads, and no feet; hand in hand these stood, rather flimsy in appearance. Mabel had cut them all in one from a bit of newspaper.

Presently she gave the whole company a sweep off on the floor.

“I’m tired of you,” she said. “And it’s raining, and I don’t know what to do. I wish I were twins, so I could have someone to play with.”

“Why, Mabel,” said her mother, “suppose I had two discontented little Mabels to be fretting around on a rainy day, what should I do?”

“You wouldn’t have to have two Mabels,” returned the little girl, “you could call one something else: Maude, or—oh, mamma, you could call one May and one Belle. I think I’d like to be May, myself. That’s what I’ll do next time I play by myself: I’ll pretend I have a twin sister named Belle.”

“Suppose you pick up that company of people, lying there by the window, now, and play with your twin awhile.”

Mabel looked up mischievously. “I think I’ll let Belle pick them up,” she said.

“Well, let me see her do it. There is a looking glass in which I can watch her.”

“Oh, like ‘Alice in the Looking Glass Country’. You watch and see Belle pick them up.” And she set to work, glancing over her shoulder once in a while to see if her mother took in the performance. “There!” she said, after a time, “Belle has picked them up, but we are both tired of paper dolls. Mamma, there is a red flag hanging out by a door across the street; in that house where the little boy lives. What is it for? Do you suppose he has scarlet fever?”

Her mother laughed. “No, there is an auction—a sale going on.”

“What for?”

“Why, I don’t know, dear. For some reason they are selling off their household goods and furniture.”

“Oh, I wonder if the little boy likes to do that. Who is selling the things—his papa?”

“No, an auctioneer.”

“Does he say, ‘Going, going, gone,’ like Uncle Lewis does when he pretends to sell me?”

“Yes.”

“Can anybody go to a—a nauction?”

“Why, yes. How many questions a little girl can ask.”

“Well, mamma, I think if you’ll ’scuse me, I’ll go down stairs and find something else to do.”

“I’ll excuse you, certainly. Don’t get into mischief.”

But Mabel was out of the door and on her way down the steps by this time. She stopped at the parlor, peeped in, and then went over to the piano which she opened and began to drum softly upon it, but she knew her mamma did not allow this, so she went across the hall to the library. This was a favorite room, especially on a rainy day, and, when her father was not busy there, Mabel was often allowed to curl herself up in one of the big chairs with a book. To-day, however, she did not feel inclined to settle down and looked around to find something to invite her attention. A box of water-colors stood open upon the desk where her father had been working. He had been coloring some drawings to use in his class at the university.

Mabel stood gazing at the colors longingly; they did look so bright and pretty. She took up one of the brushes and wet it in the glass of water her father had been using; then she dipped it in the brightest vermillion in the box.

“I wish I had something to paint,” she said to herself. Looking through a pile of newspapers, she found nothing that would do, and her eyes next sought the books nearest her. She opened one; it was fresh and new. “Oh, I couldn’t take that,” she said. “But this old one, I don’t believe he cares much for this. It has pictures in it, but they are very queer, and so yellow, I’m sure the book isn’t of any account at all. I think it would look much better if I were to paint it up a little.” And, the action being suited to the word, the brush was soon making dabs at the colors on the box, and the figures in the engravings were given startling costumes of red, or blue, or yellow, as Mabel’s fancy dictated.

She could not help feeling a little guilty, though all the time telling herself that it was a worthless old book, and that her mamma often gave her old magazines to try her own paints upon.

Yet, when she heard a step on the stairs, she started guiltily, and shut the book with a snap, then put down her brush, unaware that she had upset the glass of water in her haste, and that it was running across the table and soaking through the book.

She hurried out of the door leading to the porch. Here she could listen to the voice of the auctioneer, as it came to her ears quite distinctly from across the street. It had stopped raining, though little puddles still lay among the bricks of the walk.

“Any one can go,” thought Mabel; “mamma said so. I should love to see a nauction. And that little boy, I wonder if he is there.”

It was mild spring weather, and Mabel thought she could dispense with a hat. She would rather not go in the house again just then; “I’ll go to the nauction,” she said. “It’s no more than going to a store; mamma said so.”

So, running across the street, she stood for a moment before the gate of the little boy’s home, then slipped in; another moment found her in a room full of people. She turned to run away, as several turned to look at her, but she caught sight of the forlorn figure of a little boy huddled up in one corner, hugging a large dog, and towards these two she made her way.

The little boy looked up with a faint smile as Mabel approached, then made room for her on the box on which he was sitting.

“Isn’t it funny?” whispered Mabel, while the auctioneer went on rapidly: “A dollar an’ a half an’ a half.”

But the little boy didn’t look as if he thought it very funny, for he turned his head away, and Mabel thought she saw two tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Is your father here?” she asked.

The little fellow shook his head, and just then, the articles in that room being disposed of, the crowd went into the next, and the two children were left alone.

“Are you going to move?” asked Mabel. “I live across the street, you know, and I saw the red flag hanging out, so I just came over.”

The boy nodded.

“I’m Mabel Ford. My sister told me your name; it’s Harold, isn’t it? What a dear dog that is. What’s his name?” Mabel was not to be daunted by Harold’s silence.

“Don.” This time he answered her.

“I wish you were not going away. Do you want to?” Mabel’s questions continued.

“No,” returned Harold, “but you know father has to go with his regiment to Cuba, and so I have to go.”

“Oh, are you going to Cuba? What will you do when they are fighting? When are you going?”

“I don’t know when I am going, but I am not going to Cuba.”

“Oh, I should think you would be glad not to. Will they take all the things out of the house?”

“Yes, I suppose so. I expected to go to my aunt’s to-day, but Drake hasn’t heard from her; neither have I.”

“And your papa went and left you all alone?”

“He had to, for he had to join his troops, and he thought my aunt would be here before this.”

Mabel thought this a dreadful state of affairs, and looked her sympathy.

“You see,” Harold went on, “these aren’t our things; not many of them. Father rented the house furnished, and only brought a few of our own things here.”

“Oh!” That was better, Mabel thought, but her curiosity was still unsatisfied. “Where shall you go to-night?”

“Oh, I’ll go home with Drake, I suppose.”

“Who is he?”

“The coachman. Well, not the coachman, exactly. He does all sorts of things, and his wife has kept house for us all winter.”

“Oh, yes; but I should think it would be much nicer with your aunt.”

“Perhaps it will be when I can go to her, but I can’t yet. You see, she is probably away from home, and if I started without knowing all about it, I might get to her house and find no one there, and then what should I do in a strange place?” Harold was fast growing more communicative.

“That would be dreadful,” agreed his companion, overcome by his lonely condition. “I tell you what I wish you’d do,” she hastened to say: “I wish you’d come over with me. We haven’t any boys at our house, and I’ve always wanted awfully to be a boy. You see it would be fine if I were, for now I’m just nothing. Alice is the oldest, so she’s some importance, and Louie is the baby, so she’s the pet, and I’m in the middle where I can’t be anything, and I don’t have anyone to play with, for Alice is fourteen and Louis is only two.”

“Your mother wouldn’t want me, maybe,” said Harold, though his eyes looked wistful.

“Oh, yes she would,” returned Mabel, confidently; “I’m sure she would. She lets me have my school friends come, and sometimes they stay all night.”

“But I’m a boy.”

“Well, never mind, we can’t help that. You can pretend you are a girl, if you want to, and I’ll lend you one of my frocks.”

This brought the first approach to a laugh which Harold had shown, and he consented to go and hunt up Drake, and Mabel went with him.

Drake, himself, was not to be found, but his wife was, and to her Mabel made known her request.

“Well, I just wish he would go,” declared Mrs. Drake. “He’s been moping around ever since his father went away, and we two old people can’t cheer him up like you could. Go along, Harold, if you like, and stay as long as you want to.”

So Harold followed his new friend across the street, and when the situation was explained, true enough, he was given a warm welcome by Mrs. Ford. An hour later the two children, with little Louie, were playing in the laundry, having great times, with a tub of water and some very primitive fishing lines.

“I don’t usually like babies tagging after me,” Mabel confided to her friend, fearing he might think her less like a boy than she had given him reason to suppose, “but Louie’s nurse has gone out,” she explained.

“Oh, I don’t mind her. I think she is a dear little girl,” Harold returned, and Mabel was relieved when his heart seemed entirely won by Louie’s overtures to “Boy,” as she called him.

All went merrily enough till supper time; then Mabel, intent only upon making Harold at home, brought him smilingly into the dining-room. She had forgotten the affair of the book, but it came back to her in a very unpleasant manner, when her father, with one of his most severe looks, greeted her with: “Mabel, was it you who was in the library this afternoon, meddling with my box of colors?”

Mabel turned as red as a beet, hung her head, tried to speak, and at last, faltered out: “I—I—yes, papa.”

“I might have expected it from a baby like Louie, but a girl as big as you must certainly have known better. You have ruined one of my most valuable and rare books,” Mr. Ford went on to say. All this before Harold. Poor Mabel felt as though she would sink through the floor. She wondered what punishment would be meted out to her, and she looked with pleading eyes at her mother.

CHAPTER II.

“THIS is Harold Evans,” Mrs. Ford said, tactfully drawing her husband’s attention from Mabel. “Harold’s father is in the army, and has gone to Cuba, so we are trying to make our little neighbor feel less lonely.”

“Mr. Evans? oh, yes,” said Mr. Ford, looking up; “I know him. That’s right, Alice, make the boy feel at home. Come here, son, and sit by me.” And the cloud blew over, much to Mabel’s relief. But the hurt of her remorse and shame still lingered. She did like to appear well before her friends, and to be shown up as a naughty, meddlesome little girl, was very hard. Besides, she really was greatly distressed at having spoiled the book, for she knew how her father loved his library, and treasured his rare books and papers.

“Papa,” she faltered, “I’m dreadfully sorry. I thought it was just an old book you didn’t care for; and—yes, I knew it wasn’t right to touch it. Is it one of your very preciousest books?”

“Yes,” replied her father; “I am afraid it is. See, Mabel; not only is this old print marred by those dreadful glaring colors, but you upset the glass of water I left here, and it has soaked through the book and carried the stain of the fresh paint with it. Then, where you were painting the pages are stuck together; and, well, you can see that destruction has followed your meddling. I must forbid you coming into this room again until your mother or I have given you permission.”

“Oh!” Mabel stood the picture of distress. “I am so sorry, papa,” she repeated. “I’ll never do so again. What can I do to myself?”

A little smile flickered around her father’s mouth. “I’m afraid nothing you could do would restore my book. Another copy would be almost impossible to find.”

“Where did you get this one?”

“I came across it at an auction. It was in a lot of books which were lumped together, and went very cheap.”

“Was it an auction like that at Harold’s house this afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“How much is very cheap?”

“Oh, five dollars for the lot, I think I paid.”

Mabel was very thoughtful for a few moments. Several plans were at work in her mind. Finally, seeing that her father wanted to return to his work, she said: “I came to tell you how sorry I am, papa, and to say good-night. I think maybe, if you don’t kiss me I’d feel worse.”

“Do you want to feel worse?”

“I don’t want to, but I suppose it would do me good, and make me remember.”

“Well, my small philosopher, you completely disarm me. I confess I was very angry at first, and still feel annoyed, but if I can help your memory by withholding my usual good-night kiss, go to bed without it. Good-night, daughter.”

Mabel lingered wistfully. It was very hard to make her up mind to go without that good-night kiss, and her lips quivered as she turned away, seeing that her father meant to follow out her suggestion. But on the spot she formed a resolution to try to replace the book if ever she could. Five dollars! that was a lot of money; more than she ever had at once, but she would save up every penny. She wondered if there were any books sold at Harold’s house that afternoon. She would ask him.

The next morning, while the family were at breakfast, Drake appeared with rather a perturbed countenance. “I’d like your advice, Mr. Ford,” he began, “So long as your lady was so good as to invite little Harold to come over here, sir, I thought, perhaps you wouldn’t mind helping me out in getting him fixed. You see, sir, when the Captain went away he said the boy was to go to his aunt, and that I was to take him as soon as I heard from her. Now she writes, or rather a nurse does, and says she’s laid up to a hospital, sannytorum, they call it, and it’ll be weeks before she’s out again, and will I look after the boy till she’s well. She seems to think I’m some sort of kin-folks to him. But you see, sir, me and my wife has a chance to go to the country to a good place, and how’ll we take the boys, we being hired help like?”

“Humph!” Mr. Ford glanced up at his wife.

Mabel slipped down from her chair and went close to her mother.

“Mamma, let him come here,” she whispered. “He hasn’t any mamma nor any sisters and brothers, nor anything. I’ll give up my room if Alice will let me sleep with her.”

“Mabel proposes that we invite Harold here,” said Mrs. Ford. “She will give up her room to him, Phillip.”

“Well, but how about you? It is something of a charge to take a boy into the family where there are only girls.”

“I’ll take the charge willingly.”

Mr. Ford nodded with a satisfied air. “It’s settled then, Drake. We’ll take care of the lad. Captain Evans and I are acquaintances, and I do not think he would object to the arrangement.”

“He’d be that thankful, sir,” said the old man feelingly, but he looked at Mabel, who at once understood.

“There’s the dear doggie, too. Do you mind him, mamma? He is such a darling, and Harold loves him so.”

“Let’s have the whole combination,” laughed Mr. Ford, who loved animals. “He’s a collie, isn’t he? I’ve seen him on the street and he seemed a fine fellow.”

And so it was settled that Harold and Don should enter the family for the time being, and Mabel proceeded, forthwith, to lay her plans and to get her room ready for this newcomer. She took her dolls, her specially girly books, and certain little knicknacks into her sister’s room.

“What do boys like in their rooms?” she asked Alice.

“Oh, all sorts of funny things. Bows and arrows, and guns, and swords, and oars and fishing tackle and such things.”

“Oh!” Mabel opened her eyes at the idea of such queer taste, and she went out of the room wondering how she could supply these things.

Then she remembered that there was in the garret a hammock, which had fallen into disuse; it was something like a net, she reflected, and she dragged it forth. After many efforts, and finally resorting to a chair placed on top of a table, she managed to climb up high enough to drape the hammock in some sort of fashion over the door, viewing the result of her labors with much satisfaction. But she thought the room needed some further decoration, and she returned to the garret. After fumbling around, she discovered a pair of old boxing gloves, and a pair of foils, and at last found leaning against the wall, a dust-covered picture representing a hunting scene.

“There!” she exclaimed, “that is exactly what I want. I wonder if papa will let me have these.”

Down stairs she trudged again, and reported to her sister, who good-naturedly went to the library, since Mabel was forbidden there, and came back with her father’s consent to use the things for decoration.

Mabel was repaid for all her work when Harold, upon being ushered into the room, exclaimed: “Why this doesn’t look like a girl’s room. See those foils and those boxing gloves. It looks like some of the officer’s rooms. This is great!”

“And where is Don going to sleep?” asked Alice.

Harold’s countenance fell. “He always sleeps at the foot of my bed,” he replied, fondling his dog, who looked up wistfully, not understanding all these changes.

Mrs. Ford looked a little dubious.

“He’s very good and quiet,” said Harold, eagerly. “He never makes any noise or gives a bit of trouble. He minds every word I say to him.”

“Well, we will let him try it for a night;” agreed Mrs. Ford, “and if he behaves well there is no reason why he shouldn’t do as he has been in the habit of doing.” And Harold’s heart was completely won.

Indeed, a few days after this, Don proved himself entirely worthy of the confidence placed in him; for Mrs. Ford, hearing Alice cry out: “Oh, mother, come quick!” ran to the nursery, where she found her eldest daughter sitting on the floor, one arm around little Louie, and the other around Don, while she alternately kissed Louie’s golden head and Don’s black one, murmuring in an agitated voice: “Oh, dear little sister! Oh, Don! oh, Don!”

“Why, Alice, what in the world is the matter?” exclaimed Mrs. Ford.

“Oh, mother, mother, that blessed dog has saved our darling baby’s life,” said Alice, looking up with tears in her eyes. “Maria left Louie just for a moment, while she went down to get her milk, and asked me if I would watch her till she came back, and when I had come in she had climbed up to the window.” There was a catch in Alice’s voice and she hugged the little one closer, then she went on: “Louie had climbed up to the window, and was hanging half way out with Don holding tight to her dress with his teeth. But for him, she must fallen out and have been killed. Oh, good, brave doggie!”

Mrs. Ford caught up her baby girl, and hers were not the only tears that fell on Don’s head.

So, from that time forth, the good dog’s place was sure, and he was allowed access to any room in the house, many a time finding his way into the library, where Mr. Ford permitted him to remain, without so much as a word of protest.

All this, of course, made Harold very happy and he soon felt so much at home that he really dreaded the time when he should have to go to his aunt. Meanwhile, he and Mabel became the best of friends, for, as Mabel said, she liked boy’s play better than girl’s, and a bag of marbles, a top, or a ball, took her fancy much more than a doll, and the games the two children had in the garden were something beyond imagination, so exciting were they.

“Oh, it’s such fun to have a boy to play with,” Mabel would say. And the highest compliment she could receive from Harold, was: “You did that as well as any boy, Mabel.”

To be sure, it was hard, on rainy days, that Harold should be allowed the freedom of the library from which she was still barred; but Harold was very good about this, and delicately refrained from spending much time among the fascinating books, even though he liked nothing better than to curl up in one of the big chairs, and pore over some old chronicles of war or history.

Mabel was very grateful to him for his consideration, although, once in a while, she did desert him for her school friends, Marie Lewis and Ethel Morris, for there was quite enough girl about Mabel for her to enjoy certain plays which Harold didn’t endorse because they were too tame. But for all this new element which furnished her with a playmate at home there was some trouble ahead for Mabel, all on account of that unfortunate book.

CHAPTER III.

THERE were still some weeks before the summer holidays, and Mabel, in consequence, was at school during the morning, and the day after Harold was happily established at her home she started merrily off to school, looking forward to a happy afternoon.

At recess, Marie Lewis and Ethel Morris called her. “Oh, Mabel, we’ve the loveliest idea, and you will just love it. Come over here and let’s talk about it.” So, with lunch-baskets in hand, they settled themselves in a quiet corner.

“We want to give a lawn party for the benefit of the Cuban orphans,” began Marie, “and we’ll have some little things to sell, and oh, Mabel, you told me the other day, that you had two dollars; you’ll give that towards it, won’t you?”

Mabel flushed up to the roots of her hair. “I don’t know,” she faltered.

“Oh, isn’t that mean?” cried Ethel. “You said you knew she’d give it, Marie.”

“Maybe she has to ask her mother,” said Marie, trying to help Mabel out of her difficulty.

“No, I——but I’m saving up for something else,” said Mabel, hesitatingly.

“Oh, but nothing could be better than this. Of course it’s nice to give to missions and—all sorts of things, but you know we don’t often have a war, or anything like this, and it’s immejet,” announced Marie with some importance.

Mabel looked distressed. “I think, maybe, mamma can tell me about what I’d better do,” she said at last.

“Well, just tell me this:” Ethel said; “Is it for any charity thing that you want to save the money?”

Mabel shook her head.

“Then I think you’re real mean,” declared Ethel, with a toss of her head as she flounced away. “Let’s go and get someone else to join us, Marie. We thought you’d be glad that we picked you out the first one, Miss Mabel, but we don’t want anyone who grudges those poor orphans.”

Mabel watched them depart whispering, and looking back at her contemptuously, and felt very much inclined to cry, but just then the bell rang for school, and she went to her seat, feeling bitterly all the afternoon, because of the little scornful flouts and tosses of the head which Ethel gave every time she looked her way.

Harold, with Don at his side, was waiting on the steps for her as she came slowly up the street. He seemed so very friendly that Mabel thought that she would pour out her grievances to him.

“Well, but what are you saving up for?” he said, after hearing her story.

“Why,” she hesitated, “tell me, Harold, if you break or spoil anything belonging to another person don’t you know you ought to try and get another?”

“Why, yes; I suppose it isn’t just straight not to. I know my father always says that it isn’t honorable not to pay debts, and that is a sort of a debt. He made me save up and pay for a window I broke once, ’cause it was my fault. I was shying stones when I was told not to.”

Mabel nodded emphatically. “That’s what I thought. You see, you know about the book.” She spoke shyly; it was a sore subject.

“What book?”

“Why, don’t you know, last night at supper when papa said that to me?”

“Why, I believe he did speak up sort of sharply, but I didn’t pay much attention; I was so hungry, and those hot biscuits looked so good.”

Mabel gave a sigh of relief. Her shame was lessened, but she went on with her confession: “Well, you see, I spoiled one of papa’s most choicest books; I—I—knew better, too; I daubed it all up with papa’s paints, and he feels, oh, awfully, and I’m going to try to get another book like it. It is very, very old.” She opened her little purse, and unfolded a paper on which she had copied every word of the title page of the book. “Were there any books sold at your house the other day?” she asked.

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Oh, then this might have been among them. I wish I had thought.”

“I don’t believe it was. I know pretty well about the books that were sold. Still, it might have been.”

“Papa got his at a nauction,” Mabel went on; “he paid five dollars for a lot of books, and that is what I must try to do.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t have to do that. You might find it at that second-hand book store on Ninth street.”

“I never thought of that. I wonder if mamma will let us go down there this afternoon? I’ll ask her.”

Consent having been obtained, the two started forth, but only disappointment met them. “You’ll find it hard to get hold of that book,” the man in the store told them, smiling and looking at them curiously, as if he wondered what in the world they could want of such a thing. “Won’t some other book do?” he asked.

Mabel shook her head, but went away convinced that she must keep on trying, and that she had no right to put her money to any other use until she was satisfied that it was impossible to get the book.

She and Harold considered this their secret, and talked a good deal about it, so that Mabel had this comfort, while at school her two friends openly scorned her.

“Of course, we’ll invite her,” Marie was heard to say one day, “but I don’t suppose she’ll come; she’s too mean to spend ten cents to get in.”

A burning blush suffused Mabel’s cheeks, and she bent her head over her desk, feeling very much mortified, but she did not make an effort to change the girls’ opinion of her.

“I think girls are a mean lot,” Harold said, indignantly, when he was told of this. “I’d trust a fellow more than that. I’d know what he was going to do with his money, or whether he was going to spend it in some selfish way, before I talked that way.”

“Maybe a boy would,” returned Mabel. “Anyhow, Harold, it’s a great comfort to have you here, or else I might give up, and take the money to the girls, after all. Mamma said I must do just what seemed to me right.”

“Don’t you give it to them,” said Harold, fiercely. “You just hold out, no matter what they say. I’ll take you to the lawn party.”

“Oh, Harold!” Mabel was deeply grateful for this offer. “I think it’s lovely for you to say that, but I don’t believe I shall want to do that. I’ll just wait till I’ve got the book, and then I’ll save up and send my money to the orphans. Mamma will do it for me. She can send it straight to the ladies who take care of the money and see that the orphans get some of it.”

Harold looked at her admiringly. “That’s fine,” he said; “I don’t believe I’d be as modest as that. I’d like to show off before those girls, and just flourish around at the lawn party, if I had money to spend.”

“I should, too,” returned Mabel, “but, somehow, I don’t think I ought to, after what I did to the book.”

“I tell you what,” said Harold, “the thing we ought really to do, is to hunt up red flags, and auctions, and go for them whenever we can; there’s no telling what we might find.”

To this Mabel agreed, but the chances were few and far between, and they began to think theirs an impossible quest.

One day, to be sure it was after Mabel had saved up a full five dollars by dint of all sorts of sacrifices and helpings, the two entered a house where a sale was going on, chief among the articles to be sold being a choice library. There was a catalogue of the books, and over this the children pored, till Harold exultantly exclaimed, “There it is Mabel!” And sure enough, the title was printed in full. They waited nervously till the bidding began. Certain books were sold singly; the rest in lots; among the first was the one on which Mabel had set her heart. When it was put up for sale, the first offer was two dollars, and Harold, with his heart in his mouth, cried: “Three!” “Four!” came from another corner of the room. “Five!” said Harold, with a quick glance at Mabel, who with very red cheeks, and parted lips, stood by his side. “Six!” the word came that shattered their hopes, and then the book was run up to fifteen dollars, the buyer passing quite near to the children, exclaiming to a friend: “It’s a bargain, Nevins; I wouldn’t take fifty dollars for it.”

Fifty dollars! So it was a hopeless matter after all. No wonder her father had been so displeased at the destruction of his property, thought Mabel. The two small figures left the place almost immediately.

“It’s no use trying,” began Mabel; “I’m just going to give up. I never in the world could save up all that money; fifteen dollars.”

“I have five,” replied Harold; “I can lend you that much.”

“No, no!” Mabel refused utterly; “I haven’t any way of paying it back, and papa says to borrow money when you’ve no way of paying it is almost the same as stealing.”

“But you could save up and pay it some day; of course, you could.”

“No, I might never be able to; besides, it might be years and years and it wouldn’t be right to keep you out of the money all of that time when you might want it. Oh, dear, I wish I never had been so careless.”

Harold tried to cheer her by reminding her that her father had bought his book for five dollars, and why shouldn’t she come across another such bargain, and he said they must not give up the hunt for the book. “I’ll look in the papers every day,” he said with quite the air of a man, “and whenever we can we will go to a auction.”

“I thought it was a ‘nauction,’” said Mabel.

“No, it’s ‘auction.’”

Mabel looked a little doubtful and Harold hunted up a newspaper, and, after some searching, triumphantly pointed out the word to her.

“Oh, all right,” admitted Mabel; “I’ll say, auction, then. Somehow, though, this one, that we went to to-day, scared me; there were so many people there, and they made such a noise.”

“You needn’t mind people; I don’t. I’ll always go with you, and take care of you, you know.”

“There aren’t many things you are afraid of, are there?”

“Why, not many. You see, my father is a soldier, and I have to be brave.”

“Oh!” this explained the situation fully to Mabel, and they returned to the subject of the auction.

“Next time,” said Harold, “I’ll do all the bidding, and you need not come into the room, if you don’t want to.”

“Oh, but I do want to; it’s sort of exciting, although I do get tired of hearing the auctioneer; but as long as it is the only way of getting the book, why, of course, we must go to every auction we hear of.”

Therefore, a few days later they made their plans again, hopefully, to go to a house in Germantown, where Harold had discovered that an auction was to be held that day.

“Where are you two children off to, now?” Mrs. Ford asked. “Is it the Zoo this time, or Rittenhouse Square?”

“No, mamma,” Mabel replied, “do you mind if we go to Germantown?”

“To Germantown? Why, that is a long trip for two small bodies. Are you sure you won’t get lost?”

“I’m sure, mamma; Harold knows just how to go.”

These secret expeditions and their object were known to Mrs. Ford, and she usually permitted them when she felt sure they were safe; so, in this case, after some questioning, she gave her consent, and the two set forth.

CHAPTER IV.

AFTER leaving the car, the way for Harold and Mabel led through a quiet, shady street, where old houses stood each side the road, and the children were rather inclined to think it a more pleasant place than where they lived.

“The reason I like it,” said Harold, “is because there was a battle fought here; my father told me all about it, and he showed me the house where the fight was the hardest, and there are bullets buried in the walls; it is called the old Chew house.”

“Was it William Penn that fought the battle?” asked Mabel, with a desire to appear interested.

“No-o,” returned Harold, in a tone of disgust; “of course, it was not. It was General Washington. William Penn didn’t fight. Why, don’t you know, he was a Quaker? You remember how he loved peace, and made the treaty with the Indians.”

“Oh, yes; I do remember now,” replied Mabel. “I’m awfully stupid about history. I never remember who did things. Oh, Harold! see that old woman limping along there; she looks like a Quaker; but she is so wild and queer looking. I believe she is crazy; I am afraid of her.”

“Sho! There’s nothing the matter with her; she is just looking for someone. Hear her call: ‘Bobby, Bobby.’ Don’t you hear her?” In truth, the old woman, hobbling along with a crutch, did look somewhat distracted, for her cap was awry, and her shawl dragged on the ground. She paused, however, at sight of the children.

“You didn’t see anything of a big grey cat, with a collar on, as you come along, did you?” she asked.

The children shook their heads.

“Dear, dear; I’m afraid he’s so scared that he’ll never come back. I caught sight of some boys setting their dog on him two or three hours ago, and I’ve been tramping about hunting for him ever since. I’m nearly distracted, and I can’t walk another step with my lame hip.”

The children looked at each other. If they stopped now they would, maybe, miss the sale; but Mabel spoke her thought.

“I don’t care, I’m going to hunt up that poor, frightened kitty. Which way did he go?” She turned to the old woman.

“Down the lane, in that direction.”

“We’ll look for him, and if we find him, we’ll come back and tell you. I don’t suppose we could catch him, for he wouldn’t know us.”

“Thank thee, child. Thee is very good to turn aside for an old woman,” was the answer Mabel received.

Up and down the two children trudged; the afternoon grew shorter and shorter, and at last, up in a tree Mabel caught sight of pussy, and back they went to where the old woman still sat on her steps waiting for them.

“We’ve found him!” cried Harold. “He’s up a tree. Mabel saw him first. Now, what shall we do to get him down?”

“Thee has brought good news, and I’m very thankful,” said the old woman. “He’s all I’ve got, and we’ve kept house together for fifteen years. He’s old, for a cat, but is still spry; he can’t bite much, but he can scratch, and I’m afraid he might be hurt somewhere, and couldn’t get home, and would die off there alone. Let me see, what is the best thing to be done. I’m afraid my lameness will prevent me from walking any further.”

“I can climb the tree,” said Harold, “but how will I get him down?”

“I’ll get thee a net bag, and maybe thee can manage to get him into that by throwing it over him and drawing the strings; then he’ll be safe enough, and so will thee, too. Thee is sure thee is not afraid?”

“I’ll try my best to get him,” said Harold, sturdily. And off the children started to find Bobby still up in the tree.

Harold began to climb toward him, but the higher he went, the higher did pussy go, till Mabel, in alarm, called: “You’ll fall, Harold; the branches are getting so little. You’d better come down.” Harold, sitting astride a limb, looked down at her.

“What’s up, sis?” said someone from the road.

Mabel turned, and saw a man sitting in a cart. “A cat,” she replied. The man laughed, and climbed down from his seat.

“Your’n?” he asked.

“No, an old lady’s up the street; and we promised to try and get the cat down for her. It was chased by some dogs and boys.”

“Pretty high up, ain’t she?” returned the man. “Your brother, there?”

“No; at least, he’s just like my brother; he lives at our house.”

The man stood rubbing his chin, and looking up in the tree.

“You had better come down, bub,” he called to Harold. “That there cat’ll stay up there as long as you do. I’ll find a way to get her.” And Harold began, slowly, to descend. “You just keep an eye on my horse for a minute, and don’t let nobody run off with him, and I’ll find a way to get your cat,” said the man, smiling down at Mabel.

He crossed the street, and entered a small butcher shop, coming out presently with a bit of meat in his hand, and a long pole.

By this time, Harold had reached the ground, and both children were calling, coaxingly, “Pussy, pussy, pussy;” but Bobby did not move. He was away out on a slender limb, to which he clung steadfastly.

“It’ll most take a hook and ladder company to bring her down,” said the man, “but I’ll try this before we call out the force.” He tied the meat on the end of the pole, led his horse over so the cart would stand under the tree; then he climbed up on the seat, and, by so doing, could just reach the limb with his pole. Slowly he moved it along till it dangled under the cat’s nose. This was too much for Bobby, and he moved toward the tidbit, which the man drew slowly along till Bobby had reached the trunk of the tree in trying to reach the meat. But here he hesitated, and looked wildly around, fearing to go further.

“Here, sis, come take the pole,” the man called to Mabel, and she obeyed.

“You can rest it agen the tree,” he said, “and just ease it down as the cat follows. You and me has got to git out of the way,” he said to Harold, “the crittur’s used to petticoats, and ain’t goin’ to trust herself among men and boys.” He led his cart and horse away, bidding Harold to follow, and the two kept out of sight, till Bobby, seeing the coast clear of all but one little girl, began to descend. When he was safely within catching distance the man rushed from behind the tree where he had been hiding, grabbed Bobby, and thrust him into the bag which Harold held.

“There you are!” said the man. “No, no! I don’t want no thanks; I ain’t had such fun in a coon’s age. Here, take along this piece of meat; he’d ought to have it; ’taint right to tempt critturs that way and then disappint ’em.” And, giving them a good-natured nod as he mounted his cart, he drove away.

“What an awfully good, kind man,” exclaimed Mabel, watching him depart. “I couldn’t have believed anyone so rough, and in such coarse, dirty clothes could be so nice.”

“He is a brick,” pronounced Harold. “Come, Mabel, we must hurry; it’s getting awfully late, and I expect we shall miss the auction altogether.”

“I don’t care, as long as we saved the kitty. Maybe the dogs would have caught him, if he had tried to come down when we were not there. Anyhow, the old Quaker lady was awfully distressed about him.”

“Yes, and do you know, I believe those fellows were just waiting around, for I saw two or three peep out from the corner of a house, and they were snickering and whispering; I believe they were the very ones.”

Although Bobby struggled and squirmed, he could not escape from the bag, and was safely brought home, Harold not loosing his hold till he had landed his charge within doors.

They were greeted joyfully by the old lady, who led them into a neat sitting room. “Now, sit down here, my dears,” she said. “My name is Deborah Knight, and I want to give thee a taste of my old-fashioned cinnamon-bun. I don’t think there is any better made in Philadelphia and I never ate it anywhere else. I am going to take Bobby upstairs in my room, and give him a saucer of milk; so, wait here till I come back.”

Left to themselves, the children looked around the room, which was cosy and filled with old-fashioned furniture. Mabel’s eyes wandered over the various articles on the mantel, and the tables, but Harold’s attention was attracted by an old bookcase filled with books. He tip-toed over to it, and began to read the titles. “We might find the book here,” said Harold; “See, there are some real old ones here, and this is an old house; the furniture is, I know, and so are those portraits in the queer frames.”

The two children knelt before the shelves, and eagerly read each title as best they could, but the book they so desired was not among them.

Mrs. Knight entering the room, found them thus occupied. “What do you find there, children?” she asked. “Does thee like books, Harold? I’ll show thee one with some pretty pictures in it. But here now, help thyself and thee too, Mabel,” and she set a plate of toothsome bun and two glasses of milk before them. “Bobby’s all right,” she told them. “No one knows how I felt about him. When one doesn’t have anyone much but a cat to care for, it becomes a matter of deep concern if anything happens to him. Some persons set store by old furniture and houses and books, but my cat is worth more to me than all such things.”

“Mabel’s father just loves old books,” Harold informed her, “and we’ve been hunting for a very special one for him, but we can’t find it; we’ve been to all the old book-stores in the city.”

“Indeed, that is too bad,” returned Mrs. Knight. “I wish I might be able to help thee.” She considered the subject for a moment and then went on: “I have a pile of old books up in the garret, but I fear it would not be much use to examine them. I was intending to sell them to the junk man; they are of no use to me, and I am getting ready to go into the country, where I can live secure from dogs and bad boys.”

At the mention of the old books, Mabel became too excited to help herself to the tempting food before her, and began breathlessly: “Those books, I wonder if you would let us see them before you do the junk man. It is a very old book that we have been hunting for, and you know, it might happen to be among those you have.”

“Of course, I’ll let thee see them, and welcome,” returned Mrs. Knight; “it isn’t quite dark yet, and the garret is a light one for it faces the west and gets the last rays of the sun. Eat thy bun, and then I’ll let thee look at whatever I have.”

At this, the children hastily dispatched their treat, declaring nothing ever could be better, and then they followed Mrs. Knight up the queer, narrow stairs which led to the garret.

CHAPTER V.

OVER by a little dormer window in the garret, they found the pile of books, and Mrs. Knight left them to make their examination by the fast waning light of the afternoon.

One by one, Mabel and Harold laid the books aside, after peeping inside the covers. They divided the lot, and each took a certain number to examine.

Mabel was about half way down the heap upon which she was at work, when, suddenly, she gave a little cry of joy: “Oh, Harold; here it is! It is, it is! Look; do look!”

“O, HAROLD, HERE IT IS!”

Harold dropped the musty volume he had just picked up, and came over to where Mabel was, hardly willing to believe that she was right in making such an announcement.

“Well, I’ll be switched if it isn’t!” he said, after looking it over carefully.

“Oh, do let us hurry down with it to Mrs. Knight! Oh, Harold, do you suppose she will sell it to me?” Mabel said, eagerly.

“Of course, I think she will,” Harold answered from the stairs, down which he was going post-haste.

Mabel followed, holding tightly to the book, and they quite startled not only the old lady, but her cat, who was sitting in her lap.

Bobby fled under the sofa, with tail twice its usual size, as the children burst into the room, crying: “We’ve found it, we’ve found it!”

“Softly, my dears; softly. You have scared poor Bobby, who is so nervous after his late troubles; I think he is afraid his enemies are upon him again.”

“Poor Bobby,” said Mabel, gently, pausing in the centre of the room. “We wouldn’t hurt you for the world. See, Mrs. Knight; we did find the book. Will you sell it to me; I have five dollars to buy it with?”

“Five dollars? The whole lot wouldn’t bring that!” exclaimed Mrs. Knight.

“Oh, but it would,” returned Mabel, honestly; “for one of those books sold a day or two ago for fifteen.”

“Does thee really mean it? Well, my cat is worth more than that to me; so, take the book, and be welcome to it.”

Mabel could hardly believe her ears. “Oh,” she exclaimed; “do you really mean to give it to me?”

“I would scarce tell thee to take it, unless I meant it; and, in my opinion, it is very little to give. I cannot see why thee should consider it of any value.”

“But,” went on honest Mabel, “we know it is worth a great deal, for the man who bought the one we saw, said he wouldn’t take fifty dollars for it.”

“And I would not take a hundred dollars for my cat. Besides, I am an old woman, with neither kit nor kin, and when I die, what I have will go to charity; so, if the book is of any use to thee, take it, child; it is a very small thing to me in return for what thee has done.”

Mabel’s radiant face expressed her thanks, without her words. “Now, we must go,” she said, after she had repeated her words of appreciation, again and again. “Oh, see how dark it is getting. Mamma will be dreadfully worried, I’m afraid.”

“Then I’ll not keep thee a moment,” Mrs. Knight said. “Come again, if thee cares to visit an old, lame woman and her cat. I shall be glad to see you both at any time, and if there is anything I can do for either of you, it will give me pleasure to do it.”

They promised to come again, and made their farewells, then set out for the cars.

“Just think,” said Mabel, as they turned the corner, “if we hadn’t stopped to help Mrs. Knight to find her cat, we might never have been able to get the book.”

“That’s what they call ‘bread upon the waters,’” returned Harold, sagely.

Mabel was a little puzzled, until Harold explained what it meant.

“Oh, I suppose it is about the same as ‘one good turn deserves another,’” she decided.

“Dear me, how long the cars are coming,” said Harold. “Your mamma will think we are lost, and won’t believe I am taking very good care of you.”

They reached home at last, but not before Mrs. Ford had, indeed, begun to feel much worried at their long absence. But she did not scold, after she had heard their joyous voices at her door, and learned what had detained them.

Mabel concluded her story with: “So, you see, we couldn’t help it. Was it very wrong to stay, mamma?”

“Perhaps not; although it has given me an anxious hour. Still, it is worth that much to see my little girl relieved of her anxiety, and to know that she has well earned her right to be trusted again. And also, that she has proven, beyond question, that she is honest and faithful. Papa will be so very glad, dear.”

“May I go to him right away? Is he in the library?” Mabel asked.

“Yes, he is there; and you may go right away.”

Mabel turned, a little doubtfully, to where Harold had stood a moment before; but he had taken in the situation, and had left the room. “Oh, Harold isn’t here,” said the little girl. “Mamma, ought I to ask him to go with me to papa?”

“You would rather not?”

“Don’t you think I ought to, when he helped me so much about getting the book?”

“Not necessarily; and I think he has gone off on purpose, for I am sure he understands how you feel. If he comes back, I’ll tell him that you intended to ask him. Now, run along, dearie.”

It had been many weeks since Mabel had crossed the threshold of the library, and her father looked up in surprise, as he saw her at the door.

“Mamma said I might come,” she began eagerly, “and oh, papa, I have the book; here it is.”

“The book? What book?” He took the package mechanically, while Mabel stood on tip-toe with her hands tightly clasped, and her eyes fixed on his face.

As Mr. Ford’s gaze rested on the old book with its dull covers, his surprise was evident. “Why, Mabel,” he exclaimed, “where did you get this? It is even an older edition than mine, and in quite as good, if not better condition than mine was originally. Tell me about it, little daughter.” And he drew her kindly to his knee.

Then Mabel poured forth her tale, beginning with her resolve to make good, if possible, the mischief she had done. “For you know, papa,” she concluded by saying, “you always have told me that one ought never to be in debt, and so— Are you pleased, papa? Do you trust me again?”

He kissed her and drew her closer. “Indeed I do, dear child,” he answered.

“And I may come into the library again?”

“Just as before.”

Mabel gave a little satisfied sigh. It was so good to have all restrictions taken away.

“Now I must go to work again, daughter,” said her father. “Thank you very much for getting me the book; and, yes, I think I shall have to give you the other one. Keep it on your shelves, and perhaps it will remind you of two or three things.”