THE
THIRTEEN LITTLE BLACK PIGS

And Other Stories

BY

Mrs Molesworth

ILLUSTRATED BY W. J. MORGAN

London
Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge
NEW. YORK. E & J. B. Young & Co

LONDON:
ENGRAVED AND PRINTED BY EDMUND EVANS,
RACQUET-CT., FLEET-ST., E.C.

CONTENTS.

THE THIRTEEN
LITTLE
BLACK PIGS

CHAPTER. I

The house stood on rising ground, and the nursery was at the top of the house—except of course for the attics above—so there was a good view from the two large windows. This was a great comfort to the children during the weeks they were busy getting better from a long, very long, illness, or illnesses. For they had been so unwise as to get measles, and scarlet fever, and something else—I am not sure if it was whooping-cough or chicken-pox—all mixed up together! Don't you think they might have been content with one at a time? Their mamma thought so, and the doctor thought so, and most of all, perhaps, nurse thought so.

But when they began to get really better, they themselves weren't so sure about it. Maxie said to Dolly that he really thought it was rather clever to have finished up all the illnesses at once, and Dolly agreed with him, adding that their cousins had been nearly as long "with only measles." But nurse, who heard what they were saying, reminded them that instead of them "finishing up the illnesses," as Master Max said, it might have been the illnesses finishing them up. Which was true enough, and made Max, who was the older of the two, look rather grave.

And then the getting better was very long, especially as it was early spring, and there were lots of damp and chilly days still, and for weeks and weeks there was no talk or thought of their going out, and it was very difficult indeed not to get tired of the toys and games their mother provided for them, and even of her very nicest stories. Besides, a mamma cannot go on telling stories all day, however sorry she is for her little invalids, and however well she understands that when people, little or big, have been ill and are still feeling weak, and "unlike themselves," it is very, very difficult not to be discontented and quarrelsome. So but for the nursery windows I don't quite know what the children would have done sometimes.

The windows both looked out at the same side, which was a good thing in some ways and a bad thing in others. Each child had a special one, and as Dolly said to Maxie, "if yours had been at the back, you could have told me stories of what you saw, and I could have told you stories of what I saw."

"It couldn't have looked out at the back," said Max, who was more of an architect than his sister, for he was two years older, "for it's there the nursery's joined on to the house. It could only have looked to the side, and the side's very stupid—just shrubs and beds, nothing to see except the gardeners sometimes, and p'r'aps there'd have been a scroodgy bit of seeing round to the front, so I'd rather have it as it is. Indeed, if there had been one at the side, I wouldn't have had it for my window at all."

"You'd have had to," said Dolly, her voice sounding rather "peepy," "'cos I'm a girl, and I hope you're a gentleman."

"I'm the eldest," said Max, "and that always counts. Stuff about being a gentleman; the Prince of Wales won't give up being king to let his sister be queen, will he?"

This was rather a poser.

"Papa says," Dolly began, but she stopped suddenly. "Oh Maxie," she went on, in quite a different tone of voice, "what is coming into Farmer Wilder's field? It isn't turkeys this time. Oh, Maxie, what can it be?"

For they were both at their posts, though for the last few minutes Max had not been giving much attention to the outside world, and I rather fancy too, that Dolly's eyes were quicker than his.

He turned to the window now—it was a very nice look-out certainly, at that side of the house. First there was their own lawn, which the gardeners were now busy "machining," as the children called it, and skirting it at the right the broad terrace walk where the dogs loved to follow their father as he walked up and down, often reading as he went. Then on the left there were the "houses," where there was always some bustle of washing the glass or moving the pots, or watering or something going on. And though hidden from the view of the front of the house, there was, farther back, a path to the poultry-yard, where two or three times a day their mamma's pet beauties were fed, and the noise and chatter of the pretty feathered creatures could be heard even through the closed nursery windows. For this was not the big poultry-yard, but their mother's own particular one. And most interesting of all, perhaps, further off beyond the lawn, divided from it by a "ha-ha," there was the great field let to Farmer Wilder, where all sorts of creatures were to be seen in their turn; sometimes cattle, sometimes sheep, sometimes only two or three quiet old horses. There had been nothing but horses there lately—not since the turkeys had been taken away—so it was no wonder that Dolly's eyes were caught by the sight of a sudden arrival of new-comers.

There they came—rushing, scrambling, tumbling over each other—one, two, three—no, it was impossible to count them as yet—they were just a mass of rolling jerking black specks against the green grass, and for a minute or two, the children stared and gazed and wondered, in complete silence.

What could they be?

"Are they little bears?" Dolly was on the point of saying, only she stopped short for fear of Maxie's laughing at her, as he had done that time when they were staying at their grandmamma's in London, and she had asked if it was rabbits that had nibbled the crocuses in the square gardens.

"Rabbits in London!" said Max, with lordly contempt. "What a baby you are, Dolly!"

Dolly had never forgotten it; she hated being called "a baby" in that tone, and very likely Max would laugh even more if she asked if these strange visitors were little bears.

So she waited. Then said her brother in his grand, big man tone, as if he had known it all the time, which he hadn't—

"They're pigs—just little black pigs of course. Can't you see their curly tails, Dolly?"

"Yes," said Dolly in rather a disappointed tone, "I can, now I know they're pigs. But I thought that they were something curiouser than pigs—though," and her voice grew more cheerful again, "I never saw quite black pigs before, did you, Maxie? What makes them black, I wonder?"

"You've seen black men?" said Max. "Well, it's like that—there's black men and proper-coloured men, so there's black pigs and proper-coloured pigs."

"But black men are painted black. Christy minstrel men are, I know, for nurse told me so when I was frightened of them. And pigs couldn't paint themselves black. But oh, Max," she broke off, "do look how they're running and jumping now. They're all over the field. One, two, three, four—there's thirteen of them, Maxie."

"No," said Max, after a moment or two's silence, "there's only twelve."

Dolly counted again—it was not very easy, I must allow. But she stuck to it.

"There are thirteen," she repeated.

Two could play at that game.

"There are twelve, I tell you, you silly," said Max, without taking the trouble to count them again as carefully as Dolly had done.

CHAPTER II

"There are thirteen," repeated Dolly again. "Look, Max, begin at the side of the field nearest the gate—there are three close together, and then—oh dear, two have run back to the others, and—no, I can't count aloud, but I'm sure—" and she went on to herself, "one, two, three, four,"—"there are thirteen, I'm as sure as sure."

"And I'm as sure as sure, or surer than sure, that there are only twelve," said Max, aggravatingly.

"Master Max and Miss Dorothy, come to your tea," said nurse's voice from the table. "And it's getting chilly—the evenings aren't like the middle of the day—you mustn't stand at the windows any more. It's draughty, and it would never do for you to be getting stiff necks or swollen glands or anything like that on the top of all there's been."

The two came slowly to the tea-table, but their looks were not very amiable.

"You're so rude," said Dolly to her brother, "contradicting like that. I never saw anybody so persisting."

"How can you help persisting when you know you're right?" said Max. "I can't tell stories to please you."

But I must say his tone was more good-natured than Dolly's.

"Well," said she, "can I tell stories to please you? I know there are thirteen."

"And I know there are only twelve," retorted Max, more doggedly.

After that they did not speak to each other all through tea-time. Nurse, who often complained of the chatter-chatter "going through her head," should have been pleased at the unusual quiet, but somehow she wasn't. She had a kind heart, and she did not like to see the little couple looking gloomy and cross.

"Come, cheer up, my dears," she said, "what does it matter? Twelve or thirteen, though I don't know what it is you were talking about—call it twelve-and-a-half and split the difference, won't that settle it?"

It was rather difficult not to smile at this suggestion—the idea of chopping one of the poor little pigs in two to settle their dispute was too absurd. But Dolly pinched up her lips; she wasn't going to give in, and smiling would have been a sort of beginning of giving in, you see. And Max, to save himself from any weakness of the kind, started whistling, which nurse promptly put a stop to, telling him that whistling at table was not "manners" at all!

This did not increase Master Max's good temper, especially as Dolly looked very virtuous, and as if her "manners" could never call for any reproof. And a quarter-of-an-hour or so later, when mamma came up to pay them a little visit, it was very plain to her that there was a screw, and rather a big screw, loose somewhere in the nursery machinery. For Max was sitting in one corner pretending to read, and Dolly was sitting in another corner—the two furthest-off-from-each-other corners they could possibly find—pretending to sew, and on both little faces the expression was one which mammas are always very sorry indeed to see.

But mammas learn by experience to be wise. And all wise people know that when other people are "upset" or "put out," or, to say it quite plainly, "in a bad temper," it is no use, even though it is rather difficult not to do so, to go "bang at them," with some such questions as these: "What is the matter with you?" "What are you looking so cross about?" "Have you been quarrelling, you tiresome children?" and so on. Especially if, as these children's mamma just now was clever enough to find out, the angry feelings are beginning to soften down into unhappiness, and the first little whisper of "wishing I hadn't been so cross"—or "so unkind," is faintly making its way into the foolish, troubled little hearts. At that moment a sharp or severe word is sadly apt to drown the gentle fairy voice, and to open the door again to all the noisy, ugly imps of obstinacy and pride and unkind resentment, who were just beginning to think they had best slink off.

So this loving and wise—wise because she was loving, and loving because she was wise!—mother said nothing, except—

"I am so sorry not to have come up before, dears, but I have been very busy. Has it been a very dull afternoon for my poor little prisoners?"

"Not so very," said Dolly, slipping off her seat, and sidling up to her mother, who had settled herself on the old rocking-chair by the fire, with a nice comfortable look, as if she were not in a hurry. "Not so very—we read some stories, and I did six rows of my knitting, and Max cut out some more paper animals for poor little Billy Stokes—and—then we went to our windows and began looking out," but here Dolly's voice dropped suspiciously.

"Well," said her mother, "that all sounds very nice. But what happened when you were looking out at your windows?"

"Nothing happened," said Max, slowly.

"Well—what did you see? And what did you say? I can tell from your faces that things haven't gone cheerfully with you all the afternoon—now have they?" said mamma.

"No," Dolly replied eagerly, "they haven't. Only p'r'aps we'd better say nothing more about it. I don't want it all to begin again. If Max likes I'll try to forget all about it, and be friends again."

"I don't mind being friends again," said Max, "I'd rather. But I don't see how we can forget about it—they're sure to be there again to-morrow, and then we couldn't forget about them. Oh, I wonder if they're there still, if it's not too dark to see them," he went on, suddenly darting to the window. "Then mamma could count them, and that would settle it."

"This is very mysterious," said mamma, smiling, "Dolly, you must explain."

But Max was back from the window before Dolly could begin, and his first words were part of the explanation.

"They're gone in," he said in a disappointed tone, "but I don't know that it matters much. For it would have been too dark for you to count them properly, mamma. It was a lot of little pigs, mamma, in Farmer Wilder's field; little black pigs—twelve of them."

"Thirteen," said Dolly.

"No, no!" began Max, but he stopped. "That's it, you see, mamma," he said, in a melancholy tone.

"That's what?" asked mamma.

"The—the quarrel. Dolly will have it there were thirteen, and I'm sure there were only twelve."

"And," said Dolly, laughing a little—though I must say I think it was mischievous of her to have snapped in with that "thirteen"—"nurse heard about 'twelve' and 'thirteen,' but she didn't know what it was about, so she asked us if we couldn't split the difference. Fancy splitting up a poor little pig."

"There isn't one to split, not a thirteen one," said Max, rather surlily.

"Yes there is," retorted Dolly.

Mamma looked at them both.

"My dear children," she said. "You really must be at a loss for something to quarrel about. And after all, you remind me of——"

"What do we remind you of, mamma?" asked both, eagerly, "something about when you were a little girl?"

"No, only of an old story I have heard," said mamma.

"Oh, do tell it," said Max and Dolly.

CHAPTER III

IS scarcely a 'story,'" said
their mother, "it was only
about a tremendous quarrel
there once was in ancient
times between some people
as to what colour a certain
shield was. One party declared it was black; the other maintained it was white. Both were ready to swear to the fact, and I don't know what terrible consequences might not have followed, had it not suddenly been discovered that—what do you think? Can you guess?"

Max and Dolly knitted their brows and pondered. But no, they could not guess.

"What was it, mamma?" they asked.

"One side of the shield was black and the other white," said she, with a quiet little smile, "so both were right and both were wrong."

The children considered. It was very interesting.

"But," said Max, "it couldn't be like that with Dolly and me—there couldn't be thirteen and not be thirteen."

"No, it is difficult, I own, to see how that could be," said mamma. "But queer things do happen—there are queer answers to puzzles now-and-then."

"I wish it was settled about ours," said Dolly, with a sigh. "I—I don't like quarrelling with dear Maxie," and she suddenly buried her face in her mother's lap and began to cry—not loudly, but you could see she was crying by the way her fat little shoulders quivered and shook.

This was too much for Max.

"Dolly," he said, tugging at her till she was obliged to look up, "don't—I can't bear you to be unhappy because of—because of me—do kiss me, Dolly, and don't let us ever think any more about those stupid little black pigs."

So they kissed each other, and it was "all right."

"But," said Dolly, "I'm so afraid it'll begin again when we see them. Could papa ask Farmer Wilder to put them somewhere else, mamma? We can't leave off looking out of our windows, can we?"

"I think it would be rather a babyish way of keeping from quarrelling, to ask to have the temptation to quarrel put away," said mamma. "Besides—it would have to be settled, you see."

"Yes, but," said Dolly, "then one of us would have to be wrong, and I'd rather go on fancying that somehow neither of us was wrong."

"That's rubbish," said Max, "it couldn't be."

"Listen," said mamma; "promise me that neither of you will look out of the window to-morrow morning before you see me. Then if it is really a fine mild day, the doctor says you may both go a little walk."

"Oh, how nice!" interrupted the little prisoners. "And I will take you myself," their mother went on. "Immediately after your dinner—about two o'clock will be the best time. And we will see if we can't settle the question of the thir—no, I had better not say how many—of the little black pigs, in a satisfactory way."

Mamma smiled at the children—her smile was very nice, but there was a little sparkle of mischief in her eyes too. And I may tell you, in confidence, though she had not said so to Max and Dolly, that that afternoon she had passed Farmer Wilder's when she was out walking with their father, and had stood at the gate of the very field which the children saw from the nursery window, where the little black pigs were gambolling about. And Farmer Wilder had happened to come by himself, and he and his landlord—the children's father, you understand—had had a little talk about pigs in general, and these piglings in particular. And so mamma knew more about them than Max and Dolly had any idea of.

How pleased they were when they woke the next morning to think that they were really going out for a little walk—out into the sweet fresh air again, after all these weary dreary weeks in the house. And it was really a very nice day; there was more sunshine than had been seen for some time, so that at two o'clock the children were all ready—wrapped up and eager to start when their mother peeped into the nursery to call them.

At first the feeling of being out again was so delicious it almost seemed to take away their breath, and they could not think of anything else. But after a few minutes they quieted down a little, and walked on with their mother, one at each side.

"We kept our promise, mamma," said Dolly, "we didn't look out of our windows at all this morning. Nurse let us look out of the night nursery one for a little—it's turned the other way, so we couldn't see the pigs."

"But we'll have to see them in a minute," said Max, "when we come out of this path we're close to the gate of the big field, you know, mamma."

"I know," said mamma, "but I want to turn the other way—down the little lane, for before we go to the field to look at the pigs, I want to speak to Farmer Wilder a moment."

A few minutes brought them to the farm, and just as they came in sight of it, Mr. Wilder himself appeared, coming towards them. Max and Dolly started a little when they first saw him; something small and black was trotting behind him—could it be one of the piglings? Their heads were full of little black pigs, you see. No, as he came nearer, they found it was a small black dog—a new one, which they had never seen before.

"Good morning, Mr. Wilder," said their mother, "that's your new dog—Max and Dolly have not made acquaintance with him yet. 'Nigger,' you call him? He's a clever fellow, isn't he?"

"A bit too clever," replied the farmer. "He's rather too fond of meddling. Yesterday afternoon he got into the big field where we'd just turned out all the little black pigs, and he was chasing and hunting them all the time."

"They'll not get fat at that rate," said the children's mother, smiling. "What a lot of them there are—twelve, didn't you say, yesterday?"

"Yes—a dozen—nice pigs they are too," said the farmer, "perhaps it would amuse the children to see them—black pigs are rare in these parts."

He turned towards the field, Max, Dolly and their mother following.

"Mamma," said Max, eagerly, "did you hear? There's only twelve."

"But I saw thirteen," said Dolly.

"Yes," said mamma. "You were right as to the number of pigs, Max, but Dolly was right as to the number of black creatures she counted, for Nigger was there. So you were wrong in your counting, Max, and Dolly was wrong in the number of pigs, and so—"

"Both were right and both were wrong," cried the children together, "like the people who quarrelled about the shield!"

"Just fancy!" said Dolly.

"It is queer!" said Max.

And when they got to the gate and stood looking at the pigs—I think Dolly preferred keeping the gate between her and them—they counted again, and this time there were only twelve! For Nigger was standing meekly at his master's heels, having been whipped for his misdemeanours of the day before.

"Any way, mamma," said Dolly, as they made their way home again after a pleasant little walk, "it shows how silly it is ever to quarrel, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does," Max agreed.

And you may be sure mamma was quite of the same opinion!

Right Hand And Left

An old friend had come to see the children's mother. They had not met for several years, and the visitor was of course interested in seeing all the little people.

So mamma rang the bell for all five to come down from the nursery. Lily and Belle, being the two eldest, came first. Lily was eleven, Belle's ninth birthday was just passed. They were followed by their two brothers, Basil and George, who were only seven and five, and Baby Barbara, a young lady of two. They were a pleasant-looking little party, and their kind-faced new friend asked many questions about them, as each was introduced to her by name.

The children did not care very much for her remarks as to whom each of them was like, for she spoke of relations most of them were too young to remember, or had scarcely ever heard of, as she was an elderly lady.

But the two older girls at least, listened with all their ears to one or two little things their own dear mother herself said about them.

"Lily," she said, as she drew forward the fair-haired little girl, "is already quite my right hand."

Lily's eyes sparkled with pleasure, but Belle grew rather red, and turned away. She was not the least like Lily, her hair was dark and cut short round her head, for she had had a bad illness not long ago.

The stranger lady had quick eyes.

"And Belle?" she said, kindly. "You can't have two right hands of course. But I've no doubt she is a helpful little woman too, in her way."

"Oh, yes!" said her mother, "she is. And she is getting on well with her lessons again, in spite of having been so put back last year."

"And," said the old lady—who had noticed the rather sullen look on Belle's little brown face—"I hope the two sisters love each other dearly, besides being a pair of extra hands to their mother."

Lily smiled back in reply.

"Yes," she said, "I am sure we do."

Soon after, their mother sent them all upstairs again. Nurse had come down to fetch Baby, and the two boys trotted off together. Lily took Belle's hand as they got to the foot of the stairs.

"Isn't she a nice lady?" she said, for Lily was feeling very pleased just then with herself and everybody else—I must say she was very seldom a cross little girl, but she was perhaps rather too inclined to be pleased with herself—"and didn't you like," she went on, "what mamma said of us two, to her?"

"No," said Belle, roughly, pulling herself away from her sister. "I don't want to be counted a clumsy, stupid, left hand. I don't wonder you're pleased, you always get praised."

"Oh, Belle!" said Lily. "I really don't think you need be so cross about it. You know you're younger than I."

But Belle would not answer, and all the rest of the afternoon she remained very silent and gloomy, looking, to tell the truth, as if that strange invisible little "black dog," that we have all heard of, I think, had seated himself comfortably upon her shoulders, with no intention of getting off again in a hurry.

It was a fine summer's day, almost too hot indeed, so the children had tea early and went out a walk afterwards, returning in time to spend half-an-hour with their mother, before she went to dress for dinner.

This half-hour was generally a very happy time for all the children. But to-day one little face was less bright than usual, and mamma's eyes were not slow to notice it, though she said nothing.

When the three little ones had gone off to bed, their mother glanced at the two elder girls.

"You are quite ready, I see, for coming into the drawing-room before dinner," she said.

"Yes, mamma," Lily replied, "all except washing our hands. They do get so quickly dirty in this hot weather, if we romp about at all."

"Then I think you might practise a little, papa likes to see one of you in the drawing-room when he comes in, and to-night Belle shall be with me while I'm dressing."

"Very well, mamma dear," said Lily, running off as cheerfully as usual. Being with their mother when she was dressing was a great treat, it didn't happen every night, and the little girls took it in turns. This evening I don't think Lily was at all sorry to be without her sister's company, for the little black dog, or at least his shadow, was still on Belle's shoulders.

Belle sat quietly in a corner of the room, her mother said very little to her, not even when Collins, the maid, had gone.

"You must wash your hands, I think, before coming down to the drawing-room," she said at last, as she poured some nice warm water into a pretty little basin with rose-buds round the edge, which the children admired very much.

"Thank you, mamma," said Belle, brightening up a little, "and may I use your beautiful pink scented soap, please?"

"Certainly dear," said her mother, and Belle set to work to wash her little brown hands, which, it must be confessed, were decidedly in need of it.

Rather to her surprise, her mother stood beside her looking on.

"Are you watching to see if I wash them quite clean, mamma?" asked the little girl.

"No, dear, I'm sure you will do that. I was wondering if it has ever struck you how prettily and kindly your little hands behave to each other. Right hand is the cleverest and quickest, of course, but left hand is always willing and ready too. They take care not to hurt or scratch each other, and if by chance one is ever hurt, the other is as tender as possible not to rub or touch the sore place."

Belle went on washing her hands, or rather bathing them in the water, for by this time they were quite clean. She looked at them as she did so, but she did not speak.

"And another thing," said her mother, "take one out of the water, and see how helpless the other is, even clever right hand can do very little without her sister, and it is the same in all the work you do, one hand would be very little use without the other."

Belle's face grew rosy.

"Mamma dear," she said, as her hands wiped each other dry on the nice soft towel, "I know what you mean. You're like a fairy, mamma, you can see into my heart. I didn't like that lady thinking Lily was your right hand, and me no good to you. It made me feel as if I didn't love Lily."

"But nobody said you were no good, Belle dear. You made that up in your own silly little head. For you know even though Lily is older, you can still help me a great deal, and even help her to help me," said her mother.

"Like as if you were the head, and we your two hands," answered Belle. "Well, mamma, I won't mind now even if you count me only your left hand, and I'll always remember what you've said."

She kissed her mother, quite happy now, and when they were going to bed that night she told Lily all about it.

"I am afraid," said Lily, looking sorry, "that I was too proud of what mamma said of me. But if each of us is always as kind to the other as right hand is to left hand, and left hand to right hand, it will be all right, won't it dear?"

A·SHILLING of HALFPENCE

She was a lonely little old lady. She was one of those who had "seen better days," as it is called. I am afraid there are a great many people in the world of whom this can be said, and the saddest part of it is that they are very, very often, old people.

It is sad to see anyone in want even of comforts, and still more of really needful things, but I think it is worst of all to see very old or very young folk deprived of what they should have. Middle-aged men and women seem more fit for the battle of life than those who are already tired by what they have come through, or those who have not yet got to their full strength and courage.

My little old lady was not what is commonly counted very poor. She had enough to eat—certainly her appetite was small—and enough to pay the rent of the two neat little rooms, furnished with what she had been able to keep of her own old furniture, which had once stood in a very different kind of house; and enough, with great care, to dress herself nicely; and, what she considered quite as important as any of these things, she managed to have enough to give her mite of help to those still poorer and more closely pressed than herself.

How I got to know her I am not at liberty to say. But I will tell you about the first time I ever saw her and him, the other person of this little story.

It was a cold, but for a wonder in London in the winter, a bright and dry morning. All the better, you will say—of course everybody must like nice clean streets and pavements much more than sloppy rain and mud. But no; not quite everybody. Think of the crossing-sweepers! Dirty, muddy days are their harvest-time, especially Sundays, when in the better parts of the town there are so many more rich and well-to-do foot passengers than on other days. It was a real disappointment, and worse than a disappointment—a real serious trouble to little Billy Harding, when, after the best breakfast his poor mother could give him—and that isn't saying very much—he hurried downstairs from the attic which was his home, brush in hand, to find the pavements dry as a bone, and the roads almost clean!

"I made sure it were going to rain beautiful," he said to himself, dolefully, "it looked so uncommon like it, last night."

But the wind had veered round to the east while Billy was fast asleep, and as everybody knows, the east wind, which "is neither good for man nor beast," hasn't even the good quality of bringing profitably dirty streets for the poor crossing-sweepers.

There was nothing for it but to go to his post, however, and there it was I saw him that same cold, dry, clean Sunday morning, when I myself was on my way to church. Very likely I should never have noticed him, nor her either, if I had met them separately, but it was the seeing them standing together, talking earnestly, that caught my attention, and the anxious, rather troubled expression on the little old lady's face, and the bright eager look on the boy's, made me wonder what it was all about. A dreadful idea crossed my mind for an instant—could he be a naughty boy? had he possibly been trying to pick the old lady's pocket, and was she talking to him in hopes of making him repentant, as is sometimes the way with tender-hearted old ladies, instead of giving him in charge to a policeman? (Not that there was any policeman in view!) But another instant made me feel ashamed of the thought—a second glance at the boy's honest face was enough.

Now I will tell you what had happened; how I came to know it does not matter.

I told you my little old lady always managed to give away something to others. One of her habits was to put one shilling into the box in the church porch "for the poor of the parish," the first Sunday of every month, and if you knew how very little she had to live on, you would agree with me that this shilling, which was not her only charity, was a good deal. The morning I am writing of was the first Sunday of the month, and as she set off for church she held in her thin old fingers inside her well-worn muff two coins—a shilling and a halfpenny, the halfpenny being intended for the first crossing-sweeper she met on her way. This was another of her little customs. She had some way to go to church, and she did not always choose the same streets, so she had no special pet crossing-sweeper, and this morning it was Billy into whose hand she dropped the coin she was holding in her tremulous fingers.

"Thank you, ma'am," said Billy, tugging at his ragged cap with the same hand in which he had received the money, for he had his brush in the other, and he was anxious to show his gratitude. It was his first receipt that morning!

"Poor boy," thought the old lady, "he does look cold. I wish I could have made it a penny."

But the kind wish had scarcely crossed her mind before she heard a voice beside her.

"Please ma'am," it said, "do you know what you give me just now?"

And Billy, red with running, held out a very unmistakeable shilling!

The old lady gasped, and drew out the coin she was firmly clasping in her muff. It was a rather extra worn halfpenny!

"Oh, my good boy!" she began, but Billy interrupted her. He saw at once how it was. And if he gave a little sigh, can you wonder? It would have been "jolly," if she had replied, "All right, my boy. I meant it for you," and as he had run after her he had thought it might be so. For Billy was wise in some things, as the poor learn to be. He knew that it is not by any means those who have most to give who give most.

But a glance at the troubled old face told him the truth.

"All right, ma'am," he said again. "'Twas a mistake. Mistakes will happen," and he dropped the silver piece back into her hand.

"Take the halfpenny at least, my boy," said she. "It was very good, very good indeed of you to tell me of my mistake. If it was money I could spare on myself—but—it is my rule to give this once a month at church, and—I could not make it up again."

"All right, ma'am," Billy repeated for the third time, anxious to be off before the old lady could hear the choke of disappointment in his voice.

(It was just then I passed them.)

"But I'll tell you what I'll do," she went on, brightening up. "I'll pay you the shilling in halfpence, every week. I'm sure I can manage that. So you look out for me each Sunday morning, and I'll have it ready," and off she trotted, quite happy at having thus settled the difficulty. "I shouldn't feel honest" she said to herself, "if I didn't make it up to him after really giving it to him. And a halfpenny a week even I can manage extra."

For of course Billy's halfpenny was not to interfere with her regular Sunday morning's dole to the first crossing-sweeper she met.

I think she was right. I am sure that the halfpennies he received so regularly till what she thought her debt to him was paid, helped to make and keep Billy Harding as honest as a man as he had been as a child.

The next winter saw no little old lady trotting along to church in the cold. She went away for her treat of the year—a fortnight in the country; but she fell ill the very day she came back, and never was able to go out again. It fell to my share—she asked me to do it—to tell the little crossing-sweeper when she died, and to give him a small present she had left him. He rubbed his sleeve across his eyes—he didn't want me to see he was crying.

"'Twill seem quite strange-like never to see her no more," he said. "I were just beginning to wonder when she'd be back. Twenty-four Sundays and she never missed, wet or dry! I'd have liked her to know I goes too, reg'lar, to church in the afternoons as she wanted me to."

And for his own sake, as well as for the dear old lady's, I never lost sight of poor Billy from that time.

A
FRIEND IN NEED

Laurence was a little English boy, though he lived in Paris. He had several older brothers and sisters, but none near him in age. So he was often rather lonely, for he was only six years old, and too young to do many lessons. Half-an-hour in the morning and half-an-hour in the afternoon made up his school time, though of course his next brother and sister, who were twelve and thirteen years old, had to do a great deal more than that.

I daresay they would not have minded doing a little less. I know they were always very pleased to have a holiday, or even a half-holiday, and in the evenings when their lessons were done they were very kind and ready to play with their little brother.

Laurence had a German nursery-maid. She was a good girl, but not very lively or quick, and she could not speak either French or English. When she first came to take care of Laurence he only knew a very few words of German, so you can imagine that his walks with Emma, as she was called, were not very amusing. But after a while Laurence got on with his German, much faster than Emma did with either French or English, which of course was as it should be, seeing that she had come on purpose to teach him her language. And then he and his nurse became very good friends in a quiet way. For he was rather an unusually quiet little boy, and he thought a great deal more than he spoke.

Still he did sometimes wish he had a brother or sister near his own age. It did not seem quite fair that he should be so alone in the family. Hugh and Isabel were such nice friends for each other, and so were the two still older sisters and the big brother of all, who was called Robert. Now and then when little Laurence was trotting along the street by Emma's side he would look with envy at other children, two and three together, and wish that one of them "belonged" to him.

But there were others alone, even more alone than he was. This he found out before long. At the corner of the "Avenue" where he lived, there was a large house opening into a court-yard, like all large houses in Paris, and just inside this court-yard Laurence often saw a little girl not much bigger than he was, always playing about by herself. She was the daughter of the "concierge," or porter, who took care of the big house, and though she was neat and tidy she was not at all a rich little girl. For though the house was a big one, it was not lived in by rich people, and the concierge and his wife and little girl had only two small rooms for their home.

Laurence did not know the little girl's name, but in his own fancy he called her "Gay." She always looked so bright and happy. And after a while the two children began to smile at each other as if they were friends, and sometimes Gay would call out, "Good morning, Sir. What a nice day!" or some little speech like that, to which Laurence would reply, "Good morning, Miss," like a little gentleman, lifting his cap as he spoke. Of course these remarks were made in French. In English they do sound rather odd, I must allow.

One day Laurence and Emma set off for rather a long walk. It was the day before Isabel's birthday, and he wanted to buy a present for her at one of the very large shops. He was not sure what the present was to be, but he thought that he would choose a pincushion, as he had seen some very pretty little fancy chairs and sofas not long ago at this same big shop, which Emma told him were pincushions. He knew exactly what part of the shop to go to, and he had his money—a whole franc—that is about tenpence of English money, in his little purse safe in his pocket.

They reached the shop without any adventure or misadventure, and soon Laurence, holding the maid's hand, was walking slowly past the counters or tables where lots of tempting pretty things were displayed. It was some time before they found the particular table where the fairy-like furniture was laid out. But at last Laurence gave a little cry of joy.

"There they are, Emma," he said in German, "the dear little armchairs and sofas and ottomans—blue and rose and white, and all with gold backs and legs. Now which would Isabel like?"

It was a great question, but at last they decided on a rose-coloured arm-chair. The price he was sure was all right, as Emma had seen that the things were all marked one franc. But alas, when the shopman gave Laurence the little paper bill, and the boy as proud as possible went to the desk where it was to be paid, the clerk held out his hand,—

"Five centimes more, if you please—one sou."

A sou is about the same as an English halfpenny, and it is often called a "five centime piece"—for there are ten centimes in each two-sous piece, just as there are four farthings in one English penny.

"Another sou?" said Laurence. "But I have not got one. Emma, have you got one?"

Emma had nothing at all in her pocket. It was stupid of her, but she had not thought of bringing her purse. However it was so little, and she began asking the clerk in her very bad French, mixed with German words, to let the little gentleman have the pincushion for a franc.

The clerk shook his head.

"At least," said poor Laurence, "let me have it now and I will bring the sou to-morrow, or my mamma will send it."

Again the man shook his head. Perhaps he was in a bad temper, perhaps he did not feel the more good-natured because he may have thought the boy and his nurse were German. For at that time the French nation did not love Germans. Let us hope they have learnt better since.

"Pass on, sir," he said sharply, "you are blocking the way," and the people standing round began to laugh. The tears rose to the little boy's eyes.

"Oh! what shall I do?" he cried, "and to-morrow is Isabel's birthday."

Then came a little voice beside him.

"Sir—may I offer it? Will you accept this sou from me?" and a small hand held out the coin. It was little Gay.

"Oh thank you, thank you," exclaimed Laurence joyfully, and the grim clerk received the sou and the parcel was handed to him.

How he thanked the kind little girl! She was there with her mother, and while the good woman was choosing an umbrella at a stand close by, Gay, as I must still call her, had noticed her little friend and wondered what he was in difficulty about. And of all the people near him in the shop, she alone had the kind thought of offering him the sou.

I need not tell you that after this the good little girl was looked upon by Laurence as quite a friend. He went with Emma the next morning to pay back the five centime piece, and when New Year's Day came, a pretty present for Gabrielle, which was her real name, was one of the gifts which Laurence and his mother had the greatest pleasure in choosing.

Was it not nice that the little girl was called "Gabrielle," for Laurence was able to go on calling her "Gay," as it made such a good short name for the real one.

Pansy's Pansy.

The Flower Market

PART I.

HERE was a flower-market once a week in the town of Northclough.

It was every Thursday, the regular market-day, when the country people came in to sell and to buy. But Northclough was not a pretty, old-fashioned country town, such as you would very likely fancy from the mention of markets and country folk. Once, long ago, it had been a village, a rather lonely and out-of-the-way village, though never a pretty one. For it was up in the north, as its name tells, in a bare and cold part of the world, where the grass is never very brightly green, and the skies much more often grey than blue.

And now, as far as looks go, any way, it had changed from bad to worse. The village had grown into a smoky town, where there were lots of high chimneys, and constant sounds of machinery booming away, and railway trains shrieking and whistling in and out of the stations. There was no longer any ivy on the old church, which the oldest people could remember almost buried in it. And the new churches which had been built since, already looked old themselves—no stones could keep clean or fresh in such smoky grimy air.

But some of the old customs still lingered on, and one was the weekly market, which was held just outside the old church walls—the walls of the church-yard, I should say—every Thursday, just as it had been since the village first grew into a small market town, more than a hundred years ago. And what some people would have done without the pleasure and amusement of this market, I should be afraid to say. I mean some little people, the children of the vicar, who lived with their parents in a grey old house, as grey and old as the church itself, which stood at one side of the market place.

It was grey and grim outside, but inside the father and mother made it as bright and cheery as they could. In winter I think they managed this better than in summer, for good blazing fires do a great deal, especially of an evening when the curtains are drawn and the cold north wind, howling and blustering outside as if in a rage at not being able to get in, only makes the house seem still cosier. And one of the good things about the north is that coals are cheap and plentiful, so that though the vicar was not rich, there was no need to go without comfortable fires.

But in summer it was sometimes not easy to make the old house look cheerful. Very little sunshine could get in, for on two sides the neighbouring houses almost shut out the light. And the sun had hard work, persevering though he is, to get through the murky air—murky even in summer—that hangs like a curtain over what is called a "manufacturing town." Then there was no garden of any kind, as the new schools had been built on what was once the vicarage lawn, though after all I hardly think a garden would have been much good, and perhaps the children's nurse was right when she said:

"Better without it, 'twould only have been a trap for more soots and smuts, and it's hard enough to keep the pinafores clean for half-an-hour together as it is."

Nurse had come with their mother from the south, and she didn't take kindly to the greyness, and the smokiness, and the grimness at all. But she took very kindly to the babies, which was after all of more consequence.

There were four of them—they were "leaving off being babies" now, as little Ruth, the youngest but one, said indignantly, when some one spoke of her and Charlie in that disrespectful way. "Charlie's three and I'm four, and Pansy's nearly six, and Bob's seven past."

That was Ruth's description of the family, and I think it will do very well, though some people might say it began at the wrong end.

And these were the little people who would have been badly off without the weekly market, which they looked forward to as the "next best" treat to having tea in the dining-room on Saturday evenings with mamma.

Their nursery windows overlooked the market place. The nurseries were the brightest rooms in the house, and as it was a large house, whatever its faults in other ways, there were three of them. The day nursery in the middle and a large bedroom on one side, and on the other a small one which was beginning to be called "Miss Pansy's room." And on Thursdays Pansy's room was in great request, as from its window one had the best view of all of the market, especially of the corner where the flowers were.

There was always something to be seen on the flower-stalls, even in winter, when there was nothing else there were evergreens, holly and mistletoe of course, in plenty, as Christmas came on. And though some other parts of the market might be more amusing and exciting, where the cocks and hens, and geese and ducks, were all to be heard gabbling, and quacking and clucking and crowing, for instance; or the railed-in place where there were generally a few calves or poor little frightened sheep bleating and baa-ing, yet the little girl's first thought was always the flower corner. First thing on Thursday morning, sometimes before it was light, she would lie wondering what sort of dear little plants there would be this week, and hoping it would be a fine day, so that nurse would let her poke her head out through the bars a tiny bit, so as to see better, without calling to her that she would catch cold.

Pansy's birthday was in May—she was going to be six. She liked having a birthday because mamma always invited herself to tea in the nursery, and if it happened to be one of papa's not very busiest days, he would sometimes join them too. That was delightful.

Generally she got two or three simple presents, and always one very good and valuable one from her godmother. But strange to say this handsome present never pleased her half so much as the little trifling ones. Her godmother was kind, but she was old and unused to children, and she had not seen Pansy since she was very tiny, so her thought was more perhaps about helping Pansy's mother than pleasing Pansy herself. And so the present was sure to be a new frock—or stuff to make one with, or a nice jacket, or even once—that was rather a funny present for a little girl, I think—a new set of china tea-cups and saucers and plates and milk jugs and everything complete for a nursery tea-service.

But "to make up" for godmother's presents being so very "useful," Pansy's mother always gave her something pretty and pleasant, a doll, or some doll's furniture, or picture books or some nice ornament for her room. Any little girl of six or seven can easily fancy the kind of presents I mean.

This sixth birthday, however, was going to be rather different. For on this day the godmother thought it was time to give Pansy a present of another kind. What that was, I will tell you in the next part.

PANSY'S PANSY.

Pansy's Presents.

PART II.

BIRTHDAY was on a Wednesday. And though it was only May the
weather for a wonder was mild and sunny. Northclough for once
was looking almost bright.

"It is nice for you to have such a fine day to be six years old on, Miss Pansy dear," said nurse, when she came in to wake up the two little sisters and to give her own birthday present of a neat little pincushion for Pansy's toilet table. And the boys had something for her too, at least it was called "the boys'," to please Charley, though in reality it was Bob who had bought it, or the things to make "it" with. For the "it" was a little blotting-book covered outside with thick cardboard on which pretty pictures were pasted. It was very cleverly made, for Bob was wonderfully neat-handed for such a little boy, and it had taken quite a lot of contrivance to get it done without his sister's finding out about it. And Ruth's present was a pen-wiper.

Pansy was pleased.

"I can write to godmother now without having to ask mamma to lend me her writing-case," she said. "I suppose," she went on, "I shall have to write to her to-day; there's sure to be a useful present come from her," and Pansy sighed a little, for the writing to godmother was the one part of her birthday she did not enjoy.

Nurse could not help smiling at what she would have called Miss Pansy's "old-fashioned" way of speaking. She always talked of godmother's "useful presents," because she had so often been told that frocks and jackets and so on were such nice, useful gifts. And perhaps I should have mentioned before, that godmother did not forget the little people at Northclough Vicarage at Christmas, something useful was sure to come then, for she was great aunt to them all as well as godmother to one.

But before nurse had time to speak, the door opened and the children's mother came in. They were at breakfast in the day nursery by this time. She had a bright smile on her face and a small parcel in her hand.

"Good morning, darlings, to you all," she said, "and many, many happy returns to my Pansy. Papa told me to kiss you for him too, he won't be in till dinner-time I'm afraid. There now, a kiss for him and one for myself," Pansy was in her mother's arms long before this, "and a present from godmother."

Mamma sat down on the nursery rocking-chair as she spoke, and laid the parcel on her knee, and Pansy, stooping down beside her, began to undo the string which fastened it.

"Is it not a useful present this time, mamma?" she asked, for certainly it did not look like a hat or a frock, or a hamper of china.

"I hope you will think it so," said her mother smiling, "and pretty too."

"A book," exclaimed the little girl, "and oh, yes, it is a very pretty one. And oh, mamma, it's two books, in a 'loverly'"—Pansy still said some words rather funnily—"case, all red leather, and, oh! my own name, 'Pansy,' how nice! What can they be? A prayer-book and a hymn-book, with such beautiful big letters, and 'reds' in the prayer-book. How I wish it was Sunday, for me to take them to church."

She was truly delighted—her little face all rosy with pleasure. Mamma could not resist giving her another kiss.

"You will take the greatest care of them, I know, dear," she said. "And now I have only a very tiny present from papa and me," and she held out a bright new shilling. "You may buy anything you like with it, dear."

This was delightful news. What between her pride in her beautiful "church books," as she called them, and thinking over what her shilling would buy, the little girl had hard work to eat her breakfast that morning, even though, in honour of the birthday, it was an extra nice one.