The Project Gutenberg EBook of Little Folks (October 1884), by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Little Folks (October 1884) A Magazine for the Young Author: Various Release Date: January 3, 2009 [EBook #27693] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE FOLKS (OCTOBER 1884) *** Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Transcriber's Note: Table of Contents has been added for the HTML version. Amendments can be read by placing cursor over words with a dashed underscore like this. LITTLE FOLKS: A Magazine for the Young. NEW AND ENLARGED SERIES. CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED. LONDON, PARIS & NEW YORK. [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] cover Contents PAGE A Little Too Clever 193 How to Make Pretty Picture-Frames 203 His First Sketch 204 Some Famous Railway Trains and Their Story 204 A Foraging Expedition in South America 207 Our Sunday Afternoons 214 Contentment 217 Little Fé 218 The Prince and his Whipping-Boy 220 Stories Told in Westminster Abbey 222 Their Road to Fortune 224 All About Snails 232 Little Margaret's Kitchen, And What She Did In It—X 233 What The Magic Words Meant 235 A Young Roman's Sacrifice 239 The Children's Own Garden In October 239 The Discontented Boat 242 Harry's Rabbit 242 Our Music Page 245 The Editor's Pocket-Book 246 The "Little Folks" Humane Society 249 True Stories About Pets, Anecdotes, &c. 251 Our Little Folks' Own Corner 252 Our Little Folks' Own Puzzles 253 Answers To Little Folks' Own Puzzles 253 Prize Puzzle Competition 254 Questions And Answers 255 The Brownies To The Rescue 256 A LITTLE TOO CLEVER. By the Author of "Pen's Perplexities" "Margaret's Enemy," "Maid Marjory" &c. CHAPTER XII.—AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND. or the first time since she had left home, Elsie felt thoroughly frightened and miserable. Even when she had stayed in the crofter's cottage she had not felt worse. For this little attic, right at the top of a tall house full of people, seemed even more dreadful than the bare wretched loft in Sandy Ferguson's hovel. The height of the house, the noises of loud angry voices, banging doors, hurrying footsteps coming and going on the stairs, the continual roar of traffic in the street below, were all things strange and terrifying to the moor-bred Scottish lassie. Besides this, she had begun to realise to the full extent how greatly she had been mistaken in all her ideas when she formed the plan of running away. She had thought it would be a fine adventure, with some little difficulties to encounter, such as would quickly come right, as they did in the books of running-away stories, which she had always believed to be quite true. How could she have known it would happen so differently to them? And above all, who could suppose that Duncan, who was so strong and hearty, should fall ill just at such a time as this? That was the worst thing about it, and the one that frightened Elsie most. She didn't like the look of Duncan at all. He had been getting worse all day while they were in the train, and now he did not seem to notice anything or anybody. His eyes were closed, and he never spoke a word, but only gave a sort of little moan now and then. He was burning hot too, and he moved his head and his limbs about restlessly, as if they were in pain. Elsie wondered whether he was really very ill, and what ought to be done for him. No one seemed to take any notice or think that he required any attention; and what could she do? I do think that when children run away from a good kind home and watchful loving guardians, God must be very angry with the hardness of heart and wilful ingratitude that can lead them to do such a wicked thing, and I have no doubt that He purposely let all these difficulties and terrors fall in Elsie's path in order to punish her. Children, even big ones, have little idea of the dreadful dangers there are waiting for them to fall into, or how soon some shocking disaster would happen to them if they had not such careful, kind protectors. I am afraid, too, that people who write books often hide such things, and only tell of the wonderful escapes and marvellous adventures that runaway children encounter, although they know that really and truly the most dreadful things have happened to children who have run away from their homes —things too dreadful for me to tell of. We know that the Gentle Shepherd has a special care for little lambs of His flock, but we can never expect God to take care of us when we have wilfully turned away from Him to follow our own wrongdoing, and refused to turn back. If the lambs will not listen to the voice of the Shepherd, but will stray far away from Him, they are likely to be lost. Now, He had already spoken to Elsie many times since she had left home. Her conscience, which is really His voice, had told her frequently that she was doing wrong, and that it would end badly; but she had refused to hear. Even now, when she had really begun to wish she were back again, it was because of the discomfort she was suffering, much more than on account of any belief that she had done a very wicked thing. But God is never content with such a grudging, half repentance as that, and so it was that Elsie fell into worse trouble still. I wish I could describe to you how utterly forlorn and miserable Elsie felt, standing there by poor Duncan's bed, watching him toss about, and not able to do anything for him, or even to call any one to his assistance. I am afraid the little children who are in their own happy homes cannot imagine what it would be like, and I only hope they never may experience anything so dreadful. Elsie could not tell any one how she felt, for there was no one to listen. She was not a child who had ever cried much; but do what she would, she could not help shedding some very bitter, angry tears now. Presently Duncan lifted his heavy eyelids, and asked for some water. Elsie jumped up and began searching in the room; but there was neither basin nor jug, and such a simple thing as a drop of water was not to be had. She told Duncan there wasn't any; but he did not seem to understand, and kept on asking for it. Elsie, in her indignant anger, beat furiously at the door to attract some one's attention, but in vain. No one came near. It drove her almost mad to hear the child moaning and groaning, and calling out incessantly for water in a peevish, whining voice. Where was Mrs. Donaldson? and why had she left them in this cruel way, without food or even a drop of water, although she knew that Duncan was ill? After a long time, Elsie heard some one coming up to the attic; the door opened, and the girl who had brought them [Pg 193] [Pg 194] upstairs put her unkempt head in at the door. "Just to have a look at you," she said, with a broad grin upon her face, which was a very stupid-looking one, and frightfully begrimed. "I sleep up here, just next to you." "Will you get us a little water?" Elsie cried. "Why, yes!" said the girl, good-naturedly. "There's a pitcher full out here. I'll bring it in." She came in, bringing it with her, and then went up to the bedside, where Duncan lay tossing and moaning. "Is it for him to drink?" she asked. "I'll go fetch a mug." And she sped away, bringing back an old gallipot, which she filled, and held to the child's lips. "But he is just bad," she said, looking at him. "Ain't he hot? He's got the fever! Is that the reason you was brought here?" "I'm sure I don't know," Elsie replied, wondering how much she dared say to this girl, and with a recollection of the "fairy mother's" threats. "Do you know where mamma is?" she asked, cautiously. The girl burst out laughing. "You needn't come that here," she said. "We know her and him well enough, both of them. They wasn't always such grand folk, I can tell you. Why, Lucy Murdoch is as well known down Stony Close as ever I am. Her mother lived next to mine, and does to this day, and holds her head so high, on account of her daughter, that she'd like to pass mother in the street if she dared. If you belong to her, it's news to me, and I've known her all my life." All this was said with the quaint expressions and broad northern dialect that Elsie very well understood, although none but a Scottish lassie would do so. "I don't think you like her much," Elsie said. The girl made a wry grimace. "I like any one so long as they don't do me no harm," she replied evasively. "She wouldn't stand at that, either, if she had the mind. How did you get with her?" Elsie pondered a moment, and then decided she would tell this girl everything, and trust to her being a friend. "She found us on a road by the mountains, oh! ever so far away from here; and she seemed so kind, and brought us clothes, and took us to a nice house to sleep, and brought us in the train all this way," Elsie said. "H'm," the girl said, looking rather puzzled. "Well, she'd got her reasons," she added presently. "I don't know what they might be, but it wasn't done for any good to you. What did they bring you here for?" "I don't know," Elsie replied. "You see, master's in all their secrets. He's one with them, and does a lot of business with them. To tell you the truth— which you needn't let out, unless you want to have your head smashed—he's master's brother, only he goes under another name. Now, what did he tell you his name was?" "I was told to call him Uncle 'William,'" Elsie replied, "and the lady 'Mamma.'" The girl laughed to herself heartily—a sort of suppressed chuckle, which could scarcely have been heard outside the door. "Well, that's a queer dodge! I suppose she made out that she was his sister; and she was dressed like a widow, and he's her husband all the time, which I know very well. She passes, then, as a widow with two children, does she?" "I suppose so," Elsie replied, scarcely understanding what the girl was talking about. "She's deep, she is," the girl continued; "and lots of money always, hasn't she? rings too, and bracelets, and all sorts of things." "She had at first all those things, and I've seen a lot of money in her purse." "Well, would you think she once lived in Stony Close along of us, and was only a poor girl like me, though always a dashing one, with a handsome face of her own?" the girl asked. "They think I'm so stupid, but I ain't quite so stupid as I look. I don't forget. I wasn't as old as you are when Lucy Murdoch was married, but I remember it. What were you doing on that road when she found you?" she asked suddenly. "We had run away from home," Elsie replied falteringly, for at the thought of home she felt ready to cry. "My goodness! you can't be the two children what was lost off a moor somewhere up Deeside." "How did you know it?" Elsie cried eagerly. "Has mother been here?" "Oh, no! It's posted up at the police station," the girl replied. "They always have all such things up there: a description of you, and everything. Your mother goes and tells the police, and they has it printed, and sends it about everywhere. Lucy Murdoch is after the reward, I'll be bound!" [Pg 195] All this was quite unintelligible to Elsie, who knew nothing of rewards or police regulations. Only one thing she learnt, and that was that they were being sought for, and she hoped some one would find them. A slight misgiving crossed her mind as to whether the police could take her to prison for having run away; but this did not trouble her very much, for she felt sure that Mrs. MacDougall would never let any bad thing befall them, and no one else could have told the police to search. "I suppose I should just get it if I was found in here," the girl said presently. "You won't go telling, I suppose; for if they thought I knew too much, they'd——" the sentence ended with a grimace and expressive shrug of the shoulders. Again the girl held the jar to Duncan's parched lips. "I dursn't stay," she said, kindly; "but if you knock at this wall I shall hear, and I'll come if you want me. We're up at the top, so there's no one to pry down the stairs. He do seem real bad, poor little chap! but maybe he'll be better in the morning." With these words she departed, locking the door after her; and Elsie somehow felt that, in spite of her rough looks and miserable appearance, she had found a friend. CHAPTER XIII.—A DREADFUL NIGHT. he pangs of hunger which Elsie was feeling pretty sharply were nothing compared to the pain of mind she was enduring; for although she was the child of poor people, and had lived all her life in a cottage, with plain fare and plenty to do, she had been accustomed to perfect cleanliness, and a good deal of simple comfort. After a while she undressed herself, and crept into the not too clean bed with a feeling of disgust. It was so different from the coarse cotton sheets—bleached white as snow, and smelling sweet of the fresh, pure air—that covered her own little bed. The room, too, was hot, close, and stifling. Still this was nothing to the fear she felt for Duncan, lying so ill and wretched in this miserable attic, without mother, or granny, or any one to see after him. The candle burnt out, and they were left alone in the dark. There was no chance of sleeping, for Duncan tossed and plunged about, trying to find some cool resting-place for his fevered limbs. The moments dragged slowly away—so slowly that poor Elsie thought the dreadful night would never go. About the middle of the night Duncan began to mutter rapidly to himself. He spoke so quickly and incoherently that Elsie could not make out what he was saying. She jumped out of bed, and felt about for the water, thinking he was asking for it. He drank some eagerly, and then went on chattering again. Suddenly he raised himself up in the bed, and caught hold of Elsie, clinging to her with a grasp that made her utter a cry of pain. "He's killing me! he's got a knife! Mother, he's got me!" he shrieked out; then with a dreadful cry he fell back on the bed, catching his breath in great spasmodic sobs that shook the bed. "It's all right, darling!" Elsie cried, her teeth chattering with fear, so that she could hardly speak. "There's no one but me —Elsie." Presently he went on talking to himself again. Elsie put her head close to listen, but could only catch a word here and there. "So cold—so tired—do let us go home, Elsie—can't walk—hurts me, it hurts me!" he kept on repeating over and over again, his voice rising almost to a scream of terror sometimes, then sinking into a moan of pain. Suddenly he jumped up again and screamed, "They are lions, Elsie! they are not sheep. Lions and tigers and wolves! Run, Elsie, run, faster! Come, come, come!" He caught hold of her, and bounded off the bed, dragging her with him on to the bare hard boards, where he pulled and tore at her with such a strength that Elsie could not free herself from him for many minutes. When she did, he flew across the room, coming with a terrible crash against the wall, and sinking in a heap on the floor. Elsie groped her way after him to pick him up, but she could not move him. He lay there like a weight of lead. She knocked furiously at the wall. Presently the door opened, and the girl came in. "I can't think what's the matter with Duncan," Elsie cried, in an agonised voice. "He's been going on dreadfully. I think he keeps on having nightmares. He says there are lions and tigers, and men with knives, and now he's jumped out of bed and hurt himself. Oh! whatever shall I do with him?" The girl struck a match and bent over the child; then she went and fetched a scrap of candle from her own garret. She lifted him up carefully, and put him back on the bed, then took water, and poured it on his face. Elsie stood by quite helpless, watching her. After a long time he began to make a little moaning noise, but his eyes did not open, and he lay perfectly still. "Has he hurt himself much?" Elsie asked. "I don't know, but I think it's more the fever than the hurt," the girl replied. "Poor little lad! he ought to be with his mother. He wants a lot o' care and nursing." "Is he very ill?" Elsie asked. "I should just say he was. I had the fever when I was a bit bigger than you, and my head wandered. They said I chattered and screamed, and had to be held down in the bed. I should have died for certain if I hadn't been taken to the hospital, for I was awful bad; and so's he. Can't you see he is?" Elsie began to cry and to tremble. "They must take him to the hospital," she cried. "They shall! I'll make them! If only Duncan was back home now, I wouldn't mind anything." "You was a stupid to run away if you'd got a good home," the girl said. "Catch Meg running away from any one who was good to her! They think her an idiot, but she's not quite so stupid as that." Elsie was beginning to think very much the same thing. Her trouble had completely driven from her mind the high hopes of future grandeur with which she had started. They scarcely even came into her head, and when they did for a moment pass through her brain, everything seemed so altered, that there was little comfort or attraction in the thought. If she had known, she told herself again and again, she never would have done it. To-night she could not help admitting to herself that she would give anything to be back in her old home, with Duncan hearty and well, and all the old grievances about Robbie, and the fetching and carrying, and what not, into the bargain. How trifling and insignificant they seemed in comparison with her present troubles! Suppose he should die for want of attention and comfort! That dreadful "fairy mother," as she called herself, would do very little for him. She did not care. She had pretended to be kind, and sweet, and good when any one was near at hand to see her, but when they had been alone in the train she had taken no notice of Duncan, except to scold him, and tell him he was shamming. This new mother was a poor substitute for the old one, who had nursed any of them day and night when they had been ill, with gentle, untiring care, although she was strict, and would, have them do all sorts of things that Elsie did not like when they were strong and well. The girl Meg stayed with them for some time longer; but Duncan seemed to lie so quietly, that after a while she said she would go back, if Elsie didn't feel so timid now. The little fellow seemed better, and she did not think he would make any more disturbance that night. The poor creature was tired out with a hard day's work, and could ill spare her rest. She was ignorant, too, and did not know that this quiet that had fallen upon the child was not the healthful peace leading to recovery, but only the exhaustion after the terrible frenzy the poor little disordered brain had passed through. Still it was a merciful peace, for Elsie's fears grew fainter as he lay there so quietly, and at last she fell asleep, thinking that he too was sleeping. She was awakened by Meg's presence. There was a glimmering of light in the room, but so little of it that she was astonished to find how late it was—past seven o'clock. "I don't so very well like the look o' the bairn," she said, surveying him carefully. "It strikes me you won't find it an easy matter to get him dressed. Here, Duncan, are you ready for something to eat now?" she cried, bending over him, and raising her voice. But the child did not answer. He lay there as motionless as though he had been carved out of stone, scarcely moving an eyelid at the sound of Meg's words. Elsie jumped up, and began dressing herself quickly. "I'll go myself and tell them how ill he is," she said, "and ask them to send him to the hospital where they cured you, and I'll go with him." Meg said nothing, but she knew very well that this last, at any rate, was quite out of the question. "You'd better go straight down into the shop if you want to speak to the master," she said, as she left the room. Elsie found her way down the long flights of dark stairs as soon as she was dressed. She pushed open the door leading into the shop, and went in boldly. The man who had received them the night before was busily sorting over heaps of papers, but no one else was near. Elsie went up to him. "Donald's ill; he's got the fever, and he must go to the hospital," she said, in a voice of decision. "Ha!" said the man, not looking up from his work. "I thought he didn't seem quite the thing. Your mother'll be round by- and-by, and then you can tell her about it." It was not said unkindly, but the complete indifference angered Elsie, who was burning with impatience for something to be done very quickly. "She's not my mother," Elsie said, sharply, "and she is not kind to Duncan. We can't wait; we must go to the hospital directly. Meg 'll show me the way, and then I'll tell the people how bad he is." [Pg 196] [Pg 197] "What does Meg know about it?" the man asked, looking into Elsie's face with a searching glance. Elsie was sharp enough. "He was very bad in the night, thinking there were bad men and beasts in the room after him, and he jumped out of bed and hurt himself. When I banged the wall, Meg came, and picked him up and put him into bed. She said he'd got the fever like she had when she went to the hospital." The man called out, "Meg, come you here!" Illustration: "'WHAT DID SHE SAY?' THE MAN ASKED SHARPLY." "'what did she say?' the man asked sharply." CHAPTER XIV.—A FAIRY TRICK. he girl came shuffling along with a look of mingled stupidity and terror on her face. It was scarcely the same one that had bent over the fevered child. "This girl called you in the night. What did she want you for? Now tell me at once," he said, in a stern voice. Meg looked all round her in a blank, stupid sort of way, letting her eyes travel over Elsie's face in their wandering. "What did she say?" the man asked, sharply. Elsie was in dreadful fear. She had not dared to look at Meg, and let her know that she had said nothing that could harm her. And so she waited, with a rapidly-beating heart. "She called me to pick up the boy. He'd fallen on the floor, and he was wandering in his head like. She asked me who'd look after him, and I said he'd have to go to a hospital—leastways, that was where they took me when I was bad. She asked me a lot o' questions, she did: what sort of a place this was, and where her mother had gone. I did say there was lodgers in the house," she said, beginning to whimper like a terrified child. "Stop that, you dolt!" the man cried. "Her mother'll be round presently, and you'd better not let her know you've been interfering. You were told to keep the door locked until the morning, and yet you walk in in the night." "She made such a noise banging and kicking, I thought she'd wake up the other people," Meg said, casting a scowling glance at Elsie, which Elsie quite believed was put on to deceive her master, just in the same way as Meg had, she [Pg 198] supposed, put on an appearance of terror, under which she had hidden all that was really important most cleverly. Meg was then allowed to make good her retreat, and Elsie was taken by the man into a little room, where a tin coffee- pot and a loaf and butter were put ready. She was glad to eat heartily, for she was famishing with hunger. She devoured as hastily as she could several thick slices of bread-and-butter, and then asked what she had better take to Duncan, since no one seemed to be troubling their heads about him. "A drop of hot coffee," the man said, unconcernedly. "If he can't eat bread-and-butter he don't want anything." "He didn't have a bit scarcely all yesterday, and he'd had next to nothing for three days before that," Elsie said indignantly. "Perhaps he'd eat some bread and milk if I could get it for him. I'd soon do it if I might go in the kitchen." At this moment a customer began to rap on the counter, and the master of the shop hastily jumped up and went away. Elsie stood waiting impatiently, but as he did not return, she took up the milk-jug, and emptied its contents, about a table-spoonful of bluey-white milk, into the cup she had used. Duncan was still lying motionless, with closed eyes, when she re-entered the attic. He took no notice when she spoke, so she lifted his head up, and put the cup to his lips. With great difficulty she succeeded in making him swallow a few drops at a time. The raging thirst that had consumed him in the night had passed away. He had got beyond that. While she was still holding his head on her arm, the door opened, and Mrs. Donaldson, as she had told Elsie to call her, put her head inside. "They tell me Donald is very ill this morning," she said, in her sweetest tones. "Poor little fellow! what is the matter with him?" "Meg says it's the fever, like she had when she was little," Elsie answered. "Fever!" Mrs. Donaldson echoed in alarm. "Tell me quickly, is he red all over?" "Oh no! he's quite white, except just a patch on his cheeks," Elsie replied. "How dare that stupid idiot frighten me like that?" Mrs. Donaldson cried, angrily. "He's got no fever, only a feverish cold through being out on that moor too long." "He was wet through, and had to sleep in his wet things. He hadn't anything dry except that canvas jacket Mrs. Ferguson gave him," Elsie cried, remorsefully. "I was wet too, but my things seemed to dry quicker. Do you think that's what made him ill?" "Of course it is," Mrs. Donaldson replied. "And there's no one here to see to him, poor child! He wants a good hot bath, and wrapping up in blankets, but we can't get it here, nor at an hotel." "Meg says they'd take care of him at the hospital," Elsie eagerly interposed. "Please let us go there." "You can't go," Mrs. Donaldson began; but Elsie interrupted her. "I must go," she said, promptly. "I can't leave Duncan. I wouldn't do that for anybody. It's through me that he's ill, and I won't go away from him." "Then you wouldn't like to come to London with me?" Mrs. Donaldson said, in her most fascinating manner. "Not without Donald, thank you, ma'am," Elsie replied at once. "I thought you wanted to find your father," Mrs. Donaldson said, kindly; "and Donald should come as soon as he is well. For the matter of that, I would come myself, or send Uncle William to fetch him." "I couldn't go without him," Elsie doggedly persisted. Then Mrs. Donaldson grew impatient; her voice was no longer sweet and persuasive. "I will do nothing more for you," she said, angrily. "You can give me back the things I brought you, and I will leave you to die of hunger and cold, as you would have done before this but for me. Get that child's things on, and you shall go at once to the hospital, and see what they will do for you." Elsie did not mind at all about the ungraciousness of the consent, so long as she had won her purpose. The prospect of getting to London even was nothing in comparison to the hope of seeing Duncan nursed and tended back to health. She would cheerfully have given up the frock and hat that had so pleased her; but this, it seemed, was only a threat, for Mrs. Donaldson said no more about it, but went away, and sent Meg to help put on Duncan's things. "He ain't fit to be dressed, and that's the truth," Meg said compassionately, as she used her utmost exertions to put the poor child's clothes on without hurting him. "They'd better have rolled him in a shawl." "He'll be all right when we get there," Elsie said, with a sigh of relief. "I hope it won't be far. Do you think they're sure to cure him, Meg?" "If it's to be done, they'll do it," Meg returned, confidently. [Pg 199] At last the poor little fellow was dressed, and Meg, taking him up in her strong arms, carried him downstairs, Elsie following. They found Mrs. Donaldson talking rapidly to the man in the shop. Both stopped short when Meg and Elsie entered, and Mrs. Donaldson beckoned Meg to follow her into the room behind, where she talked for some minutes in low tones to the girl, who presently propped Duncan up in a chair, and called Elsie to hold him there while she went and fetched her hat and tidied herself up. Soon after a fly drove up to the door, into which, by Mrs. Donaldson's directions, Meg carried Duncan, Mrs. Donaldson and Elsie following. The next minute they drove off, but slowly, on Duncan's account. As they went along Mrs. Donaldson gave Meg many directions. "You must say the child is homeless," she said kindly, "and wait till you have heard what the doctor says. I dare not take him in myself; I cannot spare the time. If they will not let Effie stay, take her back with you, and let her go every day to see him. Be sure to tell Andrew to write and let me know how he gets on." All these things Meg promised, and Elsie began to think that, after all, she had thought too badly of the "fairy mother." Perhaps Meg had herself made up the tale she had told about Lucy Murdoch, and was not to be trusted. When once they were in the hospital, Elsie had made up her mind that she would tell the people there the whole truth, and beg them to write to Mrs. MacDougall. Perhaps she would come to Edinburgh and fetch them home. That would be the end of all their troubles. How glad she would be to come to the end of them, even though it meant going back to the old quiet hum-drum life. After all, Duncan had been really the wiser when he wanted her to write to their father instead of going to find him. She wished now she had done it. While she was thinking of all this the carriage stopped in a busy street. "Effie and I will go first," Mrs. Donaldson said to Meg. "I will just speak to the man, and when Effie comes to you, get out and carry Donald into the hospital." "You will ask them to let me in, won't you?" Elsie asked, earnestly. "I will ask, but I don't know whether they will," Mrs. Donaldson replied, kindly. "Follow me, Effie." Mrs. Donaldson went quickly down a narrow covered way, which Elsie, supposed led to the hospital. She had no idea what sort of a place it was, and everything here was bewilderingly new and strange to her. Meg had told her that there was a great bare room, where people waited their turn. Into such a room they seemed to have passed. There were several people running about, the friends, Elsie supposed, of those who were ill. "They are just going to shut the doors. Look how every one is running!" Mrs. Donaldson hurriedly exclaimed. "We shall be too late. Come, Effie." She took Elsie's hand, and ran hastily across the great room. In a moment, before Elsie knew what was being done, a gentleman had seized her other hand, dragged her across a short space among a heap of people, thrust her into a carriage just as a whistle sounded, the door was banged to, and the train—for Elsie knew directly that she was in one— began to move off. She flew to the door directly they released their hold of her, but immediately two strong arms forced her back and a soft gloved hand was held over her mouth. "That was a near shave," the gentleman said when they had passed out of the station. "And would have been worse than useless if I had not engaged a carriage to ourselves," Mrs. Donaldson replied, setting herself back comfortably. "Now, my dear, you may scream or knock at the door as much as you like," she said smilingly; "not a soul will hear you. To-night you will be in London!" CHAPTER XV.—A MYSTERIOUS MATTER. lsie was beside herself with rage. She had not naturally a very even temper, but never in her life had she felt in such a passion. Directly her two companions loosed their hold upon her she jumped up, and struck the door of the carriage, screaming loudly, "Let me out! let me out!" She caught hold of the wooden framework, and shook it till it rattled again, while Mrs. Donaldson, well knowing it was locked, sat calmly smiling at her impotent wrath. Then the child turned furiously upon her tormentors. Her passion knew no bounds; she felt as if she could have torn that wicked "fairy mother" to pieces. It was such a fit of passionate rage as blinds reason and takes away the power of thinking—such a mad, ungovernable fury as would have led an older stronger person to some desperate deed. [Pg 200] Illustration: 'SHE ... STRUCK THE DOOR OF THE CARRIAGE' "she ... struck the door of the carriage" (p. 199) Elsie caught hold of Mrs. Donaldson's arm, and screamed at her. "You bad, wicked thing! let me out! I'll kick you! I'll bite you if you don't! Let me go to Duncan, I tell you, you wicked creature! I'll get out of the window!" and Elsie flew at it, and began tugging away at the strap. The gentleman took her up in his arms and flung her down on the seat, where Elsie lay screaming and sobbing, and beating the cushions with her hands, grinding her teeth, and flinging herself about like a mad thing. They let her go on as she would for a time. After a while the gentleman bent over her, and, catching hold of her wrists with the firm grasp of his powerful hands, made her sit upright. "Listen," he said, putting his head close to her face, and looking so ugly and evil that Elsie felt as if she could have struck him; "we have had enough of this. If you are wise you will behave properly, then no harm will come to you. If you make a disturbance, you will bring down upon yourself a fate that you will not like." It was not so much the words themselves as the menacing way they were hissed in the child's ear that made them so terrible. But Elsie was not then thinking of herself, and no threat against her took any hold upon her mind. She returned him a sulky glance of defiance, which made him scowl. Then Mrs. Donaldson came and sat on the other side of Elsie, and began speaking. "So long as you do what we bid you, your brother is safe," she said, in a voice of quiet decision. "He is quite at our mercy, and will be well cared for, if you are good. Any naughtiness on your part will only injure him. The moment you misbehave he will be turned into the streets, to find his way home as best he can. He will be brought to you in a week if you have not been the cause of his being lost in the meantime." "I don't believe you," Elsie said sulkily; "you are too far from Duncan to hurt him." Mrs. Donaldson smiled. "You can do just as you like," she said. "I only warn you. Duncan is in the hands of my people. I can send them a message all the way from London in five minutes, and before you know anything about it they will have done with Duncan whatever I tell them. You forget that I am the 'fairy mother.'" Then flashed through Elsie's mind something she had heard her mother and granny talking about, which granny would not believe. It was about a wire which took messages all over the world as quickly as you could write them. Her mother had tried to explain it, but granny declared it sounded like some wicked thing done by evil spirits, and she wasn't going to believe it. Elsie was inclined to feel very much like poor old granny, who thought the world was turning topsy-turvy since her young days. But although she could not understand it, Elsie had a dim uneasy feeling that there was too much likelihood of Mrs. Donaldson's words being true ones for her to disregard them. She could think of nothing else now but Duncan. If any one hurt him, whatever should she do? If only they gave her Duncan back again it seemed as if no trouble would be great. Mrs. Donaldson's words had brought Elsie to a more reasoning frame of mind. "I will do everything, if you promise me you will fetch Duncan or take me back to him," she said eagerly. "You will take care of him, won't you?" she cried entreatingly. "Promise me nothing bad shall happen to him. You will send a message about what they are to do to him, won't you? but oh! I do wish you would let me go back to him before a week. He will be so frightened and lonely, and perhaps he will call me like he did in the night when he was frightened; and he's never been with strange folk before. [Pg 201] He's real timid, too, when people are bad to him, and dursn't say a word, only he's scared like all the time." Elsie could not help crying at the thought of poor Duncan's terror in Sandy Ferguson's cottage, and the way he had hidden it till they were away out of hearing. Mrs. Donaldson turned away her head uneasily. Something in Elsie's love for her brother had touched a tender chord. It reminded her of a little brother she had loved, and who had died. She had been a different creature in those days, and perhaps for a moment she wished that she were a child again, with the innocent love for her little brother to draw her away from a bad, wicked life. Perhaps the recollection of him made her think for a moment of the life beyond the grave, in which he was peacefully living, but which could only be a terror for her. But an angry glance from her companion dispelled the passing softness. "You shall both be safe so long as you obey me," she said. "Duncan, I will tell you now, is safe in the hospital. At a word from me Meg will fetch him away. At present he is well tended, with kind doctors and nurses to give him everything he wants, and he will soon be well, for it is only a bad cold he has taken." Elsie sank back with a sigh of relief. She pictured poor little Duncan lying on a soft white bed, with kind people bending over him, as Mrs. MacDougall had done when she was sick. It brought a great feeling of peace to her mind. She would do anything they wished her, to be sure that Duncan was safe. The only thing that troubled her now was whether Mrs. Donaldson had spoken truly; for children are quick to find out who may be trusted, and Elsie had no faith in either of these two people. Elsie believed herself that Meg would take Duncan if it depended at all upon her, for although her behaviour had been strange, Elsie could not forget her kindness in the night, when there had been no one near. Nothing would ever make Elsie think that it was not true and genuine. It was, indeed, her faith in Meg's goodness that was her one consolation. She clung to that much more than to all Mrs. Donaldson's statements. Presently the train stopped. "Uncle William" came, and sat very close to Elsie on one side, Mrs. Donaldson on the other, and each took one of her hands with an appearance of great affection. Elsie sat perfectly still. She had no intention of making any more disturbance. If Duncan's safety depended on her being quiet, no mouse should be more quiet than she was. Mrs. Donaldson seemed pleased. "I see you are a sensible little girl," she said. "Now, you must mind what I tell you. Remember, I shall not tell you when I send the message, but directly you are troublesome it will go. I may not tell you till the week is gone; but you may feel quite sure that it will not be sent unless you disobey or are naughty. Do you quite understand?" Elsie replied that she did, and Mrs. Donaldson continued— "Do not mention Duncan again, not even to me when I am quite alone. He is always Donald." "I will not forget," Elsie replied. "And you will have no Uncle William when you get to London. This gentleman is your Grandpapa Donaldson. Now, I have seen that you are clever enough when you choose. Do not forget." The train had again started on its way, and was rushing along at a tremendous rate, being an express. Mrs. Donaldson had got Elsie's hand in hers, and had kept the child's attention fixed upon herself. The gentleman was now seated in another corner. When Elsie next turned her head towards him, he had utterly changed. In the place of a dark-looking man with a small moustache was an elderly gentleman, with a face quite bare, except for some small grey whiskers and a bald head. He was lounging back most unconcernedly in the carriage, looking through his spectacles at the objects so swiftly flying past them. Elsie uttered an exclamation of wonder. "A real fairy has been at work, you see, Effie," Mrs. Donaldson said laughingly. "Hey, what, my dear?" the old gentleman said, bending over as if a little deaf. "Did you speak?" "Effie wants to know where her uncle William has gone," Mrs. Donaldson shouted. "Uncle William? what, has she got an uncle William, Mary? Who is he? Here Effie, my dear, will you have a bun?" Elsie went over to him in a state of the most complete bewilderment, and took from him the tempting bun that he held out to her. As she did so she had a good look at him. Certainly it was not the same person who had called himself Uncle William. His face was quite changed. In place of the black hair was a small fringe of iron grey locks. This man was years older. His very coat was a different colour. "Won't you give grandpapa a kiss for that nice bun?" the old gentleman said in a quavering old voice. Elsie went timidly, and gave him a small hasty kiss on the cheek. He caught hold of her, and made her do it over again. "What, you puss!" he cried, "are you frightened of grandpapa, who gives you all the nice things? Dip your hand in my bag, and take out what you like." [Pg 202] He opened a small black valise, and disclosed delicious fruits and cake. Elsie drew forth a large mellow pear. "If Duncan could have it," she thought as she bit a juicy mouthful. "Do you like grandpapa better than Uncle William?" Mrs. Donaldson whispered in her ear. "I do not know," Elsie answered; "but I couldn't dislike him any more," she added, with a little shudder. Mrs. Donaldson laughed most good-humouredly. "Then you must like him better," she said, "and that is a good thing. Grandpapas are always kind, you know. Go and talk to yours, but you must speak loud, because he is getting a little deaf." Elsie obeyed. The old gentleman looked round, and smiled. It was a very gracious smile, but somehow not one that Elsie liked. "That's right, come and talk to grandpapa," he said. "Can you read nicely? Here is a pretty book with pictures, out of a fairy pocket grandpapa keeps for his children." As he spoke he drew out a book in most brilliant binding of scarlet and gold. It was full of pictures, and altogether charming. Elsie grew more and more bewildered. What had become of that dreadful man who had hissed his threats in her ear? He had quite vanished; there was no doubt about that. No one could be more different than this mild old man, who kept on saying kind things in his cracked voice. Elsie, watching him very narrowly, thought she saw something that reminded her of the Uncle William who had so mysteriously disappeared, and wondered whether this might be really his father. Yet that did not make his presence there any the less mysterious. One effect this incident had on Elsie's mind was to make her stand more than ever in awe of her strange companions. She could not get rid of a half belief that they could do really whatever they liked with both her and Duncan. Although she had not any real faith in their goodness, she had certainly a great dread of their strange power. The journey was a long one, with few stoppages. The train flew on at a frightful pace through the hill country, where from the windows could be seen the bare bleak peaks of Cumberland, varied with nearer slopes of soft green grass and verdant valleys. On, on through the great grimy towns of the manufacturing counties; on and on through dark tunnels, swinging round curves, over rivers, skirting woods, still rushing on, with an occasional shriek and scream, as of relentless fury; still on and on, long after the day had closed and the stars had begun to twinkle in the sky, till at last the great goal of London was reached. There is now a gathering together of parcels and packages. The old gentleman, Grandpapa Donaldson, sets them down on the seat, and fumbles at the door. "Why doesn't that idiot unlock it?" he mutters, in a tone that brings strangely to mind the adventure on the lonely road where she first saw the "fairy mother." "Don't be impatient, father," Mrs. Donaldson exclaims in a wavering voice; and Elsie, looking up at her, sees that her face is pale and her lips tightly set. She draws a long black veil over her face as she stands waiting. Presently a porter comes. The door is opened. Two men spring into the carriage, and close the door after them. "The game is up! you are my prisoners!" falls in dreadful tones on poor Elsie's frightened ears. (To be continued.) HOW TO MAKE PRETTY PICTURE-FRAMES. our room looks so pretty, Nellie," sighed my cousin Bella; "you should just see mine at home; it's as bare as a barrack." "Why don't you improve it, then?" was my practical rejoinder. "Why, it costs such a lot," answered Bella. "My decorations are very inexpensive, I assure you," said I. "Now these frames, for instance——" "Oh, they are sweet! they are really," interrupted my cousin. "Cost next to nothing," I continued. "Shall we make a pair for you to take home? That would be something to start with, at any rate." Bella was delighted at the idea, which we forthwith carried out; and now for the benefit of little folk, who may like to know how to make something pretty for their rooms, at a small cost, I will proceed to relate what these said frames were made of, and how we made them. First of all, we got a good stock of materials, such as small fir-cones, oak-balls, tiny pieces of bark, beech-nuts, bits of silvery lichen stolen from the trunks of trees, the little crinkly black cones of the alder, in fact everything of the kind that we could pick up in our rambles about the lanes and woods. [Pg 203] B Bella called our gleanings, "the harvest of a roving eye;" and children who live in the country will have no difficulty in gathering in such a harvest, as will suffice for the making of dozens of frames. Of course, autumn is the best time to get them. The next thing was to decide upon the pictures, for it is always better to make your frame to fit your picture, than to be obliged to hunt for a picture the right size for your frame. Christmas-cards do very nicely; those with a light ground look the best, as the frames are dark. I happened to have two of those fancy heads that are seen in picture-shop windows nowadays (cabinet size). For these, I first cut out a paper pattern of the frame, an oval about 8½ inches long, and 6¾ inches broad; then I drew a line inside the oval, about 1¾ inches from the edge, and cut the middle out. When I had succeeded to my satisfaction in making a correct pattern, I laid it on a sheet of thin millboard, traced the outline inside and outside the oval with a pencil, and cut it out. Of course, when once you have the pattern in cardboard, it is very easy to cut any number of frames, but it is always a little difficult to get a perfect oval just the exact size for your picture. My cousin and I then bound both edges with strips of old black stuff, about an inch wide, cut on the cross. I then rushed for the glue-pot, and let me here remark that very strong glue is an absolute necessity, or the cones will continually drop off. We began to stick on the cones, &c., as fast as we could, while the glue was hot, and for this part of the work I can give no special directions. All that is wanted is a little taste and dexterity, for of course you must try to avoid making your frames look stiff. Begin at the top of the frame, and make it higher and more imposing than the sides; put first a fir-cone, and then a couple of beech-nuts, and then an oak-ball, or a piece of lichen, and so on. Cones which are too large and heavy for these small frames are very useful to pull to pieces, to stop gaps with, for no bare places should be left; and the black alder-cones are capital little fellows to stick in here and there, for you will nearly always pick them up two or three together on a tiny sort of black branch, which will fit in nicely between the other cones. With anything round like oak-apples, it is a good plan to slice off a piece and to glue the flat side to the cardboard. When we had finished sticking on the cones, we left the frames to get dry and firm, and the following day we finished them; and this is the way it should be done. Put the frame on an old cushion, or something soft, cone side downwards. If you decide to have a glass over your picture, you must get a piece beforehand at a glazier's, about the same size as the picture. Rub if bright with a leather, put a small dab of glue in each corner, and place it in the frame. But before you do this, you should slip a narrow strip of ribbon through a small ring—like those which umbrellas are fastened with—and glue the ends on to the millboard, in the centre. This is, of course, to hang your picture up by. Now put your picture face downwards on to the glass, and be careful to see that you have it straight. Then glue a small strip of paper across each corner to keep it in position. The last thing to be done is to gum a piece of paper all over the back; and this makes a neat finish to your frame. You must leave it for a few hours to get thoroughly well stuck, and then it is quite ready to be hung up. Sheila. HIS FIRST SKETCH. eneath a cottage window, Upon a summer day, Two little ones are whiling The sunny hours away. A portrait of his sister The boy draws on the wall; The little maid remonstrates, She likes it not at all. At first she sits there pouting— A tear is in her eye; But peals of merry laughter Burst from her by-and-by. [Pg 204] What cares the budding artist? He plies his brush with zest; He is in downright earnest, Though she is but in jest. Art-fire is in his spirit, For Nature lit the...