The Project Gutenberg EBook of Little Folks (Septemeber 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 (Septemeber 1884) A Magazine for the Young Author: Various Release Date: December 20, 2008 [EBook #27576] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE FOLKS (SEPTEMEBER 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 129 Some More Little Presents, And The Way To Make Them 139 Summer Visitors 140 A New Game For Children 142 A Day On Board H.M.S. Britannia 142 Andy's Brave Deed 147 Little Toilers Of The Night 151 Their Wonderful Ride 153 Our Sunday Afternoons 154 The Water-Carriers Of The World 157 Buried Alive 158 Little Margaret's Kitchen, And What She Did In It.—IX. 161 Their Road To Fortune 163 An Apple Song 170 Mornings At The Zoo 170 What Came Of A Foxglove. 172 Daisy And Dolly 176 Stories Told In Westminster Abbey 176 The Children's Own Garden In September 179 Legends Of The Flowers 180 Our Music Page 181 The Editor's Pocket-book 182 The "Little Folks" Humane Society 185 True Stories About Pets, Anecdotes, &c. 187 Our Little Folks' Own Corner 188 Answers To Our Little Folks' Own Puzzles 188 Our Little Folks' Own Puzzles 189 Prize Puzzle Competition 190 Questions and Answers 191 Picture Wanting Words 192 A LITTLE TOO CLEVER. By the Author of "Pen's Perplexities," "Margaret's Enemy," "Maid Marjory," &c. CHAPTER VIII.—ESCAPE. hen Elsie awoke in the morning, after at last falling into a dull, heavy sleep, she had not an opportunity of seeing what sort of weather it was. There was no light in their rude sleeping-place, except the dim one that came through the aperture from the other room. She listened, and hearing sounds of life below, she hastily rose, and creeping down the ladder, went in search of her frock. Mrs. Ferguson was already up, and busy. Elsie asked for her frock, but Mrs. Ferguson told her it was not dry, and she had better make what shift she could with the old gown she had given her on the previous night. As she could nowhere see her dress, she was obliged reluctantly to follow the woman's advice. To her delight, she perceived that the morning was bright and warm after the rain, and she fully resolved, as soon as their things were decently dry, to be on their road once more. In the meantime, however, Duncan's jacket had also disappeared. She could get nothing out of Mrs. Ferguson about it, except that it was drying, and Duncan had to put up with a cotton jacket, which Mrs. Ferguson stripped from her own boy's back to give him. This mystery as to the whereabouts of their clothes very greatly annoyed Elsie, who tried in vain to make Mrs. Ferguson say where they were. She pretended not to understand what Elsie meant, though Elsie felt quite sure all that was feigned. Their breakfast consisted of some thin watery porridge, without bread, sugar, or milk. When their scanty meal was ended, Mrs. Ferguson ordered them to go out and help Sandy Ferguson, her husband, who was waiting outside for them. At first Elsie felt disposed to refuse, but on second thoughts, she obeyed. Sandy Ferguson was on the spot, his wife in the kitchen, with the cottage door open, their two boys about here, there, and everywhere. To get away unperceived was out of the question, besides the serious matter of losing their garments, which Elsie had not yet been able to discover. So they had to work away in company with the two ragged urchins. Elsie was boiling with rage, but she hid it as well as she could; and as for poor Duncan, he worked away without uttering a word, but with only an occasional inquiring glance at Elsie, which was infinitely touching. Elsie soon perceived that there would be no chance of their pursuing their journey that day. Mrs. Ferguson protested that she was getting their things dried as fast as she could, and would say nothing more; but Elsie had a keen misgiving that for some reason or other she did not mean to let them go. Was it possible that she knew anything of their mother, and was thinking to send them back? or did she only mean to keep them there, and make them work for her family? At times Elsie felt a terrible fear creeping over her that these dreadful people meant to steal or hurt her and Duncan. "Perhaps she wants our clothes," Elsie thought, "for she knows we have no more pennies!" So she took the first opportunity she could find to tell Mrs. Ferguson that they didn't think they could wait any longer for their things to get dry; they could easily get some more at Killochrie. She said this with an air of indifference. She would put her jacket on over her stuff petticoat, and that would do very well. Duncan could wear the cotton jacket, and leave his tweed one behind. But all this made no impression on Mrs. Ferguson. She only laughed grimly to herself; and as their things were not forthcoming, Elsie might as well have spared her generosity. If she could only have found her jacket she would have been contented, but this, too, had disappeared, and even if she had found the opportunity, Elsie would hardly have had the courage to go on her way with Mrs. Ferguson's dirty tattered gown tucked up and pinned together about her. By-and-by Elsie began to think she saw what Mrs. Ferguson was thinking of. She noticed that she frequently looked [Pg 129] [Pg 130] along the road, and carefully watched for any vehicle whose wheels sounded in the distance. "She thinks mother'll come and fetch us," Elsie said to herself, "or at least the woman that I told her I lived with; but she'll never come here after us, that's certain." But although Elsie had very little fear that they would be found, yet she was determined to get away somehow from this hovel. Two whole days had elapsed. They had spent three wretched shivering nights on the floor of the loft. On the third day Elsie felt she could bear it no longer. She was in a state of suppressed excitement, and she felt that she could almost jump out of her skin. It is very strange to notice through what small loopholes people often make their escape. The fairy-tale idea of passing through keyholes and up chimneys is scarcely more wonderful. Now, Mrs. Ferguson had been keeping a strict watch on these children, and not only herself, but her husband and two children had all been employed to watch. On the third day there stopped at the cottage door a lumbering vehicle, containing a man and woman and several baskets. The two alighted, and came into the cottage, where a great talking ensued, and many purchases were displayed and loudly discussed. The two Ferguson lads should have been with Elsie and Duncan, but they had climbed on to the top of the peat-stack by the side of the house, and were lying full length, peering unobserved through the dingy window. Suddenly Elsie perceived that they were alone, and without waiting to consider the possibilities of the case, she took Duncan by the hand, pushed him over the stone wall, quickly climbed it herself, and flew away over the grass as fast as her feet could carry her in the direction of the hills. Here, again, fortune favoured her, as it sometimes does favour the most rash ventures. After running a goodish way, Elsie saw what she had never dreamed of finding—a roadway sweeping round the foot of the hill, and quite hidden from sight by a sudden rise in the ground. When they gained the road, they too would be hidden by the rising ground between them and the crofter's cottage, whereas now they could be seen distinctly by any one who should happen to look, for there was not even a tree or bush to shield them. Elsie pushed on quickly, not venturing to take even a peep behind until they had safely scrambled down the steep bank into the road, when, to her joy, she found that the stone walls enclosing the croft, even the little hovel itself, had completely disappeared. "Elsie," said Duncan, catching his breath, and looking up to her with a glance of terror, "will they catch us?" "No, I don't think so, Duncan," Elsie answered, quite gently. "We are quite out of sight. We must be quick, and find out where this road leads." "I am so frightened, Elsie!" Duncan exclaimed, with a pitiful, appealing glance to her not to be angry. He had kept his terror to himself so long that he could hide it no longer. "Did you think they were going to kill us, Elsie?" "No, Duncan, of course not," Elsie replied, not without a little shiver. It was very noticeable how different Elsie's tone was from her usual one. There was no snapping up or ridiculing her little brother. She spoke more as if she were trying to persuade herself of the truth of what she said. "But, Elsie, there was never any one came near," Duncan persisted. "Sandy Ferguson could dig a big hole, and put us in right easy. No one would know. Don't let him catch us, Elsie." "He shan't catch us, dear," Elsie said, reassuringly, though she was not feeling very easy about it herself. It was only now that she began really to feel what a terrible time they had lived through in those last two days, and what unknown horrors they had escaped from. Duncan's words filled her with fear. To be overtaken and carried back to that dreadful woman seemed the worst thing that could befall them. "I wonder where this road leads?" Elsie said, trying to make Duncan think of something else. "There's no one to ask." "P'raps they might be like the man if you asked," Duncan said fearfully; "and you look so ragged in that dirty old gown, Elsie. They will think we are beggars." Elsie had been thinking the same thing herself, though she was not going to tell poor Duncan—already frightened out of his senses—how uncomfortable she really felt. Alone in a country road, which led they did not know where, without a penny to buy food or, so far as they could see, a house from which they could ask some, what was to become of them? "Elsie?" Duncan said presently, looking at her very wistfully. "Yes, Duncan?" "You won't be angry, will you?" "No, I won't be angry," Elsie said impatiently. "What is it?" "I feel so tired. Couldn't we go home?" "Do you think you could find the way back?" Elsie asked. "Oh! but we could ask for Dunster," Duncan said, eagerly. "People would tell us. I'd try to run very fast, Elsie." "We should have to get back to that other road, where the cottages are, first," Elsie said, contemplatively. "Would you like to do that, Duncan?" "Oh, no!" the child cried, in terror. "They'd catch us, Elsie, they'd catch us: I'm sure they would." "We won't go there," Elsie said, trying to comfort him, for it was pitiful to see his fright. "Wait till I see a nice tidy person, and I'll ask all about it." "There might be another way," Duncan suggested. Just then they heard the sound of distant wheels. Duncan caught hold of Elsie's shoulder in an agony of fright. "It's the man!" he cried, trembling from head to foot, and turning as white as death. "He's coming, Elsie! he's coming to fetch us back!" CHAPTER IX.—A FAIRY VISITOR. ith what indescribable torments of dread the two children stood waiting it is difficult to express. Elsie's feeling of fright for herself was merged in care for Duncan. She had never seen him look like this before, and it startled her. His white face was drawn into an expression that changed it altogether. His eyes were wide and staring, looking along the road in a sort of fascination of terror. Elsie held him close to her, drawing him round so that he should not see the approaching vehicle, still far distant, for on that still, lonely road the sound of hoofs could be heard at a great distance. Elsie listened, with her heart standing still. "Duncan, Duncan, it is two horses!" she cried, presently. "And they are coming quickly. It is a carriage, not a cart." But Duncan was so terrified that he had no reasoning power left in him. Even when the carriage came in sight he would not have been a bit surprised to have seen the crofter and his shrewish wife jump out of it. Instead of that, however, the carriage contained a very fashionably-dressed, rich-looking lady and gentleman. Elsie could see directly that they were gentlefolk, who would never think of hurting two little children. She resolved to speak to them. Illustration: 'THE CARRIAGE DREW UP CLOSE BY THEM' "the carriage drew up close by them" (p. 131) They were certainly in fortune's way. The carriage drew up close by them, and a dainty voice asked— [Pg 131] "Children, can you tell us if we are on the right road to Killochrie?" "I don't think you are, ma'am," Elsie replied, in her best manner. "Oh dear!" the lady exclaimed; "how annoying when we are in such haste! Can you direct us?" "There's a road right over there leads to it," Elsie replied, pointing with her hand. "But how do we get on to the road? Does this one meet it anywhere? Driver, don't you know?" The driver muttered something in a rather surly fashion, whereupon the gentleman, who had not yet spoken, leaned forward, and said angrily, "You told us you knew this neighbourhood. You are an idiot!" "Perhaps this little lass could show him," the lady remarked. "Indeed, ma'am, it's right glad I'd be to do it," Elsie began (how very polite any one can be when they choose), "but we're quite strange, and have lost our own way, our mother being dead and our father in London, which we're trying to find; and perhaps, ma'am, you would be so kind as to tell us the way." All this was said very rapidly. "If they can't help us, why not drive on?" the gentleman remarked impatiently. "Stay a moment," the lady said. "These children may possibly be of great use to us. Look at the girl, William. She hasn't at all a bad face, if she were well dressed," she added, in a low tone, which, however, did not escape Elsie. "You say your mother is dead and your father in London," the lady added. "Who are you living with?" "There was a woman who took care of us," Elsie replied quickly, "but she let our father think we were dead, so we ran away to find him; and a man who gave us a ride in his cart robbed us of our pennies and our clothes, and was very cruel. We ran away in the clothes they gave us." "What a deal of running away," the lady said, not unkindly; "and your little brother looks tired. Do you know how far it is to London?" "No, not exactly, ma'am," Elsie replied. "Well, it is hundreds and hundreds of miles; and let me tell you at once you will never get there if you walk for ever. But," she added quickly, leaving Elsie no time to reply, "I may be able to help you. I am a sort of good fairy. Walk on towards Killochrie. Ask any one you see the way there, and before night I will come back again. That is all. Coachman, drive on. You must look out for some one else to direct us." Then the man whipped up his horses and drove off, leaving Elsie standing by the roadside in a sad state of bewilderment. Could she have heard aright? Before three minutes had passed she began to think she had been mistaken, but that could not be, for Duncan presently said to her— "She won't ever come back, Elsie, will she? But she was a bonnie lady, wasn't she?" "She was bonnie, and real kind," Elsie said. "I wonder whether she will come back after all." "She might have put us inside the carriage if she'd liked," Duncan said, doubtfully. "Perhaps the gentleman wouldn't have let her," Elsie replied. "I think she meant she would come alone." "Will she be very long?" Duncan said, pitifully; "and will she take us to London, to him—our father, Elsie?—or will you ask her to take us back to Dunster?" "We must wait till she comes," Elsie said, evasively. In her heart of hearts she would not have been sorry to find herself back in Mrs. MacDougall's cottage, but the humiliation of returning and acknowledging why she had run away, and how she had failed, was too much for her proud, stubborn will. "Do you like running away?" Duncan asked, looking up anxiously in her face. "I don't mind it," Elsie answered. She was getting into a contrary mood, partly because Duncan's remarks touched her so keenly, partly out of anger and impatience at the misfortunes that had befallen them. They had been walking along slowly in the direction the carriage had taken. Duncan did not seem inclined to go faster. Presently he stopped, and stood watching a number of black-faced Highland sheep scampering down the side of a hill. There were sounds of barking, and at last there appeared a shepherd and collie. "He will know the way," Elsie cried, with delight. "Come on, Duncan; let's run and ask him." "You run, Elsie. I'll wait till you come back," Duncan said, wearily. It was very unusual for him to hang behind, but Elsie was too eager to notice it. She left him sitting by the roadside, and flew after the shepherd. "The way to Killochrie? Weel, you just keep to the road right away till it runs into another one, an' that'll take you straight through; but it's a long, long way to walk." [Pg 132] The man was engaged in eating a large piece of bread and cheese. Elsie, who was very hungry, eyed it longingly. "Ye look a wee bit starved," the man said. "We'll be getting some food at Killochrie," Elsie said, evasively. "I did hear last night that there was two children lost off Dunster Moor—stolen, they do say. I suppose you bain't one of them?" the man continued, eyeing her curiously "Was dressed in plaid frock and cloth jacket. That ain't you, any way." "We live at Killochrie," Elsie said quickly and wickedly, not hesitating to conceal the truth, and to tell a falsehood to do so. "We've come farther than we should, and I wasn't quite sure of the way." "Aweel! aweel!" the man said, in his slow northern fashion. "It's a good thing ye're not lost away from your natural home, which I'd be sorry to think of happening to any bairn. It's a goodish bit out of my road, but I'd like to carry the poor bairnies back to their mother, wherever she be." Elsie waited to hear no more. She bade the man a hasty "Good-day," and ran off. How strange it was that this out-of- the-way shepherd should have heard the tale, and yet not so strange when one thinks how quickly such a tale spreads far and near, and how few other concerns the shepherd had to drive it from his mind. Already the news of the lost children was being discussed in every whiskey-shop and cottage. It had reached the little village three miles out of Killochrie, where the shepherd's wife lived. And if the children had been elsewhere than in the crofter's lonely cottage they must have been discovered, as there was every chance that they would be before long. Now, if Elsie had known it, the first piece of good fortune that had really come to them was when she met the shepherd. He was an honest, kind-hearted man, the father of children. At one word of explanation he would have taken the children in charge, and delivered them safely over to their proper guardian. Providence, watching over the misguided children, had put this means of deliverance in their way. But Elsie was still obstinate, and the very thought of being taken back roused every feeling of opposition and anger. If only poor little Duncan had known the opportunity, which was every moment retreating farther away! Elsie breathed freely when she perceived the shepherd disappear in the valley. "We are all right," she said to Duncan, keeping to herself the shock she had received. "This will lead us to Killochrie." Duncan said nothing. He seemed neither glad nor sorry. He was not much of a companion, Elsie thought. The day crept on. They did not make much progress, for Duncan was cross, and lagged dreadfully. Elsie had in her mind a firm conviction that the kind lady would return, and she was not wrong, for at last they saw a female figure coming towards them; she carried a good-sized leather bag in her hand, which Elsie believed contained food for them. How glad she was now that she had fled from the shepherd. The good fairy had come. There was one thing Elsie had never thought of. Wicked spirits often assume the appearance of good fairies. Every one knows that, so that it was to be seen whether this was a good fairy or not. CHAPTER X.—THE NEW MOTHER. uch a disappointment! As the figure drew near, Elsie saw that she had made a mistake. Instead of the beautifully-dressed lady of the carriage, it turned out to be a person dressed in black garments, with a long black veil covering her face. She walked along quickly, and as she came up to the children, she stopped. Then she turned up her veil, and Elsie saw with astonishment that it was really the lady who had spoken to them that morning, but so changed, that it was no wonder Elsie had not known her. The face that had looked so gay and smiling was now sad and pensive; the fair curling hair, falling in pretty confusion over the white forehead, was drawn smoothly back under the neat crape bonnet, with its widow's cap. The many bracelets and other jewellery were all gone. So complete was the transformation that Elsie stood staring, not knowing what to believe. "I told you I was a fairy," the lady said, in a kind, but sad, voice. "You must not be surprised to see me so changed. To- morrow I may change again. A fairy is all sorts of things, you know." "Ye—es, ma'am," Elsie said, doubtfully. "I dare say you think that a fairy can change other people as well as herself, do you not?" "Yes, ma'am; fairies do that in books," Elsie replied. [Pg 133] [Pg 134] "Well, and I tell you I am a fairy," the lady said, a little sharply; "and I am going to change you." "What is she going to change us into, Elsie?" asked the matter-of-fact Duncan. "Ah! what?" the lady asked, with a laugh. "Shall I change you into two little Highland sheep scampering over the hills, and feeding upon grass?" "Oh no!" Elsie said quickly; but Duncan, whose mind never readily accepted a new idea, only replied stolidly, "You couldn't, you know." "Don't be so sure of that," the lady replied. "But I am not going to. I am going to make you into my own little children." This seemed very nice and kind, but it so completely did away with their own father that Elsie did not know what to say. The lady seemed displeased, and stamping her foot, said very sharply—"Do you hear what I say? I am going to turn you into my little boy and girl." "Thank you, ma'am," Elsie said slowly. "It is very kind, only we've got our own father." "I didn't say anything about a father, did I?" the lady said. "I shall be your mother. While you are my children, your father is dead." "But he isn't indeed, ma'am," Elsie began; but he lady's face suddenly changed. It grew very red, and her eyes blazed with passion. In place of the sad, pensive face, she saw an angry, furious, dreadful-looking face, that struck terror into her heart. "While you are my children," she exclaimed, in a loud terrible voice, "your father is dead. If you forget that for one moment, I will instantly change you back into the wretched little creatures you now are, and set you down on top of that high mountain, where you will perish of cold and hunger." Then suddenly she dropped her voice, her face grew calm and sweet-looking again, and she said, very gently, "Will you be my children?" The children were so bewildered and astonished that they could hardly believe their senses. Elsie replied at once—"Oh yes, if we may;" but it was really more because she did not dare to say anything else, for fear of offending this strange being, and the dread of being left alone all night among the dark, gloomy hills. "Follow me," the lady said, drawing down her veil, and turning away from the road on to the grass. The children followed. She led them some distance over the lowest part of a small hill. She walked quickly, the children doing their best to keep pace with her light, rapid footsteps, although Duncan was very tired, and both were desperately hungry. Presently they found themselves in a tiny dell, through which ran a little babbling stream, and where large yellow daisies, and bonnie blue-bells, and other flowers bloomed abundantly. Here the strange lady stopped, and opening her bag, she drew forth some black garments. The first one was a frock of fine black stuff with crape. She bade Elsie take off the old gown she was wearing, and put on this. Elsie was charmed. The dress fastened down the back, and had a narrow skirt, cut in one with the body, forming a complete contrast to her own short full skirt and round body of bright plaid. Then there came forth from the fairy bag a black hat and a pair of beautiful silk gloves. "You will do for to-night," the lady said, when Elsie had put them on. "To- morrow morning we must think of shoes and stockings less clumsy than those you have on." Illustration: 'YOU ARE TO CALL ME MAMMA,' SHE SAID "'you are to call me mamma,' she said" (p. 134). For Duncan she brought out a black overcoat, which reached nearly to his ankles, and a black cloth cap. Elsie waited impatiently, hoping to see some nice food come out of the bag, but the fairy mother seemed not to have thought of that, for she shut it up when she had taken the cap out, and gave it to Duncan to carry. Then she rolled up the tattered gown and jacket, and threw them into the stream. "You are to call me mamma," she said sweetly, "or mother, if you are more used to that." "Then please, ma'am—ma—we are very hungry," Elsie said. The lady did not seem pleased. "What dreadful things children are! They want to eat!" she exclaimed. "Well, there is no time now; we must get home quickly. Give me a hand each of you." They did as they were told, and very soon were again upon the road, walking as quickly as they could to keep up with her. Every now and then she gave Duncan a sharp tug to make him walk quicker. The poor child was so tired and hungry that he hardly knew how to get along, but the lady took no notice. Elsie really was beginning to think that there was something about her quite different from ordinary people, but she was not sure that she liked her any better for that. She wondered whether she knew what it was to feel very hungry. They walked what seemed to the weary children a very, very long way, but at last they saw houses, and they perceived that they had arrived at a little village. Here the lady bought them some buns and rolls, which they eagerly devoured, but to their infinite disappointment they found they were not to stay here. On they walked another long way, till they reached a place with many houses and streets and shops, such as Elsie had never seen in her life before. It was now quite dark, but the lady hurried them through the streets, not allowing them to stop for a moment. By-and- by they arrived at a strange building of wood. They were presently lifted into a carriage. The lady followed; the door was shut. There was a shrill scream, and then the lights outside began to glide past them. They were, for the first time in their lives, in a train. Duncan had not been in the carriage two minutes before his head fell back against the woodwork, and he was asleep. Elsie's brain was too busy for her to do the same thing. The sensation of gliding along in the dark was so new and strange that she was at first very frightened, but as every one else looked quite comfortable, her fears began to abate, and she could turn her mind to the strange adventures that had befallen them. After some little time they stopped, and their companion lifted them out, rousing Duncan out of his heavy sleep with much difficulty. A tall, dark gentleman was waiting, on the platform for them. "Here are the dear children," the lady said, in a sweet, sad voice. "Children, say 'How do you do?' to your Uncle William." The gentleman shook hands with each of them, and taking Elsie by the hand, led her forward, the lady following with Duncan. They passed through some gates, and found some carriages waiting outside. Into one of these the gentleman and lady took the children, and they were driven away. These two strange individuals conversed a great deal, but the noise of the wheels prevented Elsie from hearing much of what they said. She made out that the lady was telling the gentleman about her journey, and she thought they both seemed rather pleased. Suddenly the gentleman leaned over, and laid a hand upon Elsie's arm. "Mind what you are about," he said in her ear. "If you say anything to displease this lady, your good mother, it will be the worse for you. The less you say to anybody, the better; and look after the boy. What is your name?" "Elsie." "No it isn't. It is Effie Donaldson. Don't forget it again. Your brother's name is Donald Donaldson. Don't let him forget it, either." Elsie saw in a moment that there was no trifling meant, and that she would have to obey. It was the same gentleman who had called the driver an idiot in the morning. She had stolen a glance at him then, and had not liked his face. She liked it still less now. Still, they must be kind people, or they would not have brought her and Duncan all this way, and given them such nice clothes. Elsie very much wished, however, that gentlefolk had not such strange manners. She was very glad and thankful when at last they alighted at a house, into which they entered. A neat, tidy-looking woman came forward to meet them. "Everything's quite ready, ma'am, as the gentleman ordered," she said, with a curtsey. "I've made up an extra bed in your room, ma'am, for the little boy, which the gentleman said would suit you, and the supper's waiting to be served in a moment. I dare say the children are tired, ma'am." "Yes," said the lady, in a sweet, gentle voice. "They have had a long journey, and they are tired to-night. They will be glad to get to bed as soon as we have had supper, won't you, dears?" "Yes, mamma," Elsie answered quickly. Duncan made no reply. [Pg 135] "You go in there, and sit down till I come," the lady said, pointing to an open door, through which came the gleam of a fire. She took Elsie's hat and Duncan's cap, and went upstairs, leaving the children, as they thought, alone. But that was a mistake, for the gentleman came in the next moment. However, he told them, not unkindly, to sit down and warm themselves, which they were glad enough to do. The table was already spread for a meal. Presently the woman brought in a dish of ham and eggs, which made the famished creatures ready to cry with delight. Their new mamma watched them very narrowly as they ate. Fortunately, Mrs. MacDougall had been very strict about their behaviour, but there were still several things that displeased their new friend, for which she corrected them pretty sharply; and to show how easily children can remember when they really know they must, Elsie not only bore in mind the faults that were found with herself, but also those points in which Duncan had offended. The woman of the house came in by-and-by, to ask whether she should see the children in bed. She looked so kind and nice, that Elsie hoped their new mamma would say "Yes." She, however, declined, saying that she could not bear any one to do anything for the children but herself. Then she took them upstairs, and locking the door, bade them undress. She then went to a box, and got out some night garments, which were much too large; but the children did not mind that. She tucked Elsie kindly into the snuggest, sweetest bed that could be, and then went to do the same kind office for Duncan. Then telling them that they were on no account to get up till she came to them the next morning, she left them to such a night's rest as they had not had since they left the cottage on Dunster Moor. CHAPTER XI.—"THAT CHILD IS ILL!" he children had been in the habit of rising at an early hour all their lives. Elsie woke the next morning about six o'clock, to find the sun shining in brightly at the curtained window. She had always thought what a fine thing it must be to be able to lie in bed as long as one liked, so she was not at all averse to doing as the lady had bidden her, especially as the little bed was so soft and warm. She lay quietly, looking round the room at the pictures which hung on the walls, and at the various articles of furniture it contained; but after a while she began to grow tired of this, and to wonder when the lady would come to her. After an hour or so she crept to the door, and turned the handle, thinking to see if any one was about yet; but she found that she was locked in, so there was nothing else to be done but to get back into bed. The time passed very slowly; still no one came. Elsie grew very restless, and did not at all like the feeling of being locked up away from Duncan. Still these people were gentlefolk, and rich. It was quite impossible they could mean any harm. She could hear distant sounds of people moving in the house. Could it be possible that they had forgotten all about her? She had heard a clock strike seven, then eight, now it was striking nine. At home, she would have been across the moor and back, have had her breakfast, and been at school by this time. Much as she stood in awe of her mysterious benefactress, she grew at last so restless that she could be still no longer, but jumped up, and began to wash and dress herself. She was standing before the glass, greatly admiring her appearance in the new frock and hat, and wondering how the lady had really got them, when the key turned, and the fairy mother herself entered. She was dressed in long trailing black garments, with a white cap on her head, and looked, Elsie thought, wonderfully sweet and pretty. But as her eye fell upon Elsie the sweetness vanished, and the angry expression that had once before so terrified her came back. "I told you not to get up till I came," she said, in a threatening voice. "I thought you had forgotten; it was so late," Elsie faltered. "You are not to think," the lady said. "You have disobeyed me once. The second time you will find yourself, before nightfall, back on the top of the mountain, as I warned you before. And far worse things than that will befall you, and your brother too. Take care! I shall not warn you again. Now, put on these stockings I have brought you, and let me see if these shoes fit." They were a pair of fine woven black stockings, for which Elsie willingly changed her thick grey knitted ones. The shoes were a little long, but were soft and easy to her feet, and seemed to Elsie very beautiful ones. They were, in fact, a pair of the lady's own, and yet were scarcely any too large for Elsie. Then the lady combed out her hair, and tied it up with a piece of black ribbon. Elsie felt herself very grand indeed. "Now kiss me, and say, 'Good morning, mamma,'" the lady said, holding her cheek down. Elsie did as she was bidden. "That will do," the lady said. "When you go downstairs say 'Good morning' to your Uncle William in the same way. You can go now." Elsie went downstairs. At the door of the room where they had supped the night before she met the woman of the house, taking in a plate of eggs, coffee, and other good things. The woman looked at her curiously, but made no remark. Elsie went in, and found the gentleman already there. She [Pg 136] [Pg 137] went forward and bade him good morning, as she had been directed. He lifted up a pair of large black eyes from the paper he was reading, and gave her a look which somehow scared her, as he said "Good morning, Effie." She stood still, not daring to move at all, and feeling extremely frightened and awkward. "Go and tell your mamma that breakfast is ready," he said, with another look. "Yes, dear, I'm coming," the lady called, in response to Elsie's message. "Don't walk so heavily, child!" she exclaimed, as Elsie ran downstairs. "I do not know what sort of manners they have taught you at that wretched school. Bring your hat down, dear; then we shall be all ready to start. You will see that the luggage is in readiness, Mrs. Alexander," she added to the woman, who was at that moment coming out of the room. "Yes, ma'am, certainly. And the fly will be round at a quarter to ten punctually." The lady thanked her very sweetly; she was leading Duncan by the hand. He had on his overcoat, and held his cap in his hand. Elsie concluded at once that this was because he had no jacket, and wondered why the lady had not provided one for him as well as clothes for her. The child was looking pale and heavy, and, Elsie thought, unhappy. All the time they were at breakfast the lady and gentleman talked about the weather, and the long journey they were going to take, and such things, just, Elsie thought, as if Mrs. Alexander were outside listening. Elsie was considerably bewildered by the way they spoke of her and Duncan. "Effie is not so much grown as I would have thought," the lady remarked to the gentleman, who seemed to be her brother. "She is very much tanned, and her hands are as brown as berries," he replied. "Ah! that is the natural result of such a country life," the lady returned. "She has perfect health." "Donald does not look so well." Elsie could make nothing of this strange conversation, but she supposed that the lady wished her and Duncan to be taken for some other children who were not there. Still this was puzzling, for where could the other children be? Duncan ate very little, and seemed to take that more because he was frightened to leave what had been given him than for any hunger. After breakfast a carriage came to the door, and they drove back again to the station from which they had come last night. After a little waiting, the train started. There were no other passengers in the carriage they occupied, and the lady and gentleman talked a great deal together. Elsie could not understand half that they said, but she heard them mention Edinburgh and London, and talk of hotels, and lodgings, and a great many other things, which gave her no information; but her heart beat wildly when they spoke of London, and she hoped above everything that they would take her there, for she had lost all count of the way by now, and would have had no more idea in which direction to go, had she been left to herself, than she would have had to find her way back to Dunster. For a while the lady and gentleman were so engaged in talking together, that they took no notice of the children. Duncan had seated himself in a corner, and was leaning his head against the cushion with a strange expression on his face. Elsie, sitting opposite, glanced at him several times, as if to inquire what was the matter, but he took no notice. To go over and ask him was more than she dared. She was far more frightened to move a finger before this strange lady than she had been to disobey Mrs. MacDougall in the most flagrant way. But suddenly the gentleman's eye fell upon Duncan, and he said sharply, "That child is ill, Lucy!" "Nonsense!" said the lady, quickly. "He is putting it on. A good shaking will rouse him." Elsie glanced uneasily at Duncan. He took no notice; his heavy eyelids were almost closed. It flashed upon Elsie that what the gentleman said was true, although she had not thought of it before. "I think he is ill," Elsie said, plucking up her courage, for she thought it was cruel to talk of shaking him. "Nonsense! He shall not be ill. Let him dare to!" the lady cried angrily. "It strikes me that he won't be able to help it," the gentleman said, with an ugly smile, which seemed to make the lady very angry. "Well now, what's to be done? This is a look-out you had not bargained for." The lady looked puzzled and very much annoyed. She bit her lip, and tapped her foot on the floor. "If he lasts out till we get to London, I don't know that the child being ill will interfere with our plans. It might be turned to advantage. If not, he must be left behind in Edinburgh," the lady said. Elsie pricked up her ears. "You do not mean that you would leave him without me," she said quickly, thinking her ears must have deceived her. [Pg 138] "He could be brought to London when he was better," the lady said, with a glance at the gentleman. "He would be taken care of; but we must go on." "If he stays in Edinburgh, I shall too," Elsie said, with sudden decision. "You will do what I tell you!" the lady said, with one of her terrible looks, which so frightened Elsie that she could say nothing, although her mind was firmly made up that she would never leave Duncan. Then they went on talking again, and Elsie heard a great deal of discussion about whether they should stay in an hotel or not, and she gathered that the presence of herself and Duncan was the point of difficulty, for she heard the lady say that she had not been able to get him any clothes, and his own were much too coarse and common, and that people in Edinburgh would notice much more than simple country-folk like Mrs. Alexander. Elsie had long been doubtful whether these people were kind or not, but now she felt sure they were not. She had no idea why they had done all they had, but she felt sure it was not from real kindness, and she began to feel suspicious that they would be very unkind to Duncan. It was a very strange thing, and not at all what she had ever read in any book, that they should twice have fallen in with unkind people. By-and-by some other people came into the carriage, and then Mrs. Donaldson went and sat by Duncan, putting her arm round him, and drawing his head down on to her shoulder. After being many hours in the train, they arrived at a great place, which turned out to be the Waverley Station at Edinburgh. It was such a busy, wonderful place, with so many lights and people, that Elsie would have been wild with delight if it had not been for her anxiety about Duncan. The gentleman gave some directions to a porter about taking their luggage. Then he and the lady took poor Duncan between them and led him out into the streets, which were full of people and carriages. It was, she supposed, because so many people looked at Duncan's pale heavy face and tottering steps that the gentleman, after a a few minutes, took him up and carried him. They went some little distance, till they came to a small shop, the window of which was full of all kinds of papers and pictures. The gentleman had some conversation with a man behind the counter, who took them into a small room, where the lady and gentleman bade them "Good-bye," and left them, saying they would come back the next morning. After a little time, a girl, dirty, ragged, and untidy, came into the room, and taking Duncan up in her arms, carried him upstairs, Elsie following with a candle. The house seemed to be a tall one, for there were more stairs than Elsie had ever seen in her life, and they were dark, steep, and narrow, so that she frequently stumbled. The girl, however, went on quickly enough. They paused at several landings with doors, from which came the noise of voices, sometimes raised pretty high, as if in anger and dispute. At last they reached a tiny room, quite up at the top of the house. It had a low, sloping roof, much discoloured with damp and dirt, as were also the walls. The floor was bare and black with dirt and age, the whole apartment squalid and uncomfortable. The girl laid Duncan down on the bed, and began removing his things with a certain amount of gentleness; he seemed quite unable to do anything for himself. When she had undressed him, she put back the bed-clothes. Then she went away, and once more the children were alone together, and very much alone, for Elsie noticed that the girl locked the door before she went away. (To be continued.) SOME MORE LITTLE PRESENTS, AND THE WAY TO MAKE THEM.[1] re you ready to hear about more things which can be made with a penknife? Then I am ready to tell you. Amongst my acquaintances and friends are certain little toy-boat builders, who bestow upon me from time to time boats fashioned by their knives; vessels which would not, it is true, encounter stormy seas, and therefore are not fitted for use, but which look taut and trim as they lie in the quiet harbour of bracket or slab amongst other choice ornaments. A rowing- boat, a yacht, a schooner, a man-of-war—all these varieties are somewhat commonplace. The construction of them requires skill and dexterity, I know, but you do not want a description from me of these, [Pg 139] and I wish to tell you of something more uncommon than the boats we see on our own waters. Perhaps some of my readers have not attempted anything on so large a scale as this I am about to describe. If they are afraid of the size of the venture, they can follow the general directions, and make their dimensions smaller. Two boats we want, and four paddles. The boats are to be in shape and form like the Indian birch-bark canoe: this, as you know, has a very distinctive appearance of its own, and is quite different from any boat we see on English waters: for this reason, although you might be able to find a picture of one in some book, a drawing is given for you to study, as your model for shape and form. As I have said, we require two of these canoes, and they are to be of different sizes. The length of the big one is 12 inches; the depth of this boat in the middle is 2 inches; at its stern and prow, which you will see are alike also in form, the measurement is 2½ inches. The length of the little canoe is 9½ inches: in the middle it is 1½ inches, and prow and stern measure 2 inches. The particularly bulging sides of boats of this character are the cause of the chief difficulty of their construction; fortunately for our purpose only one side of the canoes have this protuberance, for this reason—these canoes and paddles are placed together and hung up against a wall, and therefore one side of each canoe has to be flat in order to rest steadily and comfortably against the wall. The interiors of the canoes are scooped out, and serve as receptacles for odds and ends. The paddles of some canoes are short and have wide spoon-like blades at each end; these, you see, have not. The length of the pair of big paddles is 13 inches; of these inches the blade takes 2½ inches. The extreme length of the little paddles is 12 inches; their blades are as large as those of their companions. These four paddles are crossed over each other, and over one another, all at the same time standing in an upright position. The two long paddles cross each other just below the blades, which rear themselves aloft; the two short paddles also cross each other near their blades, but they are head downwards. When these four brothers are placed together in proper juxtaposition, the ends of the little paddles are just below, but an inch or so away from the blades of the big paddles. The ends of the big paddles descend as far as the bottom of the blades of the little paddles. I hope that you are not confused or bewildered: the drawing will help to enlighten you. Against this background of paddles the two canoes are placed: the little one uppermost, the larger one a few inches below. Very pretty the whole device looks. I should keep the secret until the whole is quite complete. The surface of the wood should be made as smooth as satin by dint of rubs and scrubs with sand-paper, and then it looks well if left without any covering of paint or varnish: the stems of the paddles have a little adornment in long specks of red and blue paint. Now L am going to turn away—for a time at any rate—from whittling of wood, and to speak of cutting of cork—that is ordinary corks. So many things can be constructed with them by the help of a penknife and liquid glue. The celebrated Cleopatra's Needle is a good object; a wheelbarrow, an old-fashioned square arm-chair, a book-case, an old oak chest, a Dutch cradle, and many other articles of furniture can be imitated. In selecting copies for imitation it is best to choose those of old date, made of oak, for the cork resembles old worm-eaten oak when its first freshness has gone and its complexion becomes darker. A very pretty and uncommon object to copy is that of an old-fashioned clock, a veritable "my grandfather's clock," an upright tall eight-day clock that has a long chain and a heavy pendulum concealed within its tall case, and that shows a big square face with large figures printed on it. I will give you a few details about my cork clock, and I think you will make one and set it upon a bracket to be admired by all beholders. This miniature clock stands 7½ inches high. Its two cases and head are hollow; it is built of little blocks of cork of different sizes, fitted neatly together, so that at the first glance one imagines each portion to be one large piece. The lower part of the clock is 2 inches high and 1½ inches across. This hollow four-sided case stands on a basement formed of cork blocks, which project a wee bit beyond the case; this structure is supported by 4 feet of a club-like form. So far so good. Now we will raise the structure higher. A case in which the pendulum with its chain is supposed to be hanging and swinging and tick-tacking is formed likewise of bricks of cork: its length is 2½ in...