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BLACKIE’S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.

WITH COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS. ELEGANTLY BOUND IN CLOTH.

Highteenpence Each.

THE TROUBLES AND TRIUMPHS OF LITTLE TIM.
A City Story. By Grecson Gow.

‘Strong in character and full of incident, and the narrative all through is in.
teresting and touching. Superintendents of Sunday Schools and others who are
now making their selections should include Little Tim.”—Edinburgh Daily Review.

‘*Mr. Gow sketches life in London with a swift flowing felicity that shows him to
be at home in our Modern Babylon, and there is a Dickens-like humour in his
delineations that helps to carry the reader rapidly as well as pleasantly along.”—
Christian Leader.

INTO THE HAVEN. By Annis 8. Swan.

“There is a simple dignity and pathos about this story that raises it far above the
level of most tales of the kind.”—School Guardian.

“No story more attractive . . . by reason of its breezy freshness and unforced
pathos, as well as for the wholesome practical lessons it conveys.”—Christian Leader,

THE HAPPY LAD.

A Story of Peasant Life in Norway. From the Norwegian of
Bjornstjerne Bjérnson.

“This pretty story has a freshness and natural eloquence about it such as are
seldom met with in our home-made tales. It seems to carry us back to some of the
love stories of the Bible.” —Aberdeen Free Press,

BOX OF STORIES.
Packed for Young Folk by Horacz Happyman.

‘*A score of fine old legends, fables, and stories retold in a manner adapted to the
taste and imagination of young readers of this generation.”—School Board Chronicle.

The Patriot Martyr:

And other Narratives of Female Heroism in Peace and War.

LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, 49 & 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.;
GLASGOW, EDINBURGH, AND DUBLIN.



MADGE’S MISTAKE.

=







MADGE’S MISTAKE:

A

RECOLLECTION OF GIRLHOOD.

BY

ANNIE E. ARMSTRONG,

Author of ‘“‘Ethel’s Journey to Strange Lands,” “ Prince
Narcissus,” &c. &,

ILLUSTRATED.



LONDON:

BLACKIE & SON, 49 & 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.;
GLASGOW, EDINBURGH, AND DUBLIN.
1884,







CONTENTS.

Chap. Page
I. Cur Rosss, - - : 7 - - - 9
II. A SxetcH of our Famity, - - - - 26
III. An Earty Mornine’s Drive, - — - ‘ - 42
IV. BREAKFAST WITH FATHER, - - - - 59
V. Tue Missine Key, - - - - - - 7
VI. BREAKFAST WITHOUT FATHER, - « . - 91
VII. Tur Rosz-sHow, - - - - - - 113
VIII. Trvy’s ADMIRER, - . - - - - 127
IX. Taz Resutt oF tHE RoszE-sHow, : - - 146











MADGE’S MISTAKE.

CHAPTER I.

CUT ROSES.

{ HE fact is, it is quite time Madge

| went to school. She was twelve
SH, years old yesterday, and her sisters,
ZZ



or at all events some of them, were
sent when younger than she is.”
So says my aunt.

The state of the case is this. I have been
distinguishing myself as usual, and am now
standing beside Mother's sofa, looking down
ruefully at a large bunch of roses (many of
them newly blown) which I have just been
cutting in the hot-house with a slashing
pair of scissors (Aunt’s cutting-out scis-



10 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

sors), without thinking of their probable des-
tiny.

“Your father will be nicely upset when he
hears of it,” continues my aunt, as she gives
an angry little shake to her work and takes
up her needle again; “however, you'd better
tell him yourself when he comes in, for I’m
tired of begging you off, as I am constantly
doing, and perhaps it will be a lesson for
you.” Two great tears which have been
blinding me for the last minute or so now
fall flop on the carpet, and after shining
there for an instant sink into the soft
pile.

“Come here, Madge, dear!” says Mother,
as she holds out her poor, thin hand to-
wards me; “did you not know that your
father had been rearing these particular
flowers for the great rose-show at M
week 2”

“No!” I say abruptly. “I knew he was
bothering and fussing about them; but I
thought they were for you, of course, and I
know you like to have them before they are

next





I LEARN MY MISTAKE. 11

quite blown, so that you can watch them
open, and as Williams wasn’t there I just cut
them myself.”

“ Like a troublesome interfering child that
you are,” puts in my aunt, with another im-
patient flourish of her work.

“ Never mind, Joan,” sighs Mother, as she
sinks back wearily among her cushions;
“Madge meant only to please me, poor child,
by bringing the flowers, and she could not
know without being told that these roses
were not to be touched.”

“Of course not,” 1 say with much alacrity,
on receiving this small grain of comfort. “Of
course he ought to have told me, or told
Williams to tell me, or locked up the hot-
house— or—” .

My next suggestion dies on my lips, for, on
the gravel-walk outside, I hear the unmis-
takable crunch of Father’s boots, and before
I have time to rush out of the drawing-room
door, which faces our private side entrance
to the garden, there are loud footsteps in the
hall, and a determined voice demanding to



12 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

know the cause of the disappearance of a
certain riding-whip.

An awful idea strikes me! Can he have
started on his ride (I know he was going to
M about some meeting or other), and can
he have seen me in the hot-house from over
the hedge, and can he have come back
with—?

The door is thrown open; but before the
person behind it can step into the room I
have rushed across to the door of the con-
servatory, which stands invitingly open, Ar-
rived there, I look round to see if I have
escaped observation, and am just in time to
see Father stalk up to Mother’s sofa, evi-
dently with the intention of asking where I
am. So I wisely stop to see no more, and
without turning my head rush blindly on re-
gardless of all obstacles. Unfortunately a
large watering-can stands in my way, and
before I have time to pull up, my dress
has caught the long spout and toppled it



over.
A stream of water along the stone floor is



A NARROW ESCAPE. 13

the result, and I stand still for a minute in
order to watch its progress.

Horror of horrors! it is pursuing a remorse-
less course towards the drawing-room door,
and I hear Father coming across to that end
of the room. I am just meditating hiding
behind one of the large rhododendrons which
are close behind me, when there is a light
thud near the open window. I turn hastily
and see my great Tabby Tom standing on
three legs in the midst of the water shaking
the drops from his fourth paw.

I conclude that Father has seen him, too;
for, after looking with disgust at the rapidly
spreading stream, he goes back to my aunt
and says, “That cat is always upsetting some-
thing, and it shall be drowned. I’ve said so
before, but this time I'll see it done myself.”

I hear a mild remonstrance from Mother,
and manage to catch the words, “ Madge’s
Cat—had him for years’—but Father im-
mediately shuts her up by saying, “Nonsense!
if Madge doesn’t like it she can do the other
thing;” and the next thing I hear is the slam



14 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

of the drawing-room door, and once more I
breathe freely. My first move is to emerge
from my hiding-place, and seeing Tom lick-
ing the wet paw I go up to him and say,
“You’ve saved me this time, Tom, and if
Father means what he says I'll lock you up
in the barn. You'd be safe there, for he’d
never trouble to look for you if you happened
to be out of his way.” Tom purrs gratefully,
and after waiting for the sound of the hoofs
of Father's horse dying in the distance I con-
sider it safe to venture forth once more. I
do not choose the drawing-room, however,
for the garden strikes me as being the safest
haven of refuge; that is, if I can get into
my favourite tree without meeting Jack, who
is the most accomplished of teazes. The fact
is, 1 must think over this affair seriously, for
if the roses are not forthcoming for the show
there will be what Jack would call “a nice
shindy” (1 like Jack’s way of expressing him-
self—it’s short and to the point).

Having arrived at this conclusion I find I
have also arrived at the bottom of the con-

4



I HAVE AN IDEA. 15

servatory steps, and after glancing round to
see if there is any one to observe me I fly
down the path, across the lawn, and leaping
on to the seat which is just beneath I raise
myself into the tree and settle there com-
fortably, with the intention of having a good
think,

I never can think among a lot of people.
I am not naturally disposed to be quiet my-
self, and occasionally throw in remarks and
suggestions which are not always received
with delight if there happens to be a discus-
sion going on; but when I want to get out of a
scrape I cannot brook interruption, and there-
forealways make a point of avoiding the whole
family. One thing is evident,some roses must
be obtained somehow! Where from, and by
whom, have not the slightest idea. The thing
is, if I can replace those I have taken by others
will Father know the difference? I hardly
think so, and I immediately begin to con-
sider how I can set about it.

Tonly attacked two pots, that I know; but
I must find out how many blossoms there



16 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

were on the bunch I took Mother, and what
colour they are. Then I shall know what I
am about—for suddenly a wild idea has come
into my head.

I have some money—really a fair amount
for a girl of my age—for Aunt Lydia, my
godmother, sent me a pound on my birth-day,
the day before. There must also be five shil-
lings in my money-box, and I have a bright
half-crown which Mr. Featherstone, our vicar,
gave me for catching and driving home his
favourite cow, Moll, one day when she slipped
her cord and ran away; and also the five
shillings Father gave me yésterday for my
birth-day present.

I go through a mental calculation—five
and five are ten, and two and six are twelve
and six. One pound twelve and six in all!

I have not the least idea what flowers cost,
but I have a vague remembrance of some one
saying that they are most expensive things
to buy; but surely one pound twelve and six
is enough, and, if not—why, I suppose I

shall have to let Jack into my secret, and
(220)



JACK FINDS ME ON MY PERCH. 17

get him to lend me some, though, of course,
in that case I shall bid adieu to peace of
mind for evermore. However, I must not
let my thoughts drift away in this fashion.
Although I have a plan in my head it will re-
quire a good deal of maturing and manage-
ment to carry out, for the risk will be awful
and great I fear. There is a large market-
garden at M——,, and it is my intention to pay
it a visit early the next morning. I believe
it is a long distance; but I must manage to
do it and get back by half-past eight, which
is our breakfast hour. If this can be accom-
plished I shall be safe; for Father never sets
foot in the garden before breakfast, the hour
from 7°30 being taken up in tramping over
the farm, stables, &c. Then, after breakfast,
he retires to the library and answers his
letters, and after that he takes a stroll round
the garden and gives a bird’s-eye view to
things in general. If, therefore, I can get the
pots in, and then steal the key for a short
time, all will be well; and at eleven o’clock

Father leaves home, not to return until the
(220) B



18 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

morning of the day fixed for the rose-show,
so, as the specimens are to be sent in that
very morning, they will not be seen again till
properly arranged at the gardens.

I have just completed all these arrange-
ments to my satisfaction, when I hear a loud
whooping and barking in the distance, and, in
another instant, up rushes Jack, surrounded
by a troop of dogs, which, as usual, have
flown from the stables on hearing his cheery
voice,

I give a sharp “ Hullo!” as he nears the
tree on which I am perched, and without
looking up, he says, “Oh! it’s you, is it?”
and throws himself down on the grass, while
all the dogs stand and bark hoarsely at me,
evidently under the impression that I have
secreted myself in the tree for some unlaw-
ful purpose. I pelt them with twigs, how-
ever, and after reprimanding them severely,
they all lie down beside Jack with their
tongues hanging out of their mouths.

“ Father in?” I ask briefly, as I commence
tearing a leaf into tiny bits.



WE DISCUSS FATHER’S RIVAL. 19

“No, thank goodness!” answers Jack,
“and, what is better, he won’t be in till just
before dinner—why, though?” he suddenly
asks, raising himself on his elbow.

“Oh! nothing,” I answer with great un-
concern,—then, after a pause,—

“ Jack, how far is it to M

“Between five and six miles, I believe;
but what do you want to know for, pray; are
you going on an excursion there?”

I feel myself growing red, but I answer
with great dignity, “I should have thought
that Father having gone there was sufficient
reason for my asking anything.”

Q”



“Hum, yes; perhaps so,” says Jack; “but
I advise you not to be up to any larks,” he
adds, with brotherly interest. “ Father’s not
in the best of tempers just now, and I don’t
think it would be well to trifle with him.”

“Why?” I ask, anxiously.

“Well, you know,” returns Jack, “he has
the rose-show on his mind for one thing;
you know there’s a report that old Monckton
will get the prize—and certainly there seems



20 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

every likelihood of it—for the other day
when I had to take that note from Father to
him, he showed me the whole concern; the
roses I mean, little thinking how Father
would rave if he heard how fine they were;
Father says he’s bent on getting the prize, if
it’s only to spite old Mr. M.”

I grow perfectly cold, and if I did not
know to the contrary, I should say that
some one was standing above me pouring
cold water down my back. I make one
effort to shake this feeling off, however, and
in order to change the conversation I
ask:

“Are you not glad Father is going away?”

Jack stares at me for a minute, and then
says with great contempt, “Are you glad
when the fog clears off? Are you glad when
the winter is over? Are you glad when it
ceases to rain and the sun comes out?
Allow me to tell you that the sun will come
out at eleven o’clock to-morrow morning, for
the first time during these holidays.”

I feel suppressed, sat upon, but wisely say



MY ASTHETIC SISTER. 21

nothing; and just at that instant I hear
Miss Montgomery’s voice calling us in to
tea,

As Jack rises from the ground I hastily
slide down from my seat in order to avoid
his delicate attentions in helping me, which
generally consist in seizing my two feet and
dragging me down.

We now march on together in silence,
followed by the dogs, who have calmed down
considerably.

I see my eldest sister, Elfreda, walking
towards the house with Miss Montgomery,
our governess.

This sister of mine goes in for intensity,
and wears dresses very much gathered and
puckered up, and has awfully long tails to
them, which are always tripping us up, and
herself too, sometimes; she wears large
flowers, too, tucked up right under her neck,
and thinks it a dreadful thing to walk any-
way but very slowly.

It was fun to see her the other day though,
when Jack went up to her and said, “ Freda,



22 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

there is an earwig just about to step off the
leaf of that lily on to your neck!”

Oh! how she screamed and rushed about,
and at last she took the lily off and threw it
on the ground. Jack immediately picked it
up again, and going up to her, presented it
with a low bow, and said, “‘ There was no
earwig at all, my dear Freda; but don’t you
think it was consummate nonsense to show
such intense dislike to a harmless insect, and
with such an utter disregard to its feelings?” »

Freda was very angry, though she could -
not help laughing, but she’s been a little
careful before Jack ever since!

As we turn a corner of the path I see
Netty, our Baby, trudging along a few yards
before me, hugging a large doll, the weight
of which is almost too much for her: I am
seized with a wicked desire to frighten her;
I leave Jack, and running on before him,
catch Netty up and whisper over her shoul-
der in an awe-stricken voice, “ Run, Netty,
Father’s coming.”

Poor Netty is instantly inspired with



NETTY TUMBLES INTO A TUB. 23

terror, and does run to some purpose. Un-
luckily the goldfish have been fished out of
their globe to-day, and in order to facilitate
the washing thereof have been put into a
large tub of water which now stands at the
bottom of the conservatory steps, straight in
Netty’s path. On she rushes heedlessly, and
before I can catch her up, into the tub she
flounders, doll. and all, with a splash which
scatters the goldfish far and wide. A suc-
cession of shrieks follows, and at last Netty,
after much splashing and gasping, is dragged
out by Miss Montgomery and Freda, and
once more set upon her legs.

She does not appear to be much damaged,
however, though her pretty hair now hangs
in hopeless rat-tails, and she is in a general
state of limpness altogether; no! it is the
unfortunate Juliana who is to be most
pitied, for the brilliant colour in which she
gloried has disappeared, and left her as
white as the garments in which she is
attired; and, sad to tell, there is a bright
red stream trickling slowly down into the



24 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

said garments, looking very suggestive of a
dreadful wound.

Netty does not look at the case from this
point of view however, for, seizing the in-
jured young lady from the gravel walk where
she fell, she marches up to me, and saying,
“Youre a nasty Madge, and I don’t love
you,” she throws her treasure deliberately in
my face, and with a burst of tears rushes to
Miss Montgomery and hides her head in her
dress. With some governesses this would
have been a case of dry bread for tea, no
doubt; but, thank goodness, ours is not this
sort of person, for I must say that, notwith-
standing our being such an unruly set, she
manages us to perfection with her gentle
firmness and kindness, and the consequence
is we all dote on her, and what is more,
we all obey her like—like—one o’clock!—
(Jack’s usual simile). Even he says she’s a
regular brick, which is a great concession on
his ‘part, as he professes to hate ladies. But
to return,—

Miss Montgomery after soothing and con-



AND I AM REPROVED. 25

soling the afflicted Netty, merely looks up at
me and says,— Madge, what would your
mother say?” She knows that that short
simple question will shame me more than a
hundred lectures or scoldings, and I turn
and follow her and my: sisters into the house,
with an uncomfortable sensation in my
throat, and sitting down to tea, wonder if
ever I shall be like other girls, and whether
school would really be the best place for me.

.
« .
. = :
3 oe
3 @

.







CHAPTER IL

A SKETCH OF OUR FAMILY,

a HAVE two more sisters, Tiny and
© Gip. They have been out in the
te pony - carriage under the escort

of James, the under-groom, and
have come home laden with parcels



from M.

They come into the school-room now, hot,
dusty, and tired, and throwing their parcels
in a heap on to the sofa, and themselves into
chairs, they both cry simultaneously:

“ We met Father on the road.”

“No! did you?” we gasp all together.

“Yes,” says Gip, who is always spokes-
woman, ‘“Wasn’t it a mercy we had James
with us?”

“What did he say?” asks Freda, as she
busies herself with the bread and butter.



TINY AND GIP. 27

“Oh! of course something was wrong! he
asked me first if I thought James was sufh-
cient chaperon for two young ladies. I said,
Mother thought so, and then, after finding
fault with Tiny as to her manner of holding
the reins, he took off his hat and passed
on.”

“ Bah!” says Freda, “I wish Father would
be as kind as he is polite.”

“Well,” continues Gip, “we met young
Mr. Greenway just after, and I thought
Father would turn and come after us again,

-but he only waited to see if we stopped: of
course we only bowed; we couldn’t do any-
thing else under the circumstances, you know,
so he was satisfied and rode on.”

Jack enters here (thank goodness he
branched off to the stables before the episode
of the tub took place, so he knows nothing
of it), “Tea ready?” he asks; and without
waiting for an answer he seats himself, and
attacks the bread and butter.

“Come, girls,” says Miss Montgomery, as
she commences pouring out the tea. “Tiny



28 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

and Gip can put their hats down here for the
present as they seem tired; I want to get tea
over,” she went on, “then you can all go
and play tennis if you like, for I have pro-
mised to go and read to your mother till
dinner-time.” We all fall to, therefore, with
healthy appetites, for even Freda does not
carry her intensity to the extent of starving
herself.

She sits opposite our governess, ‘Tiny and
Gip are on one side, Jack and I on the other.
I think we are a nice-looking family, taking
us all in all.

Freda is the best looking, of course, but
Tiny almost comes up to her, in my opinion,
if not quite, for she is the neatest little
figure in the world, though very small, but
her golden brown hair and bright hazel eyes
are a fortune in themselves, and if I am not
much mistaken several people I could men-
tion think so also.

Freda has bright blue eyes, which look well
with her light fuzzy hair; and although her
beauty is not much to my taste, I believe



OUR PORTRAITS. 29

she did make a sensation when she came out
. at the county ball last year. Gip seems to

have struck out in a style of her own, for her
hair is almost black, and curls and waves
about her head in a fashion peculiar to itself,
tumbling into her eyes and over her ears on
the smallest provocation. Her eyes, though,
are splendid; the Irish dark gray, which as
often as not look black, finished off with
lashes so long that Jack suggests that they
shall be used for brooms for the sake of
economy. If she had more figure to speak
of she would really be very handsome, but
at present she is rather awkward and’ angu-
lar, being only fifteen and a half; but Mother,
Aunt, and Miss Montgomery all agree that
she will grow into a very fine woman; and,
indeed, she cannot help being fairly good-
looking with such a pair of eyes, whatever
happens. The fact is, she has Father’s eyes
to a T, for it must be acknowledged that his
are extremely good; and another undeniable
fact is that she has a spice of his temper too.
The consequence is, when their wills clash,



30 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

which they do not unfrequently, there is
generally a nice scene. Jack comes next,
and, as he and I are considered very much
alike, in giving his portrait you will get
mine too. We both have gray eyes, but not
so dark as Gip’s, and we both have light
chestnut hair, which has a decided talent
for being everything but tidy. Mine has
been kept short too, so that really were it not
for my petticoats we might each be taken
for the other sometimes. Netty, who has
retired to the nursery, is like the general run
of babies of four,—a rough, light head, round
blue eyes, and rosy cheeks.

I must make a sweeping assertion in con-
clusion, to the effect that we all have mouths
like Mother, and hers is a good one, at least
so people say. Tiny and Gip have just re-
turned home from a finishing school, Tiny to
stay and Gip most likely to return for an-
other term. Jack, too, has returned from
Marlborough, so we make a goodly party
when we meet round the table at luncheon
and dinner. Father, Mother, Aunt, three;



JACK INVITES ME TO GO FISHING. 31

Miss Montgomery, four; and we five, nine;
for Netty is not promoted to dining down-
stairs yet. Jack constantly groans over the
prevalence of girls in our family, his only
comfort being, he says, that I am more like
a boy than 4 girl, which compliment I appre-
ciate immensely.

However, it has taken me longer to give
this description of our family than it has
taken us to dispose of our tea, and once
more we are all on the move. Tiny and
Gip are off to some private haunts, Miss
Montgomery goes into the drawing-room to
Mother, and Freda sits down to complete a
sketch of a lily and some sun-flowers, thrown
together in a most inartistic manner as I
think, though she thinks quite differently.

Jack comes up to me and says mysteri-
ously, though not without patronage, “I’m
going to fish; will you come?”

“Oh, Jack!” I exclaim breathlessly,
“what would Father say?”

“He won't say anything about it as it
happens,” Jack returns contemptuously.



82 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

“You don’t suppose, do you, that I am
going to announce my intention publicly;
if you do, you're a greater goose than I took
you for.”

My dignity rises at these unhandsome
remarks, and I say with great coolness:

“Oh! well, do as you like; I am going to
work, or read, or something; so good-bye for
the present,” and I turned towards the door
with my head in the air.

. “Whe—w—!” whistles Jack; “now, don’t
be a donkey, Madge; will you come, or will
you not?”

I have remorse instantly for showing my
temper, and, going back to the window, I
say, “All right—I’ll come soon; but I’ve got
something to do first.”

Jack is satisfied and retires, and I stand
considering what will be my best move.

Having made up my mind, I bound out
of the room, down the stairs, and into the
drawing-room. Miss Montgomery is stand-
ing looking at the unfortunate roses, which
are now in water, but well out of sight



SILENCE PROMISED. 33

behind a lamp on a side-table, thanks to
Aunt, who I find has been recounting the
history thereof. Finding all three together,
I take the bull by the horns and say
hastily:

“T want you all, please, not to say any-
thing to Father about the roses until I do;
will you promise me? because I think I can
make it all right.” And I stand nervously
plaiting and unplaiting my handkerchief,
awaiting my doom. My aunt is just opening
her mouth to speak when once more I hear
Mother’s gentle voice saying:

“Madge, dear! come here;” and I rush
over to the sofa, narrowly escaping turning
over Aunt’s work-basket on my way.

Arrived there, Mother takes my hand and
Says:

“Tf you can say truly, Madge, that your
plan, whatever it is, will not lead you into
further trouble and disgrace, I am sure
your aunt and Miss Montgomery will agree
with me in deciding that it will be wise to

let you alone in the matter, and, as your
(220) — c



ot MADGE’S MISTAKE.

aunt says, perhaps it will be a lesson’ for
you.”

Of course Aunt and Miss Montgomery
agree with Mother, who, after drawing me
down and kissing me, says: ’

“Now, run away, dear, for Miss Mont-
gomery has kindly promised to read to me for
an hour before dinner.”

I crossover to theside-table first,and hastily
count the roses—four red and three tea—
and, saying this over and over to myself as I
retrace my steps, 1 open the door and van-
ish.

I am bound for the garden now, for an
interview with Williams, but this does not
give me much anxiety, for I know just how
to manage him. ‘The one I do dread is with
Simmons, our coachman, for he rules us all,
from Father downwards, witha rod of iron, and
evidently looks upon it as a great indulgence
on his part to allow us to have the carriage
out at all sometimes. With the pony car-
riage it is a different matter, for he doesn’t
trouble to prepare it himself, and of course we



SIMMONS, TUE DESPOT! 85

always drive ourselves; so, unless we happen
to be going to balls, garden-parties, or to
make a round of duty calls, he does not
approve of our ordering out the carriage and
pair; but it is a sight to see him on these
specified occasions, for he looks importance
and dignity from the soles of his boots to the
crown of his hat.

I think he is the only person that Father
stands in any awe of, but he will not of
course allow it for an instant, and always,
therefore, sides’ with Simmons, no matter
against whom.

Simmons will come in, perhaps, and say,
as he stands and twirls his hat in his hands,
“The brown mare seems a bit lame this
morning, sir, so may be it ’ud be best if Miss
Freda didn’t ride out to-day.”

“Yes, certainly,” says Father; and although
he knows that he never enjoyed a better
canter than that of yesterday on this identi-
cal animal, he follows up his first remark by
saying:

“T thought she went a little lame yester-



36 MADGES MISTAKE.

day, so you'd better see that she has a good
rest for a day or so.”

Simmons retires triumphant, having got
his own way, and Father on his side into the
bargain. The fact is, it is Simmons who
has gone a bit lame this morning, for I had
overheard him remark to James that he felt
a twinge of rheumatiz in his knees, and I
knew at once that he would not care to
follow Freda in one of her sweeping gallops
across country; and as Father never allows
us to go out with anyone but Simmons, poor
Freda has to stay at home.

Freda is very wrathful, but having once
got Father on his side, her wrath falls on
Simmons like water on a duck’s back.

I wend my way towards the hot-houses,
but Williams is not there, so I turn to the
kitchen-garden, and there I see him stooping
over a strawberry bed.

I go up to him and say, “Well, Wil-
hams!”

“ Well, Miss Madge!” he returns without
looking up. I wonder what I can say next,



A TALK WITH OUR GARDENER. 37

and hazard the remark that the day has been
hot.

“Well,” he replied, “for the matter 0’
that, ’ve known many an ’otter.”

I, mentally regret not having been pre-
sented with the skins of some of these ac-
quaintances, Williams goes on, however.

“Tt’sjust the right sort o’ weather this ’ere
for the strawberries, and, in fact, all the fruits
are coming on beautiful.”

T remark that I am glad to hear it, but,
feeling that I am not getting any nearer
my object, I rush into the subject at once
and say: “Williams, I wish you'd lend me
the key of the hot-house for a few minutes,
I want to see the roses Father has set aside
for the show.”

Williams stops in his work and leaning on
his rake looks up at me, “Now I wonder,
Miss Madge, that ye comes to me with such
a question as that, it’s a likely thing that I
should let you, nor any one in by them-
selves; and now, let me tell you this,” he
goes on slowly and emphatically, “the key



38 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

of that hot-house is safe in my cottage, and
there it will stay till such time as I hands
it over to Robert, afore 1 goes away. Your
father knows it,” he continues, “and as he
never looks at them hisself after dinner,
‘taint quite likely I should give the key to
you, Miss Madge. No, no!” he says, as he
turns once more to his strawberry bed, “the
roses are doing well, and they sha’n’t be
touched by no one else but me, while I’m at
home.”

Although I am delighted at the success
of my plan, I still manage to get a crest-
fallen expression on my face, and as I turn
to leave him, I grumble, “ Well, you might
have lent it to me for a few minutes, I
think; you know I shouldn’t have hurt any-
thing.”

But by this time 1 am too far away to
hear anything he may be saying, and can
only see him shaking his head as he watches
my departure.

My next business is with Simmons, and I
tremble when I think of it; but, stay! a



A VISIT TO OUR LIVE STOCK. 39

bright idea occurs to me. Simmons’ wife
has been suffering from a low fever for some
time, and has no appetite Pve heard. I
will visit my own special fowls and see if
“there are any eges to be had, and if so I'll
take them to Simmons as an offering and
then make my request.

Accordingly, I branch off to the end of
the kitchen-garden, where our live stock,
which is plentiful but varied in style, is
kept.

My presence is duly acknowledged by a
loud cackling, and fluttering of wings, while
from the top of a beam to my right I hear a
deep voice saying, “ Maggie,” followed by a
hoarse cough.

I am quickly surrounded by animals of
all descriptions, rabbits, guinea-pigs, tame
rats, and kittens, while from a heap of straw
in the corner a litter of pups set up a
squeaky bark at me; finding, however, that I
have come with empty hands, they quickly
leave me again with grunts of dissatisfac-
tion.



40 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

On looking down, however, I find I am not
quite deserted, for standing close to my left
foot is Tuft, so called from the little knot of
feathers on top of his head.

Tuft is a crow of great age and antiquity;
he is also blind in one eye, and, as the defec-
tive eye is towards me, the poor deluded
creature still stands beside me, in hopes of
getting a piece of biscuit, or cherry, or some-
thing of the sort.

On examination of the nests I find three
fine eggs, and depart therewith rejoicing.
On the way, unfortunately, one of the kittens
gets under my feet, and with that stupidity
which is peculiar to cats, I believe, refuses to
move. Down I go of course, and smash!
goes one of the eggs, which is annoying in
the extreme.

It is an ill wind that blows no one good,
however, for instantly there is a general
rush, and before I can recover myself, the
egg, shell and all, has disappeared.

Never mind, though, two new-laid eggs
are not to be despised, and comforting my-



INTRODUCED TO THE NEW FOAL. 41

self thus, I free myself from the noisy group
and start for the stables.
' Simmons is walking round, taking a sur-
vey of the horses, and seems for him to be
in a fairly good temper.

Hi







CHAPTER III.

AN EARLY MORNING’S DRIVE.



\{{ OOD evening, Miss Madge,” says
( he, as he touches his hat and
puts down his pipe,—‘ I suppose

KU mS you've come to have a look at the

new foal?”

“Well, I didn’t come on purpose,” I say
confusedly, “but I should like to see it
awfully, of course.” “Come along then,
Miss,” he says, and leads the way to a box
at the far end of the stable.

“Here he is,” says Simmons, and he
throws open the door with pride, and looks
as if he expected me to go in.

I have no intention of doing so however,
for Pve no fancy for being kicked, and the
foal is rushing round the box in such an



I CONFIDE IN SIMMONS. 43

alarming manner that it scems as if this
would be the probable result.

I retreat behind Simmons, therefore, in
rather a cowardly manner T’m afraid, and
feeling bound to make a remark, say:

“ Hasn’t he rather long legs?”

“Long legs!” repeats Simmons, ‘aghast.
“They're beautiful legs, that’s what they are;
why, that foal will grow up to be one of the
best horses in this county, unless I be much
mistaken;” and, apparently very much hurt
at the indifference I show to this wonderful
creature, Simmons closes the door and moves
back to where we first met.

Arrived there I hold out the two eggs to
Simmons and say,—‘ I’ve brought you two
egos for your wife, Simmons. I thought
she might fancy them, perhaps.”

“Thank you, Miss Madge. I’m sure Mrs.
Simmons will be much pleased and honoured
by your thinking of her, and she will enjoy
the eggs too, Miss.”

This is satisfactory so far, so I make up
my mind that it will be my safest plan to



44 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

confide in Simmons, as without doing so, I
feel sure he will never consent to my having
the pony carriage.

I begin at once by saying,—“ I’m afraid
I’ve got into a scrape with Father to-day.”

“No! have you, Miss?” says Simmons
with much interest.

“Yes,” I continue, “and I want you to
help me out of it.”

“Me help you, Miss Madge!” cries Sim-
mons, with astonishment.

“Yes,” I say calmly; “and if you'll really
promise to do what I want Pll tell you all
about it.”

Here I glance round to sce if there is any-
thing in shape of a seat, and seeing a wheel-
barrow handy, I perch myself thereon and
resume: .

“Yes, Simmons, do promise, and [ll tell
you.”

Simmons evidently thinks I am mad, for,
after staring at me for a few seconds, he
says:

“Surely you are joking now, Miss.”



NEGOTIATIONS. 45

“ Not at all,” I say briskly, “ the thing is,
now, will you promise me?” and I lean
forward on the barrow and wait anxiously
for his answer.

After some consideration Simmons goes
up to the nearest horse, and while stroking
his glossy neck he says, slowly:

“ Well, Miss Madge, of course you know
that Pd be glad to do anything I could to
help you out of your difficulty, but I can’t
do nothing that would be against master’s
wishes, you know; so if you'll just let me
know what it is you want I'll think it over a
bit.”

I stop a moment before replying, to won-
der if it will be safe to divulge my secret
before ascertaining if Simmons means to help
me.

I decide not, and make up my mind to
make my request first boldly.

Having settled thus I come to the point
at once and say: ‘‘ Well, the fact is, I want
you to let me have the pony-carriage out
to-morrow.”



46 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

Simmons considers once more, and then
says:

“What time would you be wanting it,
Miss Madge?”

“Oh! very early,” I reply, “very early,
indeed—in fact, you see, I want to get to
M— and back again before breakfast.”

Simmons evidently thinks my madness a



hopeless case, and after another lengthened
stare, says:

* Well, we'll see what can be done, Miss
Madge; but now you must let me know what
it is all about, as I shouldn’t like to enter
into all this without there being a good
reason for it.”

“Oh, but there 7s a very good reason for
it,” I reply promptly, “and I’m sure you'll
think so too when I tell you;” and I settle
myself comfortably in the wheel-barrow
preparatory to holding forth.

“You know,” I commence, “that Father
is going to send roses to the show this year?
Well, I wanted to get some flowers for
Mother this morning, and as I didn’t know



SIMMONS BROUGHT OVER. 47

which were the show roses, of course I went
and cut them;” and at the recollection of the
catastrophe a sob rises to my throat which
nearly chokes me, but I force it back, as I
feel it will not be dignified to give way
before Simmons; and clearing my voice I go
on, “ Well, I've made up my mind to get
more in their place, and I have arranged
everything excepting how I am to get to
M—,, so if you'll only be kind and help me
I expect I shall pull through all right; of
course,” I add, “this is in strict confidence,
you know.”

“Yes, of course, Miss Madge,” says Sim-
mons, and he does not look quite so alarmed
as he did. Then he takes up his pipe, and
after knocking it out, slowly begins to refill it,
while I sit on the edge of the barrow and
watch his movements with anxiety. After
weighing the subject and looking at it from
all points of view, he puts his pipe down
again and says, “ 1 understand what it is now,
and I think I can manage it for you and keep
it quiet too; so if you tell me what time you



48 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

want to be off Tl have the pony-carriage
ready for you myself, agin’ you are.”

“Oh! thanks, Simmons,” I cry, starting
up; “you are a regular brick, and I won't
forget it: but let me sec,” I continue, coming
to the point at once, “what time do you
think I'll want to start?”

“Well, to get back by half-past eight,”
replics Simmons, “‘ you ought to leave by six,
I should say, it takes pretty nigh an hour to
get to M—; and then youll want a little
time to choose your flowers, but I should say
two hours and a half would do you nicely.”

Having settled everything satisfactorily I
scramble out of my seat, and after bidding
Simmons good-bye quite affectionately, leave
the stable. I go and join Jack then, and we
have a pleasant hour's fishing together in our
favourite quiet nook, where the tops of the
trees meet over the water.

We return to the house laden with one
small fish, but, as Jack says, one is better
than nothing. As we pass the open drawing-
room windows we see Father asleep behind



I COMPLETE MY ARRANGEMENTS. 49

the Zimes, Aunt nodding opposite, and
Mother quietly reading on her sofa, for it is
about nine o’clock now, and dinner has been
over some little time.

Freda makes the fourth at dinner always,
but directly she sees her way to it she
escapes from the drawing-room to join the
conclave in the school-room. I find them
all there now engaged in working, reading,
&c., on my entering, but not feeling in-
clined for conversation, I retire to the win-
dow and hang therefrom.

I should like to go out in the garden
again, but dare not, for I should be certain
to run against Father, and no matter what
time it were he would order me off to bed
instantly, and do it as if it were a punish-
ment too.

It’s not long, however, before Miss Mont-
gomery looks up and says cheerfully, “ ‘Time
for bed, Madge,” and I rise without a mur-
mur, and after saying good-night all round,
depart. I am not sorry to go at all, for I
shall have to be up with the lark in the

(220) D



50 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

morning, and, moreover, I have to get my
money together. Fortunately mine is not
one of those insane boxes which are intended
(apparently) never to be opened: mine has
a lock and key, and not only that, the key is
in my own possession, for it is considered a
point of honour in our family not to open
our money-boxes unless there’s some dire
necessity for so doing.

I have a dear little room leading out of
Freda’s, Tiny and Gip having two on the
same principle; and after throwing open my
window to the top, I make my preparations
before getting ready for bed.

Hirst of all I collect all my money together
and put it into my purse, next I get out my
driving-gloves and put them on a chair
ready.

I shall have to chance waking in time, as
there is no watch or clock in my room; but
I am sure to be in time, I think, as I am in
the habit of getting up very early and prowl-
ing about among the animals before break-
fast; and if not, I daresay I shall hear the



TOILET PERFORMED UNDER DIFFICULTIES. 51

great clock outside on the landing; besides I
can easily slip into Freda’s room and peep at
her watch,

Comforting myself thus, I hop into bed,
and am soon in a deep sleep.

The sun streaming into my bed-room win-
dow in the morning wakes me, and I fly out
of bed in alarm and rush out into the passage
to ascertain what time it is. I return with
a sigh of relief, for it is only just half-past
five, and I feel I shall just have time to dress
and get off comfortably. I perform my toilet
as nolselessly as possible, but of course I
drop my brush, and clatter the soap-dish,
and then the frill on my wrist catches a
pin on the cushion and away it goes off
the table, carrying with it an empty scent-
bottle.

I do not stop to pick them up though, for
fear Freda should have heard the noise and
get up to see the meaning of it. So I open
the door hastily, but just as I step across the
threshold, my umbrella, which has a peculiar
talent for tumbling down on the slightest



52 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

provocation, commences slipping on the
boards. I am too late to stop it, so shut the
door hurriedly, and with agony of mind I
hear it go whack on to the floor.

Down-stairs I rush and undo the bolts of
the door: directly I get on to the steps my
spirits rise, however, for I fecl that no one
will dream of looking for me out of doors at
that time of the morning.

The morning is simply lovely, and each
soft breath of wind comes up laden with the
scent of new-mown hay from the fields where
it is lying waiting to be carted away.

The birds, too, were surely never so happy
and joyous as they are this morning, for the
whole garden and the woods beyond resound
with their thrilling notes.

On arriving at the stable I find Simmons,
faithful to his promise, standing by the pony-
carriage, which is all ready.

Directly he sees me he goes back into one
_of the stalls and re-appears with a glass of
milk and a large slice of bread and butter.

“T thought maybe you'd start off without



I START ON MY TRAVELS. 53

thinking of your breakfast, Miss Madge,” he
says, after saying “Good morning” to me,
“so I made bold to cut you some bread and
butter, and bring you a glass of milk.”

“Oh, thanks, Simmons,” I cry, “it was
very good of you to think of it, for if you
hadn’t I should have been starving before I
got home.”

Having disposed of the milk I hop into the
carriage, and throwing the bread and butter
on the opposite seat preparatory to eating it
as I go along, I gather up the reins, and
nodding gratefully to Simmons, turn Frisk’s
head towards the gate.

The animals, one and all, evince a strong
desire to accompany me, but with Simmons’
assistance and a few flourishes of my whip
I at length make them understand that such
is not my intention.

Tuft, as usual, shows most obstinacy, and
looking back I see him dodging Simmons in
a manner that does him eredit, considering
his blindness.

I call out something to this effect, but



54 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

Simmons would not laugh for the world, and
after shutting Tuft in again, stands perfectly
unmoved, touching his hat with the utmost
deference and respect, as if he were seeing
Father himself off, as I tell Jack afterwards.

Frisk appears to be in rather a trying
frame of mind this morning; whether he
thinks his breakfast was cut short or not I
don’t know, but he goes along in anything
but a satisfactory manner, and keeps branch-
ing off to the hedge on either side in a way
which is most provoking, considering the
hurried and anxious state of my feelings. I
remonstrate at first, and make munificent
offers of sugar and bread to be received on
arrival home; but this making no impression,
IT am at last compelled to stand up and
administer a cut over his ears. This having
the desired effect, he starts off into a fast
trot, which carries me along in splendid
style until we meet an unfortunate drove of
small pigs being driven to market. For
some reason or other Frisk entertains a
mortal hatred of pigs, and evinces his diseust



FRISK IS FRISKY! 55

now by suddenly standing still, impatiently
shaking his head, and refusing to stir another
step.

Of course the stupid creatures swarm round
Frisk’s legs, and I am in perfect terror for
fear he should become really frightened and
make a bolt with me.

Without stopping to think, therefore, I
throw down the reins and jump out with the
intention of holding his head. At the very
moment of my putting my foot to the
ground, however, one of the largest pigs
makes a rush at my legs, and with a cry
of mingled rage and disgust down I go
sprawling in the dust.

I recover myself before the pig does,
though, and administer some hard slaps,
which send him howling and squeaking after
his brethren.

It is not till then that [ am conscious of a
rough but kindly voice saying:

“Murther an’ Irish! but that’s a nasty
baste of a pig. But come now, it’s not kilt
intirely ye are, so git up and be aisy a minit



56 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

till I clare the dirt from off ye;” and before
I can say yea or nay my arm is grasped
firmly and I am once more on my feet.

On looking up I find my friend is nothing
more nor less than an Irish drover, and he
certainly looks my beau-ideal of an Irishman,
with his crownless hat, drover’s stick, and
ragged coat.

I am perfectly delighted at this unex-
pected opportunity of a chat with a real
“Pat,” for, as Father hates Irishmen one and
all, we never have any to work about our
place; so with a beaming smile I thank him
warmly for his timely aid. He receives my
thanks with the most deferential politeness ;
and if it were not for the natural anxiety I
feel for the welfare of his hat, I should con-
sider myself a person of much importance.

This article of apparel, however, has been
taken off and put on again so many times
during our conversation that I fear the one
side of the brim to which it is attached may
follow the example of the other and take its
departure altogether. This little defect in his



“PAT” TO THE RESCUE, 57

wearing apparel does not appear to occasion
him the same amount of anxiety, though, for
he smiles and bows and looks in the highest
spirits as he helps me into the carriage.

Before settling myself again I feel in my
pocket for a stray sixpence which I remem-
ber having put there yesterday, and drawing
it forth with my handkerchief amidst a
shower of crumbs, cherry-stones, slate-pencils,
pens, &c., I tender it to my companion and
say, “ Please take this; and can you tell me
any shorter road than this to M—?”

“Och and begorra, now!” he says, after
pocketing the sixpence with alacrity, “but
that’s a puzzling question that your axing
me, for sure it’s only one road at all that
there is; but it’s not disappointing ye that
Td be after all, so [ll tell ye this, that the
further ye goes on that the nearer ye'll be to
the end of it.”

Having thanked him for this piece of
information, I fecl that I am wasting valu-
able time; so, after wishing him “Good
morning!” and receiving another shower of



58 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

thanks for the sixpence, I shake the reins,
and once more Frisk and I are off on our
travels. .

We do not meet with any further adven-
tures on our way; and as I drive over the
noisy stones with which M— is paved, I
am thankful to see from the Town Hall clock
that it is only just seven. I have an hour
and a half, therefore, in which to make my
purchases and get home..







CHAPTER IV.

BREAKFAST WITH FATHER.





“Ro
WatN{( HE nursery-grounds lie at the other
side of the town, however, just on
SH the outskirts, so I whip up Frisk
e ey in order that he shall understand

that I mean business, and we
pass quickly through the streets. We do
not meet many people, but those we do meet
stare as if they had never seen anything
resembling either myself, Frisk, or the car-
riage before. I pass them all, however, with
great unconcern as they stand open-mouthed
on the pavement, and very soon we turn off
into a lane and stop before a little gate, over
which a large board is fixed, with a notice
to the effect that James Mullins, gardener
and florist, undertakes to lay out gardens





60 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

and supply his customers with choice cut
flowers. .

Having beckoned to a small boy who has
watched my approach with great awe and
interest, I place Frisk in his charge, and, after
giving him strict injunctions not to hold his
head, as he has an awkward habit of biting
anyone who takes this liberty, I open the
gate, and, after walking down one of the
paths a little way, stand and look about
me.

I see Mr. James Mullins in the distance,
busy with his raspberry canes, so I bend my
steps thither and somewhat astonish him by
suddenly saying close to his ear:

“Good morning, Mr. Mullins! it’s a fine
day, isn’t it?”

“Why, bless my heart alive! if ’tain’t
Miss Erickson,” says the little man, and he
stands up; and, after pushing his hat further
off his head, continues:

“Why, you don’t mean to tell me, Miss,
that you've come all the way from the Oaks
this morning.”



AN AWFUL PREDICAMENT. 61

“Yes, I have,” I answer briskly; “and I’ve
come on very important business too. I
want to look at your roses, and choose some
to take back with me.”

“Lors, now! you don’t mean it, Miss
Erickson,” says Mullins with great astonish-
ment; “you as has the finest roses for miles
round in your garden.”

“Yes,” I say impatiently; “but I want a
particular kind, you see—some, in fact, that
we haven’t got; and please show me some
quickly,’ I add desperately, “for Pm in a
ereat hurry, and I must be very particular in
choosing them.”

“Well, then, come along this way and I'll
show you what we’ve got;” and the fat little
man leads the way to a greenhouse a few
yards distant.

I am lost in wonder and admiration of his
nether garments while walking behind him,
for, besides the prodigious width thereof,
they reach beyond the middle of his back;
and I am just wondering how many yards of
stuff can possibly have been put into them,



62 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

when he startles me by suddenly stopping,
and, throwing open the door, he says:

“Step in, please, Miss, and take a look
round,”

I narrowly escape falling on his back, as
I have been dreaming on behind him fully
taken up for the time with the subject of the
trousers; but I pull myself up in time, and,
stepping past him, see a splendid collection
of roses of every description before me. I
proceed to explain that I want red and tea
roses, and that I must have four of one
and three of the other; but I find to my
horror that I have utterly forgotten whether
it was three tea and four red, or vice versa.

I say it over a few times, first one way
and then the other, to see which sounds best,
and finally decide that three red and four tea
are the correct numbers.

Accordingly I set to work, with Mr. Mul-
lins’ assistance, and select two beauties.

“Ts it for the show you're wanting them,
Miss?” he says, as he takes the pots and
stands them on the gravel outside.



I SELECT SOME FINE ROSES. 63

“Yes—no,” I say confusedly; “that is,
they may go among others, you know. I
believe we are going to send some; are you?”
I add hastily.

“Well, no; I ain’t a-going to send none
this year. It don’t pay, you see, Miss, and
it’s a deal of bother too; but may be I shall
go and take a look round. Ive heard that
your pas and Mr. Monckton’s is the best;
what say you, Miss?”

“Yes, I believe they're considered very
good,” I say, feeling myself growing crim-
son; “but now, how much are these? and
will you have them done up carefully
with sticks, so that they don’t break, you
know?”

“Yes, yes, I'll see to that; and now about
the price, as you say, Miss; I don’t wish to
charge you too much, you see. Here, Tom,”
he calls, on seeing a youth approaching us,
“take these ’ere roses and tie them up with
sticks, and then take them to the young
lady’s carriage yonder.”

Then turning again to me he continues,



64 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

“Well, as to the price, suppose we says fifteen
shillings for the two?”

This is really a relief to my mind, for I
have been tormented with ideas that the
flowers, so fine as they are, might possibly
come to more than I had in my possession,
though I hardly thought it likely; so without
the smallest hesitation I pull out my purse
and present him with the amount. He then
escorts me to the gate with great ceremony,
and after seeing me into the carriage and
propping the pots up beside me, stands
leaning on the gate watching me as I drive

“off.

I glance at the clock as once more we pass
down the High Street, and find that it is
already a quarter past seven. There is no
occasion to inform Frisk of this fact, however,
for his head once being turned towards
home, he makes good use of his legs, and we
get home in about half the time that we
were coming. [ am just proceeding to con-
gratulate myself on having arrived without
being seen, when I descry a figure strolling







JACK APPEARS ON THE SCENE. 65

along the road before me. This figure has a
* basket slung across his back and something
long in his hand, and as I gain on him what
is my surprise and alarm to recognize my
brother Jack!

My heart gives a great jump and I feel
that I am done for; but in another second I
have made up my mind to put a bold face
on the matter, and if necessary make a con-
fidant of Jack.

By the time I have come to this conclusion
I am close upon him, and turning round in
astonishment at the sight of a pony-carriage
at that early hour of the day, he is evidently
greatly relieved on finding it is only I, and
accordingly greets me with his usual remark
of:

“Qh! it’s you, is it?”

I pull up Frisk on hearing this, and say
severely:

“Why, where on earth have you been,
and what have you got in that basket?”

Jack returns my look with an equally

severe one, and fixing his eyes remorselessly
(220) E



66 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

on the flowers, which are quivering and
shaking by my side, says, “I should think
it’s for me to ask that question; pray for
whom are those flowers intended? They
look uncommonly like some of Father's.”

This news raises my spirits, and feeling
certain that it will be best to take Jack into
my confidence, I as usual dash into the sub-
ject at once, and commence with, ‘ Look
here, Jack, I’ve got into an awful scrape, at
least I should have if any one knew—but—
but I think I shall get on all right if you
won't tell?”

“Well,” answers Jack, “of course I can’t
promise, you know; but let’s hear what it is
and we'll see.”

Whereupon I tell him the whole history
without reserve, and then proceed to question
Jack as to his mornine’s work, as to the law-
fulness of which I have some doubts. Also
I do not see why I should be “confessing” to
him, when in all probability he has been up
to far more mischief than I have, which is
soon proved to be the case.



SIMMONS ON THE LOOK-OUT. 67

“Well,” he replies, “if you must know,
I’ve been fishing.”

“Fishing!” I exclaim, aghast. ‘Oh,
Jack!”

“Well, and what if I have?” replies he
with much nonchalance. “I suppose if you
say nothing about it no one will be any the
wiser. So as you ask the same thing of me,
why not ery ‘quits’ and have done with it?”

“Well, if you promise me, of course you
know J sha’n’t tell,’ I say with dignity; “and
now you may as well hop in and let me take
you the rest of the way, only look sharp, for
if we stand talking here we shall both run a
good chance of meeting Father.” Jack takes
my advice and off we go at a sharp trot.

Having dropped him a few yards back, I
turn into the stable and find Simmons on
the look-out for me.

“All right, Miss Madge?” he asks as he
takes Frisk and commences unfastening the
harness.

“Oh, yes, thanks,” I say, “and I’ve got
two beauties of pots. I’d show them to you



68 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

if I could, but I must make haste and hide
them, so if you wouldn’t just mind taking
them out of the carriage carefully, Pll be off
at once.”

“Maybe I shall get a chance of seeing
them at the show, Miss Madge,” Simmons
remarks, as, having got a pot tucked comfort-
ably under each arm, I am on the point of
departing, feeling that it is dangerous to stay
talking there. I shake my head doubtfully
at this suggestion, and make a rush of it
through the back gate to the barn.

I am only just in time, for as I step in I
hear Simmons in the distance, saying:

“Yes, sir, I found that we was getting
short of beans, sir, so as I thought the pony
could best be spared, I sent James out along
with him.”

I tremble to think what a narrow escape
I’ve had, for it is evident that I have only
just missed meeting Father face to face, and
as I place my two treasures safe behind an
old wheel-barrow, which has been placed there
as “unloadworthy,” I feel eternally grateful



MY WHISTLING IS CUT SHORT. 69

to Simmons for his happy thought, and it is
with a thankful heart, for having got through
my complication of troubles so far safely,
that I turn to leave the barn.

I go sauntering on towards the house with
my hands clasped behind me, and—the
truth must be told—whistling as blithely as
any bird, for whistling is my only musical
accomplishment, with the exception of a fairly
decent voice, perhaps, which is made generally
useful by the family for glees, quartcttes, &c.,
for if the soprano be absent, the cry is,
“Where’s Madge? put her in, she can scream
to any height;” or if Father’s bass is missing
—for on occasions of music in the drawing-
room he actually joins us and makes himself
agreeable, being really proud of our musical
powers—there is a general cry for Madge,
somebody being certain to add that “Madge’s
voice will reach the depths of the ocean.”

But though Father is tolerant of my variable
voice in part singing, he will never allow me
to perform a solo, for Freda has a clear, ring-
ing soprano voice, Gip a fine deep contralto,



70 " -MADGE’S MISTAKE,

which will be finer still when she is older,
and Tiny a delightfully sweet mezzo, which
charms all who hear her.

It is hardly surprising, therefore, that he
looks upon my vocal performances as merely
a necessary evil! Having arrived in sight
of the verandah, which runs all along the
front of the house, I am suddenly startled
by a voice therefrom, which demands in no
gentle voice, “‘ Who is that whistling?”

“Me,” I reply, as with a flushed counte-
nance I present myself before my enraged
parent.

“Oh! you, is it?” he replies, as he fixes
his piercing eyes on mine; “ well, ’'d advise
you to try ‘I’ next time; now go in to your
breakfast, and don’t let me hear you whist-
ling again, do you hear?”

I do hear, but I do not stop to say so, ‘and
in a twinkling I am seated at the breakfast-
table, at which I find the whole family as-
sembled, with the exception of Mother and
Netty.

There is a Babel of voices as I enter the



A GLOOMY BREAKFAST. 71

room, which is hushed, however, on the sound
of heavy footsteps approaching the open
window, and as Father seats himself at the
table and glances round at us, we one and all
appear to be deeply engaged with our break-
fasts,

“Tea or coffee?” says my aunt, as she
reaches over for a cup.

“Coffee,” replies Father, and then he tears
open a letter and frowns over the contents.
Aunt has filled the cup, and is just m the
act of adding the milk, when Father looks
up again and startles her by saying, “No;
give me some tea; I’ve got a confounded
headache this morning, and if it’s not better
after my breakfast I shall put off going away
till to-morrow.”

A wild terror falls on all of us, but on me
particularly, and my hand shakes so at hear-
ing this awful announcement that the risole
which Freda has just telegraphed for, and
which I am fishing from the dish, trembles
on the fork and falls on to the cloth, break-
ing into several pieces with the shock. I



72 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

get contemptuous glances from both Father
and Jack, and the former mutters “Clumsy ;”
but Miss Montgomery, to the fore as usual,
seizes a spoon and quietly pops the ruins
into Jack’s plate, that being the nearest re-
ceptacle, and then, leaning across me, helps
Freda to another; and once more there is
unbroken silence for a few minutes. Pres-
ently Father looks up suddenly and asks,
“Who is going to the flower-show next
week?”

We all look first at Father and then at
each other, and remain dumb, for we know
well enough that we shall have no voice in
the matter; and that whoever he chooses
himself will be obliged to go with a cheerful
~ countenance. Aunt evidently fears that our
obstinate silence may provoke Father, so she
looks up and says quietly:

“T suppose Freda, being the eldest, will
go, and perhaps Tiny; but, of course, I don’t
know how many of them you wish to take.

“Well, so be it, then,” replies Father,
rising from the table and throwing down the



WHO WILL ACCOMPANY FATHER? 73

table-napkin. “Freda and Tiny go with
me, and perhaps Miss Montgomery will take
any of the younger ones she thinks proper.”

“Certainly,” says Miss M.; and Freda and
Tiny utter “Yes, Father,’ meekly, trying,
poor things, to look pleased at the honour
awarded them, while Father continues to
Aunt, “Just see for me, Joan, that the car-
riage is ordered to be at the door, and that
there is no nonsense with the girls not being
ready. I shall only get home again just in
time to start for the gardens, so pray have
everything ready.”

“JT think you'd better speak to Simmons
yourself about the carriage, perhaps,” says
Aunt, looking alarmed; “but Ill look after
the girls and see that they’re ready in time.”

“Very well; do as you like;” and off stalks
Father into his study. Freda’s and Tiny’s
faces instantly fall, and the former with a
very decided pout says, “ What a bore! I
thought we should all go with Miss M. (our
common mode of addressing her) or Aunt,
and really enjoy ourselves. It’s a regular

o



74 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

sell, isn’t it, Tiny? But I do believe (stop-
ping short and looking at her,) I do believe
she does not care.

“Well, where’s the use,” replies Tiny,
swinging her feet; “ besides, we shall be able
to talk to more people that way.”

“Only old frumps,” say Freda contemptu-
ously. “Father will take good care we don’t
talk to any gentlemen, excepting old Monck-
ton or Mr. Featherstone, perhaps.”

“Nonsense!” chimes in Tiny; “he can’t
prevent our speaking to people we know, and
everyone we do know about here is sure to
be there; and, as they are certain to come
and speak to us, we sha’n’t do badly, I
daresay.”

“Tiny’s a sensible young woman,” says
Jack suddenly, throwing himself into the
argument. “If you play your cards well
and don’t appear to mind being with him,
he’s certain to introduce you right and left,
especially if you dress yourselves properly.
Why, I heard him telling old Monckton the
other day that there was not a girl that could



GENERAL DISSATISFACTION. 75

hold a candle to his eldest daughter at the
last county ball.”

“No! did he?” cries Freda, brightening ~
up. “Oh! well, we must make the best of
it, I suppose, Tiny.”

“Best of it indeed!” cries Gip rather
snappishly ; it will be a best, 1 expect. You
two will go in the carriage, while we unfor-
tunate creatures will be toiling along the hot
dusty road; and by the time we get there
we shall not be fit to be seen, much less
talked to.”

“You can’t expect to go in the carriage
when you have two sisters older than your-
self,” puts in Aunt; “ but if Miss Montgomery
would not mind driving, you can have the
pony-carriage. There will be no need of
walking at all.”

“Oh, Pll drive!” cries Gip; but at a look
from Aunt she stops short and_ blushes
scarlet.

“You forget, my dear,” she says, “ that
Miss Montgomery i8 going with you.”

“Yes; I beg pardon,” says Gip, turning

>



76 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

towards Miss M.; and Jack (who is really
good-natured when occasion requires) comes
to the rescue by attacking Freda once more.

“T suppose you and Tiny won’t condescend
to know the younger members of your fam-
ily,” he says.

“Of course not,” they both cry; and peace
being restored once more, off we all troop to
our different pursuits. (Did I mention that
we were in the midst of our summer holi-
days?)

I seize my opportunity now and rush out
of doors, straight to the kitchen-garden.

aE
he





CHAPTER V.

THE MISSING KEY,




LTHOUGH my tongue was silent at

es breakfast, my brain has been busy,

joy and I have arranged a bold plan
“ca which (though I tremble at the
thought of it) must be carried out. “In
for a penny, in for a pound,” I think, as,
looking round cautiously first, I take a
knife from my pocket and hastily cut some
of the strings which bind one of our finest
pear-trees to the wall. Down drops a heavy
branch, not broken as yet, though it most
assuredly will be if it is left long.

Returning the knife to my pocket, I rush
blindly into the front garden towards the
hot-houses.

I am only just in time, for Williams is



78 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

there just putting the key into the door of
the one in which the roses ought to be.

“Williams!” I cry; “Williams! there’s
a pear branch fallen on the south wall, and
the weight of the pears will break it off if it
is not looked to; I couldn’t do it by myself,
[-~”

Williams waits to hear no more, but
rushes off, and my plan has succeeded. I
instantly rush off to the barn, and run blindly
against someone who is coming out. I look
up terrified and sce Jack with my flowers, a
pot under each arm.

“Hush!” he says. “Come along; I thought
I'd help you, and have been on the look-out;
run and open the door—quick!” Without a
word I fly, and in a trice the new pots are
lodged safely in the places of the original
ones; and while I carefully lock the door,
Jack, armed with the old ones, clambers into
the hay-loft, whither, after looking round to
see if we have been observed, I follow him.

“There!” says Jack, as he leans against
the wall and fans himself, I’ve done you a



WILLIAMS GETS INTO A SCRAPE. 79

good turn for once. Whe—w! how hot I
am!”

“Yes, Jack!” I cry enthusiastically;
“you're a perfect duck;” and, carried away
by my feelings of gratitude, I fly at him and
give him a hug.

“All right! don’t bother,” says Jack, who
does not appreciate this burst of sisterly
affection, “I thought I might do something
for you, as you didn’t behave altogether
badly about the fishing.”

Having hidden the key safely under a
loose board we once more descend from the
loft, and turning into the dining-room from
the verandah, hear Father storming and
stamping about in the next room.

We pretty well know what is amiss, but
nevertheless think it advisable to ask, and
follow Aunt out for that purpose. In the
halk we find Williams standing twirling his
hat round and round, and looking the
picture of misery.

“T’m sure, sir, I don’t know how it could
a happened. I was just fixing up a branch



80 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

on the south wall, and didn’t Icave the hot-
house more nor two minutes, leastways five
at the most, and when I came back, there
was the door, sir, as tight as wax, sir, and
the key nowheres as I could see.”

I here pull Jack’s sleeve, and whisper,
“Come along, don’t let us stay any longer; ”
and as we creep quietly out of the front door
we hear Father say, “More confounded care-
lessness; it will ruin the tree for this year.”

“Oh, Jack!” I say, when we are out of
sight and hearing, “I’m afraid we have got
poor Williams into an awful scrape. I wish
I hadn’t done it.

“Oh, well, never mind, cheer up,” says
Jack consolingly; “it will be all right in the
end.”

“Vm not so sure of that,” I say dejectedly.
“Oh dear! I wonder if I shall ever be like
other girls, and not always getting into
scrapes, as I am.”

“T sincerely hope you won't;” and as
Jack speaks he tucks my arm under his,
adding, “Come, cheer up, old girl; PI take



FATHER’S DEPARTURE. 81

you fishing by and by when Father's gone,
and I'll go out with you all for your morn-
ine’s walk with Miss M. if you like; then if
you stick to me we can talk things over a
bit.” This last is a great condescension on
Jack’s part, forif any one is ever rash enough
to suggest his going out with us, his reply is,
“No, thanks, you don’t catch me going out
with such a troop of girls; why, if any one
met us, they would think I had joined an
‘Establishment for Young Ladies.’ No, no,
you needn’t ask me.”

‘I thank him gratefully, therefore, for his
munificent offer, and just as I am telling him
how good Mother, Aunt, and Miss M. were
about keeping silence on the subject, we hear
wheels coming from the direction of the
stable, and peeping over the low hedge, we
see to our delight that it is the dog-cart evi-
dently going round for Father. At the same
moment we see Miss M. rushing wildly about
the garden, apparently in search of somebody
or Something. Sure enough she flies towards

us directly we emerge from the sheltered
(220) F



82 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

path along which we have been walking, and
beckoning energetically, cries, “Oh, Madge,
where have you been all this time? First
your mother wanted you, and now your
father is waiting to say good-bye to you
and Jack. Pray, make haste; he will be so
angry if you keep him standing there.”

We need no second bidding, and rush off
helter-skelter, nearly tripping each other up
in our haste and anxiety. Father is stand-
ing on the steps looking from right to left
impatiently. The cloud is just clearing from
his face as he sees us, when an unkind
scraper takes hold of and detains a small
piece of braid on my dress, which I have
been desired to sew on times out of number:
on I go, however, unconscious of the fact
until I feel a sharp pull, lose my footing,
and fall with great violence against Father’s
legs,

It is Jack who helps me up and presents
me rather a soiled handkerchief, which I
-press to my poor bleeding chin; but Father
does say as he goes slowly down the steps:



THE ANIMALS OFFER CONSOLATION. 83

“I hope you are not hurt: you should
learn to walk properly like a young lady,
and not go rushing about like a wild creature;”
and Miss M., who has just come up, says,
“Madge, how many times have I desired you
to sew that piece of braid on your dress?”

I don’t answer, for if I open my lips to
speak I know I shall cry, and I dare not ery
before Father, for I know from bitter experi-
ence that to shed one tear before him is to
be banished from society for the rest of the
day; so I gulp down my emotion, and having
handed Jack’s handkerchief to him, with a
smothered sob follow Father down the steps,
and hold up my injured countenance for his
farewell kiss. This being given, I turn away
and walk quietly by myself down one of the
paths until I am out of sight, then I rush
into the kitchen-garden, and making straight
for the menagerie, throw myself down in the
midst of the animals and howl to my heart’s
content. The animals all gather round me,
and offer consolation in various voices; and
Jock, my dear old collie, comes and stands



84 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

beside me, and pushing his velvet nose into
my hand, looks up pityingly with his soft
brown eyes into my face.

The attentions of all these affectionate
animals tend to raise my spirits, till, with
Tuft perched on my shoulder, a kitten in
my lap, and Jock’s glossy head resting on
my arm, I really feel moderately happy
again,

Tam stroking Kitty and wondering what
my next move had better be, when, hearing
a footstep, I look up and see Jack strolling
towards me.

“T thought I should find you here,” he
says when he gets within hearing; then
coming up amongst us all and seating him-
self on the rabbit-hutch, he continues, “I’ve
brought you the last news, thinking you
might like to hear it.”

“Well?” I say, without looking up.

“Oh, you need not hear it if you don’t
wish!” says Jack majestically, and he turns
and begins to march towards the gate.

“Come back!” I ery, jumping up with



JACK BRINGS THE LATEST NEWS. 85

alacrity, “come back; you know I want to
hear it.”

“Why couldn’t you say so, then,” grumbles
Jack, as once more he seats himself.

“Well, for the first thing, Father’s gone;
secondly, Williams has just had a telegram
to say he must leave at once—his sister is
much worse; and thirdly, he gave orders to
Robert before leaving to sweep all round the
hothouse to see if the key has fallen down
anywhere near; so your best plan would be
to get the key at once and pop it under some
leaves near the door.”

“Then has Williams really gone?” I ery,
starting up.

“Yes,” replies Jack; “he was quite ready,
and had just time to catch the twelve up-
train, so he spoke to Mother and she said
he’d better go off at once. I must say,” he
adds, “ that everything seems to be going in
your favour. I only wish I could get out of
all m¥ scrapes as easily.”

“Qh, it’s not as easy as you think,” I say,
feeling rather offended; “I’m sure I’ve thought



86 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

and thought so hard during the last two
days that I shouldn’t wonder if I find my
hair has turned quite gray when it is
all finished;” and with that I get up and
march off.

“Well, don’t be cross,” says Jack, follow-
ing me; “you really have arranged every-
thing so well that it has all seemed to go as
smooth as silk; but come along now or you
may lose your opportunity. I will keep on
the look-out, if you like, while you do the
work.”

“All right!” I cry, and rushing off I scram-
ble up into the hay-loft and lift the board,
secure the key, and hastily descend again —
too hastily, however, for when I arrive at the
fourth rung of the rickety ladder, my foot
slips, and clutching at it wildly to save my-
self, down we both come to the ground. I
get my feet clear of the ladder, however,
before we are both levelled with the dust,
and jumping up find that I am no worse for
my fall, with the exception of a little super-
fluous dust, which is soon shaken off. J am



GIP LOSES HER HAT. 87

quite accustomed to falls of all descriptions,
so one more or less does not make much
difference to me, and I run off after restoring
the ladder to its original position, and getting
a nod of encouragement from Jack, who
stands as sentry, I carefully place the key
near the door under some leaves.

No sooner is this done than I hear Miss
M. calling me once more, and Jack joining
ime, we both hasten towards the house.

Miss M. is standing on the steps ready
dressed for walking, and as I make my
appearance, flushed and heated with anxiety,
she says: “I do wish you would give up
running and tearing about this hot weather;
you will certainly throw yourself into a fever
if you do not. Now go and get dressed for
your walk. We have all been waiting some
minutes.” I hear a hot dispute going on as
I cross the hall, between Freda, Tiny, and
Gip, the last of whom is dressed for walking,
all but her hat. There is a general rummage
going on among the cloaks and hats on the
stand, and as I approach the group Freda



88 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

says, “I know I put it here when I came
in from the garden last night;” and Tiny
Says:

“Depend upon it, I’m right; she is always
running away with something or other of
somebody’s.”

Then as I appear on the scene she cries
triumphantly, “There, didn’t I say so!” and
Gip, turning quickly, makes a snatch at the
hat I am wearing, and pulling it off without
ceremony, tosses mine towards me, and turn-
ing to the glass completes her toilette.

“Well, how should I know it was not
mine?” I ask, as I stoop and raise my own
hat from the floor; “they are all alike,
though I do remember now that it was
always falling off my head this morning.”

“How should you know!” repeats Gip;
“why, by looking for your name in it, I
suppose; they are all marked though they
are alike.”

“Oh, fancy stopping to look when one is
in a hurry!” I exclaim, laughing at the bare
idea of such a thing. “You have often



MY GLOVES? 89

taken mine when you have been late and it
happened to come first.” Having adorned
myself with my hat and necktie—of course
my gloves are nowhere to be found, and
having tumbled over all the articles in my
drawers I leave them in a state of wild con-
fusion, and look hopelessly round the room,
“Come, we can’t wait for ever for you,”
cries Freda up at my window.

At this I turn again to the drawers, for
surely they must be there, and saying to
myself, “More haste, less speed,” which is
the proverb of all others I most believe in,
I institute a careful search.

I have just found one glove, and am hope-
fully looking for the other, when there is a
gradual crescendo of voices outside, which is
suppressed, however, by Miss M., who coming
under my window says: “ We will walk on
slowly, Madge, and you can follow;” and
Jack says: “TIl wait for you, only do look
shafp;” so it is evident that he has made his
magnificent intention known to the party.
“All right!” I say, “coming;” and catching



90 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

sight of the missing glove at last, I pounce
on it, and arrive in the hall (where I find
Jack, true to his word) in two or three
bounds, and in a few seconds we catch the
others up.









CHAPTER VI.

BREAKFAST WITHOUT FATHER.




ii do not go tearing along as if
our lives depended on it, as

At OP SSR

ep x some girls are made to do, but
4 /) ie
AS we all stroll along leisurely,

walking first with one, then with another,
and. plucking the lovely wild roses as we go,
not without a few shrill screams at the sharp
pricks we get in so doing.

Presently we come to a field in which
there are numberless grassy hillocks, and for
which there are various names; we girls
generally speaking of it as the ‘ Knoll,”
while Jack calls it the amateur graveyard.
Having arrived here we one and all throw
ourselvés down on the inviting - looking
mounds to rest.



92 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

“ Whe—w!” remarks Jack, as he takes off
his hat and throws it down; “it is hot and
no mistake. I suppose it’s this wretched
comet upsetting the weather so,”

“Not so much the comet,” replies Miss
M., “as the spots on the sun; the comet
does affect it too, no doubt, but we may put
it down much more to the sun.”

“Wow so; what do you mean?” inquires
Jack, looking interested.

“Have not you heard?” continues Miss
M., “that the sun this summer has several
spots on it, and that it is generally supposed
that these are little holes in the envelope or
outer covering of the sun, and in consequence
of this it is supposed that the rays of heat
we get through these are much more in-
tense (“or as Freda would say,” interrupts
Jack, “more intensely utterly too too!”).

“Nonsense!” says Miss M. smiling;
“don’t be ridiculous, Jack,— Iwas about
to say that the rays from the gun are much
more intense than usual.”

“Oh! I see,” remarks Jack. “Then the



JACK’S PRESCRIPTION. 93

fact of it is the sun is in an unnatural state
of heat—is feverish, in fact.”

“Yes, if you like to have it so,” replies
Miss M. smiling; “or more correctly speak-
ing, this is the effect it has on the earth, I
do not say that the sun itself has more heat
than usual.”

“Well, I suppose the best thing would be
for it to take some cooling doses,” says Jack,
seriously; “I think Tl send up a box of
seidlitz-powders—let me see, how should I
direct them, I wonder?—

—— Son, Esq.,
With Jack Erickson’s compliments.
Directions.—The powders: one to be taken
every other morning before breakfast,

Py
!

for a week

A shout of laughter follows this sugges-
tion, and Miss M. again requests Jack not to
be nonsensical.

“Well, I don’t see anything nonsensical
in that; do you, now, Madge?” he says, pre-



94 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

tending to be deeply offended. “That’s just
what Dr. Randall ordered me when I ap-
peared at breakfast one morning at school,
with two ornaments on my face, consisting of
a spot on my chin and another on my nose!
The doctor said they were heat-spots. So if
this treatment cleared my complexion, why
shouldn’t it do the same for the sun?”

Another burst of merriment, in the midst
of which, however, Miss M. rises and declares
it to be time we retraced our steps.

The first thing we hear on our arrival
home is that the key has been found and
peace and happiness are once more restored.
My spirits also being restored to a more
equable state I begin to consider what will
be the most pleasant way of spending the
afternoon.

Really I need some rest after all my
anxiety, and if I can combine it with pleasure
it will be all the better.

I wonder what Jack is going to do!—if
I thought it would be of any use I’d ask
him to go on the river with me, but I dare-



A PROPOSAL 95

say he will be off on one of his everlasting
fishing expeditions: anyway there can be no
harm in asking him, so I start off at once
and soon discover him lounging in the ham-
mock. I come to the point at once and say,
“Jack, I have something to propose to you.”

“Well, out with it,” answers Jack; “only
I hope it’s nothing more about those precious
roses 2”

“O no!” I ery hastily; “thank goodness
they are finished with for the present, so
pray don’t remind me of them: no, I was
wondering if you would care to come on the
river this afternoon? it’s awfully hot to play
tennis or anything, and I thought if you were
not going fishing that it would be rather
jolly.”

“Well, so it would, of course,’ answers
Jack; “but I must say it’s rather a good joke .
your proposing such a thing, when you pre-
tend to be so tremendously shocked when-
ever I go out fishing; pray, what would
Father say if he heard we had been on the
river alone?”



96 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

“Nothing,” I reply promptly. “Why, I
thought you knew that we had permission, all
of us, to go out in the boat any time before
sunset, as long as we never go beyond the
Hull Farm gate, which you know one can’t
very well pass without seeing, as it is half
sunk in the water, and no easy matter to
steer round, even when one wants to—no,
don’t you be afraid, Jack,” I say confidently,
“Father knew what he was about, depend
upon it; he knows there are few people
handle a scull better than Gip and J, and
what is more, he knows that we can both
swim.”

“Well, £ never knew anything about it,”
remarks Jack, after this long explanation;
“but, then, I don’t think I’ve heard the boat
mentioned since I came home this term;
besides, I don’t care for rowing much myself,
you know, so it’s natural I shouldn’t trouble
my head about the matter.”

“Yes, of course,” I reply; “and as to your
hearing nothing about the boat, that’s not
surprising either, for it only came back from



DLOATING. 97

the boat-builder’s last Saturday—been to be
done up and painted, you know.”

“Done up and painted!” exclaims Jack;
“why, I thought it was only built last
year!”

“Why, yes, so it was,” I answer; “but
Capt. Morris and Mr, Greenway took Freda
and Tiny out one day early this summer,
and they went and gave it a great bang
against that willow about two miles up, you
know, where there are a whole lot of small
trees half in and half out of the water: well,
at all events it requires some management
to pass that spot comfortably, and they
weren't up to it, I suppose; anyway Freda
screamed, Capt. Morris broke the boat-hook,
and between them all they managed to
scrape a good part of the paint off one side.
Great simpletons! didn’t they all look small
when they came back to dinner, and you
should have seen Father’s face as he handed
the girls out! he didn’t say much, but I
‘suppose, like the parrot, he thought all the

more!”
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University
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The Baldwin Library

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BLACKIE’S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.

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MADGE’S MISTAKE.

=

MADGE’S MISTAKE:

A

RECOLLECTION OF GIRLHOOD.

BY

ANNIE E. ARMSTRONG,

Author of ‘“‘Ethel’s Journey to Strange Lands,” “ Prince
Narcissus,” &c. &,

ILLUSTRATED.



LONDON:

BLACKIE & SON, 49 & 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.;
GLASGOW, EDINBURGH, AND DUBLIN.
1884,

CONTENTS.

Chap. Page
I. Cur Rosss, - - : 7 - - - 9
II. A SxetcH of our Famity, - - - - 26
III. An Earty Mornine’s Drive, - — - ‘ - 42
IV. BREAKFAST WITH FATHER, - - - - 59
V. Tue Missine Key, - - - - - - 7
VI. BREAKFAST WITHOUT FATHER, - « . - 91
VII. Tur Rosz-sHow, - - - - - - 113
VIII. Trvy’s ADMIRER, - . - - - - 127
IX. Taz Resutt oF tHE RoszE-sHow, : - - 146





MADGE’S MISTAKE.

CHAPTER I.

CUT ROSES.

{ HE fact is, it is quite time Madge

| went to school. She was twelve
SH, years old yesterday, and her sisters,
ZZ



or at all events some of them, were
sent when younger than she is.”
So says my aunt.

The state of the case is this. I have been
distinguishing myself as usual, and am now
standing beside Mother's sofa, looking down
ruefully at a large bunch of roses (many of
them newly blown) which I have just been
cutting in the hot-house with a slashing
pair of scissors (Aunt’s cutting-out scis-
10 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

sors), without thinking of their probable des-
tiny.

“Your father will be nicely upset when he
hears of it,” continues my aunt, as she gives
an angry little shake to her work and takes
up her needle again; “however, you'd better
tell him yourself when he comes in, for I’m
tired of begging you off, as I am constantly
doing, and perhaps it will be a lesson for
you.” Two great tears which have been
blinding me for the last minute or so now
fall flop on the carpet, and after shining
there for an instant sink into the soft
pile.

“Come here, Madge, dear!” says Mother,
as she holds out her poor, thin hand to-
wards me; “did you not know that your
father had been rearing these particular
flowers for the great rose-show at M
week 2”

“No!” I say abruptly. “I knew he was
bothering and fussing about them; but I
thought they were for you, of course, and I
know you like to have them before they are

next


I LEARN MY MISTAKE. 11

quite blown, so that you can watch them
open, and as Williams wasn’t there I just cut
them myself.”

“ Like a troublesome interfering child that
you are,” puts in my aunt, with another im-
patient flourish of her work.

“ Never mind, Joan,” sighs Mother, as she
sinks back wearily among her cushions;
“Madge meant only to please me, poor child,
by bringing the flowers, and she could not
know without being told that these roses
were not to be touched.”

“Of course not,” 1 say with much alacrity,
on receiving this small grain of comfort. “Of
course he ought to have told me, or told
Williams to tell me, or locked up the hot-
house— or—” .

My next suggestion dies on my lips, for, on
the gravel-walk outside, I hear the unmis-
takable crunch of Father’s boots, and before
I have time to rush out of the drawing-room
door, which faces our private side entrance
to the garden, there are loud footsteps in the
hall, and a determined voice demanding to
12 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

know the cause of the disappearance of a
certain riding-whip.

An awful idea strikes me! Can he have
started on his ride (I know he was going to
M about some meeting or other), and can
he have seen me in the hot-house from over
the hedge, and can he have come back
with—?

The door is thrown open; but before the
person behind it can step into the room I
have rushed across to the door of the con-
servatory, which stands invitingly open, Ar-
rived there, I look round to see if I have
escaped observation, and am just in time to
see Father stalk up to Mother’s sofa, evi-
dently with the intention of asking where I
am. So I wisely stop to see no more, and
without turning my head rush blindly on re-
gardless of all obstacles. Unfortunately a
large watering-can stands in my way, and
before I have time to pull up, my dress
has caught the long spout and toppled it



over.
A stream of water along the stone floor is
A NARROW ESCAPE. 13

the result, and I stand still for a minute in
order to watch its progress.

Horror of horrors! it is pursuing a remorse-
less course towards the drawing-room door,
and I hear Father coming across to that end
of the room. I am just meditating hiding
behind one of the large rhododendrons which
are close behind me, when there is a light
thud near the open window. I turn hastily
and see my great Tabby Tom standing on
three legs in the midst of the water shaking
the drops from his fourth paw.

I conclude that Father has seen him, too;
for, after looking with disgust at the rapidly
spreading stream, he goes back to my aunt
and says, “That cat is always upsetting some-
thing, and it shall be drowned. I’ve said so
before, but this time I'll see it done myself.”

I hear a mild remonstrance from Mother,
and manage to catch the words, “ Madge’s
Cat—had him for years’—but Father im-
mediately shuts her up by saying, “Nonsense!
if Madge doesn’t like it she can do the other
thing;” and the next thing I hear is the slam
14 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

of the drawing-room door, and once more I
breathe freely. My first move is to emerge
from my hiding-place, and seeing Tom lick-
ing the wet paw I go up to him and say,
“You’ve saved me this time, Tom, and if
Father means what he says I'll lock you up
in the barn. You'd be safe there, for he’d
never trouble to look for you if you happened
to be out of his way.” Tom purrs gratefully,
and after waiting for the sound of the hoofs
of Father's horse dying in the distance I con-
sider it safe to venture forth once more. I
do not choose the drawing-room, however,
for the garden strikes me as being the safest
haven of refuge; that is, if I can get into
my favourite tree without meeting Jack, who
is the most accomplished of teazes. The fact
is, 1 must think over this affair seriously, for
if the roses are not forthcoming for the show
there will be what Jack would call “a nice
shindy” (1 like Jack’s way of expressing him-
self—it’s short and to the point).

Having arrived at this conclusion I find I
have also arrived at the bottom of the con-

4
I HAVE AN IDEA. 15

servatory steps, and after glancing round to
see if there is any one to observe me I fly
down the path, across the lawn, and leaping
on to the seat which is just beneath I raise
myself into the tree and settle there com-
fortably, with the intention of having a good
think,

I never can think among a lot of people.
I am not naturally disposed to be quiet my-
self, and occasionally throw in remarks and
suggestions which are not always received
with delight if there happens to be a discus-
sion going on; but when I want to get out of a
scrape I cannot brook interruption, and there-
forealways make a point of avoiding the whole
family. One thing is evident,some roses must
be obtained somehow! Where from, and by
whom, have not the slightest idea. The thing
is, if I can replace those I have taken by others
will Father know the difference? I hardly
think so, and I immediately begin to con-
sider how I can set about it.

Tonly attacked two pots, that I know; but
I must find out how many blossoms there
16 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

were on the bunch I took Mother, and what
colour they are. Then I shall know what I
am about—for suddenly a wild idea has come
into my head.

I have some money—really a fair amount
for a girl of my age—for Aunt Lydia, my
godmother, sent me a pound on my birth-day,
the day before. There must also be five shil-
lings in my money-box, and I have a bright
half-crown which Mr. Featherstone, our vicar,
gave me for catching and driving home his
favourite cow, Moll, one day when she slipped
her cord and ran away; and also the five
shillings Father gave me yésterday for my
birth-day present.

I go through a mental calculation—five
and five are ten, and two and six are twelve
and six. One pound twelve and six in all!

I have not the least idea what flowers cost,
but I have a vague remembrance of some one
saying that they are most expensive things
to buy; but surely one pound twelve and six
is enough, and, if not—why, I suppose I

shall have to let Jack into my secret, and
(220)
JACK FINDS ME ON MY PERCH. 17

get him to lend me some, though, of course,
in that case I shall bid adieu to peace of
mind for evermore. However, I must not
let my thoughts drift away in this fashion.
Although I have a plan in my head it will re-
quire a good deal of maturing and manage-
ment to carry out, for the risk will be awful
and great I fear. There is a large market-
garden at M——,, and it is my intention to pay
it a visit early the next morning. I believe
it is a long distance; but I must manage to
do it and get back by half-past eight, which
is our breakfast hour. If this can be accom-
plished I shall be safe; for Father never sets
foot in the garden before breakfast, the hour
from 7°30 being taken up in tramping over
the farm, stables, &c. Then, after breakfast,
he retires to the library and answers his
letters, and after that he takes a stroll round
the garden and gives a bird’s-eye view to
things in general. If, therefore, I can get the
pots in, and then steal the key for a short
time, all will be well; and at eleven o’clock

Father leaves home, not to return until the
(220) B
18 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

morning of the day fixed for the rose-show,
so, as the specimens are to be sent in that
very morning, they will not be seen again till
properly arranged at the gardens.

I have just completed all these arrange-
ments to my satisfaction, when I hear a loud
whooping and barking in the distance, and, in
another instant, up rushes Jack, surrounded
by a troop of dogs, which, as usual, have
flown from the stables on hearing his cheery
voice,

I give a sharp “ Hullo!” as he nears the
tree on which I am perched, and without
looking up, he says, “Oh! it’s you, is it?”
and throws himself down on the grass, while
all the dogs stand and bark hoarsely at me,
evidently under the impression that I have
secreted myself in the tree for some unlaw-
ful purpose. I pelt them with twigs, how-
ever, and after reprimanding them severely,
they all lie down beside Jack with their
tongues hanging out of their mouths.

“ Father in?” I ask briefly, as I commence
tearing a leaf into tiny bits.
WE DISCUSS FATHER’S RIVAL. 19

“No, thank goodness!” answers Jack,
“and, what is better, he won’t be in till just
before dinner—why, though?” he suddenly
asks, raising himself on his elbow.

“Oh! nothing,” I answer with great un-
concern,—then, after a pause,—

“ Jack, how far is it to M

“Between five and six miles, I believe;
but what do you want to know for, pray; are
you going on an excursion there?”

I feel myself growing red, but I answer
with great dignity, “I should have thought
that Father having gone there was sufficient
reason for my asking anything.”

Q”



“Hum, yes; perhaps so,” says Jack; “but
I advise you not to be up to any larks,” he
adds, with brotherly interest. “ Father’s not
in the best of tempers just now, and I don’t
think it would be well to trifle with him.”

“Why?” I ask, anxiously.

“Well, you know,” returns Jack, “he has
the rose-show on his mind for one thing;
you know there’s a report that old Monckton
will get the prize—and certainly there seems
20 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

every likelihood of it—for the other day
when I had to take that note from Father to
him, he showed me the whole concern; the
roses I mean, little thinking how Father
would rave if he heard how fine they were;
Father says he’s bent on getting the prize, if
it’s only to spite old Mr. M.”

I grow perfectly cold, and if I did not
know to the contrary, I should say that
some one was standing above me pouring
cold water down my back. I make one
effort to shake this feeling off, however, and
in order to change the conversation I
ask:

“Are you not glad Father is going away?”

Jack stares at me for a minute, and then
says with great contempt, “Are you glad
when the fog clears off? Are you glad when
the winter is over? Are you glad when it
ceases to rain and the sun comes out?
Allow me to tell you that the sun will come
out at eleven o’clock to-morrow morning, for
the first time during these holidays.”

I feel suppressed, sat upon, but wisely say
MY ASTHETIC SISTER. 21

nothing; and just at that instant I hear
Miss Montgomery’s voice calling us in to
tea,

As Jack rises from the ground I hastily
slide down from my seat in order to avoid
his delicate attentions in helping me, which
generally consist in seizing my two feet and
dragging me down.

We now march on together in silence,
followed by the dogs, who have calmed down
considerably.

I see my eldest sister, Elfreda, walking
towards the house with Miss Montgomery,
our governess.

This sister of mine goes in for intensity,
and wears dresses very much gathered and
puckered up, and has awfully long tails to
them, which are always tripping us up, and
herself too, sometimes; she wears large
flowers, too, tucked up right under her neck,
and thinks it a dreadful thing to walk any-
way but very slowly.

It was fun to see her the other day though,
when Jack went up to her and said, “ Freda,
22 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

there is an earwig just about to step off the
leaf of that lily on to your neck!”

Oh! how she screamed and rushed about,
and at last she took the lily off and threw it
on the ground. Jack immediately picked it
up again, and going up to her, presented it
with a low bow, and said, “‘ There was no
earwig at all, my dear Freda; but don’t you
think it was consummate nonsense to show
such intense dislike to a harmless insect, and
with such an utter disregard to its feelings?” »

Freda was very angry, though she could -
not help laughing, but she’s been a little
careful before Jack ever since!

As we turn a corner of the path I see
Netty, our Baby, trudging along a few yards
before me, hugging a large doll, the weight
of which is almost too much for her: I am
seized with a wicked desire to frighten her;
I leave Jack, and running on before him,
catch Netty up and whisper over her shoul-
der in an awe-stricken voice, “ Run, Netty,
Father’s coming.”

Poor Netty is instantly inspired with
NETTY TUMBLES INTO A TUB. 23

terror, and does run to some purpose. Un-
luckily the goldfish have been fished out of
their globe to-day, and in order to facilitate
the washing thereof have been put into a
large tub of water which now stands at the
bottom of the conservatory steps, straight in
Netty’s path. On she rushes heedlessly, and
before I can catch her up, into the tub she
flounders, doll. and all, with a splash which
scatters the goldfish far and wide. A suc-
cession of shrieks follows, and at last Netty,
after much splashing and gasping, is dragged
out by Miss Montgomery and Freda, and
once more set upon her legs.

She does not appear to be much damaged,
however, though her pretty hair now hangs
in hopeless rat-tails, and she is in a general
state of limpness altogether; no! it is the
unfortunate Juliana who is to be most
pitied, for the brilliant colour in which she
gloried has disappeared, and left her as
white as the garments in which she is
attired; and, sad to tell, there is a bright
red stream trickling slowly down into the
24 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

said garments, looking very suggestive of a
dreadful wound.

Netty does not look at the case from this
point of view however, for, seizing the in-
jured young lady from the gravel walk where
she fell, she marches up to me, and saying,
“Youre a nasty Madge, and I don’t love
you,” she throws her treasure deliberately in
my face, and with a burst of tears rushes to
Miss Montgomery and hides her head in her
dress. With some governesses this would
have been a case of dry bread for tea, no
doubt; but, thank goodness, ours is not this
sort of person, for I must say that, notwith-
standing our being such an unruly set, she
manages us to perfection with her gentle
firmness and kindness, and the consequence
is we all dote on her, and what is more,
we all obey her like—like—one o’clock!—
(Jack’s usual simile). Even he says she’s a
regular brick, which is a great concession on
his ‘part, as he professes to hate ladies. But
to return,—

Miss Montgomery after soothing and con-
AND I AM REPROVED. 25

soling the afflicted Netty, merely looks up at
me and says,— Madge, what would your
mother say?” She knows that that short
simple question will shame me more than a
hundred lectures or scoldings, and I turn
and follow her and my: sisters into the house,
with an uncomfortable sensation in my
throat, and sitting down to tea, wonder if
ever I shall be like other girls, and whether
school would really be the best place for me.

.
« .
. = :
3 oe
3 @

.




CHAPTER IL

A SKETCH OF OUR FAMILY,

a HAVE two more sisters, Tiny and
© Gip. They have been out in the
te pony - carriage under the escort

of James, the under-groom, and
have come home laden with parcels



from M.

They come into the school-room now, hot,
dusty, and tired, and throwing their parcels
in a heap on to the sofa, and themselves into
chairs, they both cry simultaneously:

“ We met Father on the road.”

“No! did you?” we gasp all together.

“Yes,” says Gip, who is always spokes-
woman, ‘“Wasn’t it a mercy we had James
with us?”

“What did he say?” asks Freda, as she
busies herself with the bread and butter.
TINY AND GIP. 27

“Oh! of course something was wrong! he
asked me first if I thought James was sufh-
cient chaperon for two young ladies. I said,
Mother thought so, and then, after finding
fault with Tiny as to her manner of holding
the reins, he took off his hat and passed
on.”

“ Bah!” says Freda, “I wish Father would
be as kind as he is polite.”

“Well,” continues Gip, “we met young
Mr. Greenway just after, and I thought
Father would turn and come after us again,

-but he only waited to see if we stopped: of
course we only bowed; we couldn’t do any-
thing else under the circumstances, you know,
so he was satisfied and rode on.”

Jack enters here (thank goodness he
branched off to the stables before the episode
of the tub took place, so he knows nothing
of it), “Tea ready?” he asks; and without
waiting for an answer he seats himself, and
attacks the bread and butter.

“Come, girls,” says Miss Montgomery, as
she commences pouring out the tea. “Tiny
28 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

and Gip can put their hats down here for the
present as they seem tired; I want to get tea
over,” she went on, “then you can all go
and play tennis if you like, for I have pro-
mised to go and read to your mother till
dinner-time.” We all fall to, therefore, with
healthy appetites, for even Freda does not
carry her intensity to the extent of starving
herself.

She sits opposite our governess, ‘Tiny and
Gip are on one side, Jack and I on the other.
I think we are a nice-looking family, taking
us all in all.

Freda is the best looking, of course, but
Tiny almost comes up to her, in my opinion,
if not quite, for she is the neatest little
figure in the world, though very small, but
her golden brown hair and bright hazel eyes
are a fortune in themselves, and if I am not
much mistaken several people I could men-
tion think so also.

Freda has bright blue eyes, which look well
with her light fuzzy hair; and although her
beauty is not much to my taste, I believe
OUR PORTRAITS. 29

she did make a sensation when she came out
. at the county ball last year. Gip seems to

have struck out in a style of her own, for her
hair is almost black, and curls and waves
about her head in a fashion peculiar to itself,
tumbling into her eyes and over her ears on
the smallest provocation. Her eyes, though,
are splendid; the Irish dark gray, which as
often as not look black, finished off with
lashes so long that Jack suggests that they
shall be used for brooms for the sake of
economy. If she had more figure to speak
of she would really be very handsome, but
at present she is rather awkward and’ angu-
lar, being only fifteen and a half; but Mother,
Aunt, and Miss Montgomery all agree that
she will grow into a very fine woman; and,
indeed, she cannot help being fairly good-
looking with such a pair of eyes, whatever
happens. The fact is, she has Father’s eyes
to a T, for it must be acknowledged that his
are extremely good; and another undeniable
fact is that she has a spice of his temper too.
The consequence is, when their wills clash,
30 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

which they do not unfrequently, there is
generally a nice scene. Jack comes next,
and, as he and I are considered very much
alike, in giving his portrait you will get
mine too. We both have gray eyes, but not
so dark as Gip’s, and we both have light
chestnut hair, which has a decided talent
for being everything but tidy. Mine has
been kept short too, so that really were it not
for my petticoats we might each be taken
for the other sometimes. Netty, who has
retired to the nursery, is like the general run
of babies of four,—a rough, light head, round
blue eyes, and rosy cheeks.

I must make a sweeping assertion in con-
clusion, to the effect that we all have mouths
like Mother, and hers is a good one, at least
so people say. Tiny and Gip have just re-
turned home from a finishing school, Tiny to
stay and Gip most likely to return for an-
other term. Jack, too, has returned from
Marlborough, so we make a goodly party
when we meet round the table at luncheon
and dinner. Father, Mother, Aunt, three;
JACK INVITES ME TO GO FISHING. 31

Miss Montgomery, four; and we five, nine;
for Netty is not promoted to dining down-
stairs yet. Jack constantly groans over the
prevalence of girls in our family, his only
comfort being, he says, that I am more like
a boy than 4 girl, which compliment I appre-
ciate immensely.

However, it has taken me longer to give
this description of our family than it has
taken us to dispose of our tea, and once
more we are all on the move. Tiny and
Gip are off to some private haunts, Miss
Montgomery goes into the drawing-room to
Mother, and Freda sits down to complete a
sketch of a lily and some sun-flowers, thrown
together in a most inartistic manner as I
think, though she thinks quite differently.

Jack comes up to me and says mysteri-
ously, though not without patronage, “I’m
going to fish; will you come?”

“Oh, Jack!” I exclaim breathlessly,
“what would Father say?”

“He won't say anything about it as it
happens,” Jack returns contemptuously.
82 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

“You don’t suppose, do you, that I am
going to announce my intention publicly;
if you do, you're a greater goose than I took
you for.”

My dignity rises at these unhandsome
remarks, and I say with great coolness:

“Oh! well, do as you like; I am going to
work, or read, or something; so good-bye for
the present,” and I turned towards the door
with my head in the air.

. “Whe—w—!” whistles Jack; “now, don’t
be a donkey, Madge; will you come, or will
you not?”

I have remorse instantly for showing my
temper, and, going back to the window, I
say, “All right—I’ll come soon; but I’ve got
something to do first.”

Jack is satisfied and retires, and I stand
considering what will be my best move.

Having made up my mind, I bound out
of the room, down the stairs, and into the
drawing-room. Miss Montgomery is stand-
ing looking at the unfortunate roses, which
are now in water, but well out of sight
SILENCE PROMISED. 33

behind a lamp on a side-table, thanks to
Aunt, who I find has been recounting the
history thereof. Finding all three together,
I take the bull by the horns and say
hastily:

“T want you all, please, not to say any-
thing to Father about the roses until I do;
will you promise me? because I think I can
make it all right.” And I stand nervously
plaiting and unplaiting my handkerchief,
awaiting my doom. My aunt is just opening
her mouth to speak when once more I hear
Mother’s gentle voice saying:

“Madge, dear! come here;” and I rush
over to the sofa, narrowly escaping turning
over Aunt’s work-basket on my way.

Arrived there, Mother takes my hand and
Says:

“Tf you can say truly, Madge, that your
plan, whatever it is, will not lead you into
further trouble and disgrace, I am sure
your aunt and Miss Montgomery will agree
with me in deciding that it will be wise to

let you alone in the matter, and, as your
(220) — c
ot MADGE’S MISTAKE.

aunt says, perhaps it will be a lesson’ for
you.”

Of course Aunt and Miss Montgomery
agree with Mother, who, after drawing me
down and kissing me, says: ’

“Now, run away, dear, for Miss Mont-
gomery has kindly promised to read to me for
an hour before dinner.”

I crossover to theside-table first,and hastily
count the roses—four red and three tea—
and, saying this over and over to myself as I
retrace my steps, 1 open the door and van-
ish.

I am bound for the garden now, for an
interview with Williams, but this does not
give me much anxiety, for I know just how
to manage him. ‘The one I do dread is with
Simmons, our coachman, for he rules us all,
from Father downwards, witha rod of iron, and
evidently looks upon it as a great indulgence
on his part to allow us to have the carriage
out at all sometimes. With the pony car-
riage it is a different matter, for he doesn’t
trouble to prepare it himself, and of course we
SIMMONS, TUE DESPOT! 85

always drive ourselves; so, unless we happen
to be going to balls, garden-parties, or to
make a round of duty calls, he does not
approve of our ordering out the carriage and
pair; but it is a sight to see him on these
specified occasions, for he looks importance
and dignity from the soles of his boots to the
crown of his hat.

I think he is the only person that Father
stands in any awe of, but he will not of
course allow it for an instant, and always,
therefore, sides’ with Simmons, no matter
against whom.

Simmons will come in, perhaps, and say,
as he stands and twirls his hat in his hands,
“The brown mare seems a bit lame this
morning, sir, so may be it ’ud be best if Miss
Freda didn’t ride out to-day.”

“Yes, certainly,” says Father; and although
he knows that he never enjoyed a better
canter than that of yesterday on this identi-
cal animal, he follows up his first remark by
saying:

“T thought she went a little lame yester-
36 MADGES MISTAKE.

day, so you'd better see that she has a good
rest for a day or so.”

Simmons retires triumphant, having got
his own way, and Father on his side into the
bargain. The fact is, it is Simmons who
has gone a bit lame this morning, for I had
overheard him remark to James that he felt
a twinge of rheumatiz in his knees, and I
knew at once that he would not care to
follow Freda in one of her sweeping gallops
across country; and as Father never allows
us to go out with anyone but Simmons, poor
Freda has to stay at home.

Freda is very wrathful, but having once
got Father on his side, her wrath falls on
Simmons like water on a duck’s back.

I wend my way towards the hot-houses,
but Williams is not there, so I turn to the
kitchen-garden, and there I see him stooping
over a strawberry bed.

I go up to him and say, “Well, Wil-
hams!”

“ Well, Miss Madge!” he returns without
looking up. I wonder what I can say next,
A TALK WITH OUR GARDENER. 37

and hazard the remark that the day has been
hot.

“Well,” he replied, “for the matter 0’
that, ’ve known many an ’otter.”

I, mentally regret not having been pre-
sented with the skins of some of these ac-
quaintances, Williams goes on, however.

“Tt’sjust the right sort o’ weather this ’ere
for the strawberries, and, in fact, all the fruits
are coming on beautiful.”

T remark that I am glad to hear it, but,
feeling that I am not getting any nearer
my object, I rush into the subject at once
and say: “Williams, I wish you'd lend me
the key of the hot-house for a few minutes,
I want to see the roses Father has set aside
for the show.”

Williams stops in his work and leaning on
his rake looks up at me, “Now I wonder,
Miss Madge, that ye comes to me with such
a question as that, it’s a likely thing that I
should let you, nor any one in by them-
selves; and now, let me tell you this,” he
goes on slowly and emphatically, “the key
38 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

of that hot-house is safe in my cottage, and
there it will stay till such time as I hands
it over to Robert, afore 1 goes away. Your
father knows it,” he continues, “and as he
never looks at them hisself after dinner,
‘taint quite likely I should give the key to
you, Miss Madge. No, no!” he says, as he
turns once more to his strawberry bed, “the
roses are doing well, and they sha’n’t be
touched by no one else but me, while I’m at
home.”

Although I am delighted at the success
of my plan, I still manage to get a crest-
fallen expression on my face, and as I turn
to leave him, I grumble, “ Well, you might
have lent it to me for a few minutes, I
think; you know I shouldn’t have hurt any-
thing.”

But by this time 1 am too far away to
hear anything he may be saying, and can
only see him shaking his head as he watches
my departure.

My next business is with Simmons, and I
tremble when I think of it; but, stay! a
A VISIT TO OUR LIVE STOCK. 39

bright idea occurs to me. Simmons’ wife
has been suffering from a low fever for some
time, and has no appetite Pve heard. I
will visit my own special fowls and see if
“there are any eges to be had, and if so I'll
take them to Simmons as an offering and
then make my request.

Accordingly, I branch off to the end of
the kitchen-garden, where our live stock,
which is plentiful but varied in style, is
kept.

My presence is duly acknowledged by a
loud cackling, and fluttering of wings, while
from the top of a beam to my right I hear a
deep voice saying, “ Maggie,” followed by a
hoarse cough.

I am quickly surrounded by animals of
all descriptions, rabbits, guinea-pigs, tame
rats, and kittens, while from a heap of straw
in the corner a litter of pups set up a
squeaky bark at me; finding, however, that I
have come with empty hands, they quickly
leave me again with grunts of dissatisfac-
tion.
40 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

On looking down, however, I find I am not
quite deserted, for standing close to my left
foot is Tuft, so called from the little knot of
feathers on top of his head.

Tuft is a crow of great age and antiquity;
he is also blind in one eye, and, as the defec-
tive eye is towards me, the poor deluded
creature still stands beside me, in hopes of
getting a piece of biscuit, or cherry, or some-
thing of the sort.

On examination of the nests I find three
fine eggs, and depart therewith rejoicing.
On the way, unfortunately, one of the kittens
gets under my feet, and with that stupidity
which is peculiar to cats, I believe, refuses to
move. Down I go of course, and smash!
goes one of the eggs, which is annoying in
the extreme.

It is an ill wind that blows no one good,
however, for instantly there is a general
rush, and before I can recover myself, the
egg, shell and all, has disappeared.

Never mind, though, two new-laid eggs
are not to be despised, and comforting my-
INTRODUCED TO THE NEW FOAL. 41

self thus, I free myself from the noisy group
and start for the stables.
' Simmons is walking round, taking a sur-
vey of the horses, and seems for him to be
in a fairly good temper.

Hi




CHAPTER III.

AN EARLY MORNING’S DRIVE.



\{{ OOD evening, Miss Madge,” says
( he, as he touches his hat and
puts down his pipe,—‘ I suppose

KU mS you've come to have a look at the

new foal?”

“Well, I didn’t come on purpose,” I say
confusedly, “but I should like to see it
awfully, of course.” “Come along then,
Miss,” he says, and leads the way to a box
at the far end of the stable.

“Here he is,” says Simmons, and he
throws open the door with pride, and looks
as if he expected me to go in.

I have no intention of doing so however,
for Pve no fancy for being kicked, and the
foal is rushing round the box in such an
I CONFIDE IN SIMMONS. 43

alarming manner that it scems as if this
would be the probable result.

I retreat behind Simmons, therefore, in
rather a cowardly manner T’m afraid, and
feeling bound to make a remark, say:

“ Hasn’t he rather long legs?”

“Long legs!” repeats Simmons, ‘aghast.
“They're beautiful legs, that’s what they are;
why, that foal will grow up to be one of the
best horses in this county, unless I be much
mistaken;” and, apparently very much hurt
at the indifference I show to this wonderful
creature, Simmons closes the door and moves
back to where we first met.

Arrived there I hold out the two eggs to
Simmons and say,—‘ I’ve brought you two
egos for your wife, Simmons. I thought
she might fancy them, perhaps.”

“Thank you, Miss Madge. I’m sure Mrs.
Simmons will be much pleased and honoured
by your thinking of her, and she will enjoy
the eggs too, Miss.”

This is satisfactory so far, so I make up
my mind that it will be my safest plan to
44 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

confide in Simmons, as without doing so, I
feel sure he will never consent to my having
the pony carriage.

I begin at once by saying,—“ I’m afraid
I’ve got into a scrape with Father to-day.”

“No! have you, Miss?” says Simmons
with much interest.

“Yes,” I continue, “and I want you to
help me out of it.”

“Me help you, Miss Madge!” cries Sim-
mons, with astonishment.

“Yes,” I say calmly; “and if you'll really
promise to do what I want Pll tell you all
about it.”

Here I glance round to sce if there is any-
thing in shape of a seat, and seeing a wheel-
barrow handy, I perch myself thereon and
resume: .

“Yes, Simmons, do promise, and [ll tell
you.”

Simmons evidently thinks I am mad, for,
after staring at me for a few seconds, he
says:

“Surely you are joking now, Miss.”
NEGOTIATIONS. 45

“ Not at all,” I say briskly, “ the thing is,
now, will you promise me?” and I lean
forward on the barrow and wait anxiously
for his answer.

After some consideration Simmons goes
up to the nearest horse, and while stroking
his glossy neck he says, slowly:

“ Well, Miss Madge, of course you know
that Pd be glad to do anything I could to
help you out of your difficulty, but I can’t
do nothing that would be against master’s
wishes, you know; so if you'll just let me
know what it is you want I'll think it over a
bit.”

I stop a moment before replying, to won-
der if it will be safe to divulge my secret
before ascertaining if Simmons means to help
me.

I decide not, and make up my mind to
make my request first boldly.

Having settled thus I come to the point
at once and say: ‘‘ Well, the fact is, I want
you to let me have the pony-carriage out
to-morrow.”
46 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

Simmons considers once more, and then
says:

“What time would you be wanting it,
Miss Madge?”

“Oh! very early,” I reply, “very early,
indeed—in fact, you see, I want to get to
M— and back again before breakfast.”

Simmons evidently thinks my madness a



hopeless case, and after another lengthened
stare, says:

* Well, we'll see what can be done, Miss
Madge; but now you must let me know what
it is all about, as I shouldn’t like to enter
into all this without there being a good
reason for it.”

“Oh, but there 7s a very good reason for
it,” I reply promptly, “and I’m sure you'll
think so too when I tell you;” and I settle
myself comfortably in the wheel-barrow
preparatory to holding forth.

“You know,” I commence, “that Father
is going to send roses to the show this year?
Well, I wanted to get some flowers for
Mother this morning, and as I didn’t know
SIMMONS BROUGHT OVER. 47

which were the show roses, of course I went
and cut them;” and at the recollection of the
catastrophe a sob rises to my throat which
nearly chokes me, but I force it back, as I
feel it will not be dignified to give way
before Simmons; and clearing my voice I go
on, “ Well, I've made up my mind to get
more in their place, and I have arranged
everything excepting how I am to get to
M—,, so if you'll only be kind and help me
I expect I shall pull through all right; of
course,” I add, “this is in strict confidence,
you know.”

“Yes, of course, Miss Madge,” says Sim-
mons, and he does not look quite so alarmed
as he did. Then he takes up his pipe, and
after knocking it out, slowly begins to refill it,
while I sit on the edge of the barrow and
watch his movements with anxiety. After
weighing the subject and looking at it from
all points of view, he puts his pipe down
again and says, “ 1 understand what it is now,
and I think I can manage it for you and keep
it quiet too; so if you tell me what time you
48 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

want to be off Tl have the pony-carriage
ready for you myself, agin’ you are.”

“Oh! thanks, Simmons,” I cry, starting
up; “you are a regular brick, and I won't
forget it: but let me sec,” I continue, coming
to the point at once, “what time do you
think I'll want to start?”

“Well, to get back by half-past eight,”
replics Simmons, “‘ you ought to leave by six,
I should say, it takes pretty nigh an hour to
get to M—; and then youll want a little
time to choose your flowers, but I should say
two hours and a half would do you nicely.”

Having settled everything satisfactorily I
scramble out of my seat, and after bidding
Simmons good-bye quite affectionately, leave
the stable. I go and join Jack then, and we
have a pleasant hour's fishing together in our
favourite quiet nook, where the tops of the
trees meet over the water.

We return to the house laden with one
small fish, but, as Jack says, one is better
than nothing. As we pass the open drawing-
room windows we see Father asleep behind
I COMPLETE MY ARRANGEMENTS. 49

the Zimes, Aunt nodding opposite, and
Mother quietly reading on her sofa, for it is
about nine o’clock now, and dinner has been
over some little time.

Freda makes the fourth at dinner always,
but directly she sees her way to it she
escapes from the drawing-room to join the
conclave in the school-room. I find them
all there now engaged in working, reading,
&c., on my entering, but not feeling in-
clined for conversation, I retire to the win-
dow and hang therefrom.

I should like to go out in the garden
again, but dare not, for I should be certain
to run against Father, and no matter what
time it were he would order me off to bed
instantly, and do it as if it were a punish-
ment too.

It’s not long, however, before Miss Mont-
gomery looks up and says cheerfully, “ ‘Time
for bed, Madge,” and I rise without a mur-
mur, and after saying good-night all round,
depart. I am not sorry to go at all, for I
shall have to be up with the lark in the

(220) D
50 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

morning, and, moreover, I have to get my
money together. Fortunately mine is not
one of those insane boxes which are intended
(apparently) never to be opened: mine has
a lock and key, and not only that, the key is
in my own possession, for it is considered a
point of honour in our family not to open
our money-boxes unless there’s some dire
necessity for so doing.

I have a dear little room leading out of
Freda’s, Tiny and Gip having two on the
same principle; and after throwing open my
window to the top, I make my preparations
before getting ready for bed.

Hirst of all I collect all my money together
and put it into my purse, next I get out my
driving-gloves and put them on a chair
ready.

I shall have to chance waking in time, as
there is no watch or clock in my room; but
I am sure to be in time, I think, as I am in
the habit of getting up very early and prowl-
ing about among the animals before break-
fast; and if not, I daresay I shall hear the
TOILET PERFORMED UNDER DIFFICULTIES. 51

great clock outside on the landing; besides I
can easily slip into Freda’s room and peep at
her watch,

Comforting myself thus, I hop into bed,
and am soon in a deep sleep.

The sun streaming into my bed-room win-
dow in the morning wakes me, and I fly out
of bed in alarm and rush out into the passage
to ascertain what time it is. I return with
a sigh of relief, for it is only just half-past
five, and I feel I shall just have time to dress
and get off comfortably. I perform my toilet
as nolselessly as possible, but of course I
drop my brush, and clatter the soap-dish,
and then the frill on my wrist catches a
pin on the cushion and away it goes off
the table, carrying with it an empty scent-
bottle.

I do not stop to pick them up though, for
fear Freda should have heard the noise and
get up to see the meaning of it. So I open
the door hastily, but just as I step across the
threshold, my umbrella, which has a peculiar
talent for tumbling down on the slightest
52 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

provocation, commences slipping on the
boards. I am too late to stop it, so shut the
door hurriedly, and with agony of mind I
hear it go whack on to the floor.

Down-stairs I rush and undo the bolts of
the door: directly I get on to the steps my
spirits rise, however, for I fecl that no one
will dream of looking for me out of doors at
that time of the morning.

The morning is simply lovely, and each
soft breath of wind comes up laden with the
scent of new-mown hay from the fields where
it is lying waiting to be carted away.

The birds, too, were surely never so happy
and joyous as they are this morning, for the
whole garden and the woods beyond resound
with their thrilling notes.

On arriving at the stable I find Simmons,
faithful to his promise, standing by the pony-
carriage, which is all ready.

Directly he sees me he goes back into one
_of the stalls and re-appears with a glass of
milk and a large slice of bread and butter.

“T thought maybe you'd start off without
I START ON MY TRAVELS. 53

thinking of your breakfast, Miss Madge,” he
says, after saying “Good morning” to me,
“so I made bold to cut you some bread and
butter, and bring you a glass of milk.”

“Oh, thanks, Simmons,” I cry, “it was
very good of you to think of it, for if you
hadn’t I should have been starving before I
got home.”

Having disposed of the milk I hop into the
carriage, and throwing the bread and butter
on the opposite seat preparatory to eating it
as I go along, I gather up the reins, and
nodding gratefully to Simmons, turn Frisk’s
head towards the gate.

The animals, one and all, evince a strong
desire to accompany me, but with Simmons’
assistance and a few flourishes of my whip
I at length make them understand that such
is not my intention.

Tuft, as usual, shows most obstinacy, and
looking back I see him dodging Simmons in
a manner that does him eredit, considering
his blindness.

I call out something to this effect, but
54 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

Simmons would not laugh for the world, and
after shutting Tuft in again, stands perfectly
unmoved, touching his hat with the utmost
deference and respect, as if he were seeing
Father himself off, as I tell Jack afterwards.

Frisk appears to be in rather a trying
frame of mind this morning; whether he
thinks his breakfast was cut short or not I
don’t know, but he goes along in anything
but a satisfactory manner, and keeps branch-
ing off to the hedge on either side in a way
which is most provoking, considering the
hurried and anxious state of my feelings. I
remonstrate at first, and make munificent
offers of sugar and bread to be received on
arrival home; but this making no impression,
IT am at last compelled to stand up and
administer a cut over his ears. This having
the desired effect, he starts off into a fast
trot, which carries me along in splendid
style until we meet an unfortunate drove of
small pigs being driven to market. For
some reason or other Frisk entertains a
mortal hatred of pigs, and evinces his diseust
FRISK IS FRISKY! 55

now by suddenly standing still, impatiently
shaking his head, and refusing to stir another
step.

Of course the stupid creatures swarm round
Frisk’s legs, and I am in perfect terror for
fear he should become really frightened and
make a bolt with me.

Without stopping to think, therefore, I
throw down the reins and jump out with the
intention of holding his head. At the very
moment of my putting my foot to the
ground, however, one of the largest pigs
makes a rush at my legs, and with a cry
of mingled rage and disgust down I go
sprawling in the dust.

I recover myself before the pig does,
though, and administer some hard slaps,
which send him howling and squeaking after
his brethren.

It is not till then that [ am conscious of a
rough but kindly voice saying:

“Murther an’ Irish! but that’s a nasty
baste of a pig. But come now, it’s not kilt
intirely ye are, so git up and be aisy a minit
56 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

till I clare the dirt from off ye;” and before
I can say yea or nay my arm is grasped
firmly and I am once more on my feet.

On looking up I find my friend is nothing
more nor less than an Irish drover, and he
certainly looks my beau-ideal of an Irishman,
with his crownless hat, drover’s stick, and
ragged coat.

I am perfectly delighted at this unex-
pected opportunity of a chat with a real
“Pat,” for, as Father hates Irishmen one and
all, we never have any to work about our
place; so with a beaming smile I thank him
warmly for his timely aid. He receives my
thanks with the most deferential politeness ;
and if it were not for the natural anxiety I
feel for the welfare of his hat, I should con-
sider myself a person of much importance.

This article of apparel, however, has been
taken off and put on again so many times
during our conversation that I fear the one
side of the brim to which it is attached may
follow the example of the other and take its
departure altogether. This little defect in his
“PAT” TO THE RESCUE, 57

wearing apparel does not appear to occasion
him the same amount of anxiety, though, for
he smiles and bows and looks in the highest
spirits as he helps me into the carriage.

Before settling myself again I feel in my
pocket for a stray sixpence which I remem-
ber having put there yesterday, and drawing
it forth with my handkerchief amidst a
shower of crumbs, cherry-stones, slate-pencils,
pens, &c., I tender it to my companion and
say, “ Please take this; and can you tell me
any shorter road than this to M—?”

“Och and begorra, now!” he says, after
pocketing the sixpence with alacrity, “but
that’s a puzzling question that your axing
me, for sure it’s only one road at all that
there is; but it’s not disappointing ye that
Td be after all, so [ll tell ye this, that the
further ye goes on that the nearer ye'll be to
the end of it.”

Having thanked him for this piece of
information, I fecl that I am wasting valu-
able time; so, after wishing him “Good
morning!” and receiving another shower of
58 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

thanks for the sixpence, I shake the reins,
and once more Frisk and I are off on our
travels. .

We do not meet with any further adven-
tures on our way; and as I drive over the
noisy stones with which M— is paved, I
am thankful to see from the Town Hall clock
that it is only just seven. I have an hour
and a half, therefore, in which to make my
purchases and get home..




CHAPTER IV.

BREAKFAST WITH FATHER.





“Ro
WatN{( HE nursery-grounds lie at the other
side of the town, however, just on
SH the outskirts, so I whip up Frisk
e ey in order that he shall understand

that I mean business, and we
pass quickly through the streets. We do
not meet many people, but those we do meet
stare as if they had never seen anything
resembling either myself, Frisk, or the car-
riage before. I pass them all, however, with
great unconcern as they stand open-mouthed
on the pavement, and very soon we turn off
into a lane and stop before a little gate, over
which a large board is fixed, with a notice
to the effect that James Mullins, gardener
and florist, undertakes to lay out gardens


60 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

and supply his customers with choice cut
flowers. .

Having beckoned to a small boy who has
watched my approach with great awe and
interest, I place Frisk in his charge, and, after
giving him strict injunctions not to hold his
head, as he has an awkward habit of biting
anyone who takes this liberty, I open the
gate, and, after walking down one of the
paths a little way, stand and look about
me.

I see Mr. James Mullins in the distance,
busy with his raspberry canes, so I bend my
steps thither and somewhat astonish him by
suddenly saying close to his ear:

“Good morning, Mr. Mullins! it’s a fine
day, isn’t it?”

“Why, bless my heart alive! if ’tain’t
Miss Erickson,” says the little man, and he
stands up; and, after pushing his hat further
off his head, continues:

“Why, you don’t mean to tell me, Miss,
that you've come all the way from the Oaks
this morning.”
AN AWFUL PREDICAMENT. 61

“Yes, I have,” I answer briskly; “and I’ve
come on very important business too. I
want to look at your roses, and choose some
to take back with me.”

“Lors, now! you don’t mean it, Miss
Erickson,” says Mullins with great astonish-
ment; “you as has the finest roses for miles
round in your garden.”

“Yes,” I say impatiently; “but I want a
particular kind, you see—some, in fact, that
we haven’t got; and please show me some
quickly,’ I add desperately, “for Pm in a
ereat hurry, and I must be very particular in
choosing them.”

“Well, then, come along this way and I'll
show you what we’ve got;” and the fat little
man leads the way to a greenhouse a few
yards distant.

I am lost in wonder and admiration of his
nether garments while walking behind him,
for, besides the prodigious width thereof,
they reach beyond the middle of his back;
and I am just wondering how many yards of
stuff can possibly have been put into them,
62 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

when he startles me by suddenly stopping,
and, throwing open the door, he says:

“Step in, please, Miss, and take a look
round,”

I narrowly escape falling on his back, as
I have been dreaming on behind him fully
taken up for the time with the subject of the
trousers; but I pull myself up in time, and,
stepping past him, see a splendid collection
of roses of every description before me. I
proceed to explain that I want red and tea
roses, and that I must have four of one
and three of the other; but I find to my
horror that I have utterly forgotten whether
it was three tea and four red, or vice versa.

I say it over a few times, first one way
and then the other, to see which sounds best,
and finally decide that three red and four tea
are the correct numbers.

Accordingly I set to work, with Mr. Mul-
lins’ assistance, and select two beauties.

“Ts it for the show you're wanting them,
Miss?” he says, as he takes the pots and
stands them on the gravel outside.
I SELECT SOME FINE ROSES. 63

“Yes—no,” I say confusedly; “that is,
they may go among others, you know. I
believe we are going to send some; are you?”
I add hastily.

“Well, no; I ain’t a-going to send none
this year. It don’t pay, you see, Miss, and
it’s a deal of bother too; but may be I shall
go and take a look round. Ive heard that
your pas and Mr. Monckton’s is the best;
what say you, Miss?”

“Yes, I believe they're considered very
good,” I say, feeling myself growing crim-
son; “but now, how much are these? and
will you have them done up carefully
with sticks, so that they don’t break, you
know?”

“Yes, yes, I'll see to that; and now about
the price, as you say, Miss; I don’t wish to
charge you too much, you see. Here, Tom,”
he calls, on seeing a youth approaching us,
“take these ’ere roses and tie them up with
sticks, and then take them to the young
lady’s carriage yonder.”

Then turning again to me he continues,
64 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

“Well, as to the price, suppose we says fifteen
shillings for the two?”

This is really a relief to my mind, for I
have been tormented with ideas that the
flowers, so fine as they are, might possibly
come to more than I had in my possession,
though I hardly thought it likely; so without
the smallest hesitation I pull out my purse
and present him with the amount. He then
escorts me to the gate with great ceremony,
and after seeing me into the carriage and
propping the pots up beside me, stands
leaning on the gate watching me as I drive

“off.

I glance at the clock as once more we pass
down the High Street, and find that it is
already a quarter past seven. There is no
occasion to inform Frisk of this fact, however,
for his head once being turned towards
home, he makes good use of his legs, and we
get home in about half the time that we
were coming. [ am just proceeding to con-
gratulate myself on having arrived without
being seen, when I descry a figure strolling

JACK APPEARS ON THE SCENE. 65

along the road before me. This figure has a
* basket slung across his back and something
long in his hand, and as I gain on him what
is my surprise and alarm to recognize my
brother Jack!

My heart gives a great jump and I feel
that I am done for; but in another second I
have made up my mind to put a bold face
on the matter, and if necessary make a con-
fidant of Jack.

By the time I have come to this conclusion
I am close upon him, and turning round in
astonishment at the sight of a pony-carriage
at that early hour of the day, he is evidently
greatly relieved on finding it is only I, and
accordingly greets me with his usual remark
of:

“Qh! it’s you, is it?”

I pull up Frisk on hearing this, and say
severely:

“Why, where on earth have you been,
and what have you got in that basket?”

Jack returns my look with an equally

severe one, and fixing his eyes remorselessly
(220) E
66 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

on the flowers, which are quivering and
shaking by my side, says, “I should think
it’s for me to ask that question; pray for
whom are those flowers intended? They
look uncommonly like some of Father's.”

This news raises my spirits, and feeling
certain that it will be best to take Jack into
my confidence, I as usual dash into the sub-
ject at once, and commence with, ‘ Look
here, Jack, I’ve got into an awful scrape, at
least I should have if any one knew—but—
but I think I shall get on all right if you
won't tell?”

“Well,” answers Jack, “of course I can’t
promise, you know; but let’s hear what it is
and we'll see.”

Whereupon I tell him the whole history
without reserve, and then proceed to question
Jack as to his mornine’s work, as to the law-
fulness of which I have some doubts. Also
I do not see why I should be “confessing” to
him, when in all probability he has been up
to far more mischief than I have, which is
soon proved to be the case.
SIMMONS ON THE LOOK-OUT. 67

“Well,” he replies, “if you must know,
I’ve been fishing.”

“Fishing!” I exclaim, aghast. ‘Oh,
Jack!”

“Well, and what if I have?” replies he
with much nonchalance. “I suppose if you
say nothing about it no one will be any the
wiser. So as you ask the same thing of me,
why not ery ‘quits’ and have done with it?”

“Well, if you promise me, of course you
know J sha’n’t tell,’ I say with dignity; “and
now you may as well hop in and let me take
you the rest of the way, only look sharp, for
if we stand talking here we shall both run a
good chance of meeting Father.” Jack takes
my advice and off we go at a sharp trot.

Having dropped him a few yards back, I
turn into the stable and find Simmons on
the look-out for me.

“All right, Miss Madge?” he asks as he
takes Frisk and commences unfastening the
harness.

“Oh, yes, thanks,” I say, “and I’ve got
two beauties of pots. I’d show them to you
68 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

if I could, but I must make haste and hide
them, so if you wouldn’t just mind taking
them out of the carriage carefully, Pll be off
at once.”

“Maybe I shall get a chance of seeing
them at the show, Miss Madge,” Simmons
remarks, as, having got a pot tucked comfort-
ably under each arm, I am on the point of
departing, feeling that it is dangerous to stay
talking there. I shake my head doubtfully
at this suggestion, and make a rush of it
through the back gate to the barn.

I am only just in time, for as I step in I
hear Simmons in the distance, saying:

“Yes, sir, I found that we was getting
short of beans, sir, so as I thought the pony
could best be spared, I sent James out along
with him.”

I tremble to think what a narrow escape
I’ve had, for it is evident that I have only
just missed meeting Father face to face, and
as I place my two treasures safe behind an
old wheel-barrow, which has been placed there
as “unloadworthy,” I feel eternally grateful
MY WHISTLING IS CUT SHORT. 69

to Simmons for his happy thought, and it is
with a thankful heart, for having got through
my complication of troubles so far safely,
that I turn to leave the barn.

I go sauntering on towards the house with
my hands clasped behind me, and—the
truth must be told—whistling as blithely as
any bird, for whistling is my only musical
accomplishment, with the exception of a fairly
decent voice, perhaps, which is made generally
useful by the family for glees, quartcttes, &c.,
for if the soprano be absent, the cry is,
“Where’s Madge? put her in, she can scream
to any height;” or if Father’s bass is missing
—for on occasions of music in the drawing-
room he actually joins us and makes himself
agreeable, being really proud of our musical
powers—there is a general cry for Madge,
somebody being certain to add that “Madge’s
voice will reach the depths of the ocean.”

But though Father is tolerant of my variable
voice in part singing, he will never allow me
to perform a solo, for Freda has a clear, ring-
ing soprano voice, Gip a fine deep contralto,
70 " -MADGE’S MISTAKE,

which will be finer still when she is older,
and Tiny a delightfully sweet mezzo, which
charms all who hear her.

It is hardly surprising, therefore, that he
looks upon my vocal performances as merely
a necessary evil! Having arrived in sight
of the verandah, which runs all along the
front of the house, I am suddenly startled
by a voice therefrom, which demands in no
gentle voice, “‘ Who is that whistling?”

“Me,” I reply, as with a flushed counte-
nance I present myself before my enraged
parent.

“Oh! you, is it?” he replies, as he fixes
his piercing eyes on mine; “ well, ’'d advise
you to try ‘I’ next time; now go in to your
breakfast, and don’t let me hear you whist-
ling again, do you hear?”

I do hear, but I do not stop to say so, ‘and
in a twinkling I am seated at the breakfast-
table, at which I find the whole family as-
sembled, with the exception of Mother and
Netty.

There is a Babel of voices as I enter the
A GLOOMY BREAKFAST. 71

room, which is hushed, however, on the sound
of heavy footsteps approaching the open
window, and as Father seats himself at the
table and glances round at us, we one and all
appear to be deeply engaged with our break-
fasts,

“Tea or coffee?” says my aunt, as she
reaches over for a cup.

“Coffee,” replies Father, and then he tears
open a letter and frowns over the contents.
Aunt has filled the cup, and is just m the
act of adding the milk, when Father looks
up again and startles her by saying, “No;
give me some tea; I’ve got a confounded
headache this morning, and if it’s not better
after my breakfast I shall put off going away
till to-morrow.”

A wild terror falls on all of us, but on me
particularly, and my hand shakes so at hear-
ing this awful announcement that the risole
which Freda has just telegraphed for, and
which I am fishing from the dish, trembles
on the fork and falls on to the cloth, break-
ing into several pieces with the shock. I
72 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

get contemptuous glances from both Father
and Jack, and the former mutters “Clumsy ;”
but Miss Montgomery, to the fore as usual,
seizes a spoon and quietly pops the ruins
into Jack’s plate, that being the nearest re-
ceptacle, and then, leaning across me, helps
Freda to another; and once more there is
unbroken silence for a few minutes. Pres-
ently Father looks up suddenly and asks,
“Who is going to the flower-show next
week?”

We all look first at Father and then at
each other, and remain dumb, for we know
well enough that we shall have no voice in
the matter; and that whoever he chooses
himself will be obliged to go with a cheerful
~ countenance. Aunt evidently fears that our
obstinate silence may provoke Father, so she
looks up and says quietly:

“T suppose Freda, being the eldest, will
go, and perhaps Tiny; but, of course, I don’t
know how many of them you wish to take.

“Well, so be it, then,” replies Father,
rising from the table and throwing down the
WHO WILL ACCOMPANY FATHER? 73

table-napkin. “Freda and Tiny go with
me, and perhaps Miss Montgomery will take
any of the younger ones she thinks proper.”

“Certainly,” says Miss M.; and Freda and
Tiny utter “Yes, Father,’ meekly, trying,
poor things, to look pleased at the honour
awarded them, while Father continues to
Aunt, “Just see for me, Joan, that the car-
riage is ordered to be at the door, and that
there is no nonsense with the girls not being
ready. I shall only get home again just in
time to start for the gardens, so pray have
everything ready.”

“JT think you'd better speak to Simmons
yourself about the carriage, perhaps,” says
Aunt, looking alarmed; “but Ill look after
the girls and see that they’re ready in time.”

“Very well; do as you like;” and off stalks
Father into his study. Freda’s and Tiny’s
faces instantly fall, and the former with a
very decided pout says, “ What a bore! I
thought we should all go with Miss M. (our
common mode of addressing her) or Aunt,
and really enjoy ourselves. It’s a regular

o
74 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

sell, isn’t it, Tiny? But I do believe (stop-
ping short and looking at her,) I do believe
she does not care.

“Well, where’s the use,” replies Tiny,
swinging her feet; “ besides, we shall be able
to talk to more people that way.”

“Only old frumps,” say Freda contemptu-
ously. “Father will take good care we don’t
talk to any gentlemen, excepting old Monck-
ton or Mr. Featherstone, perhaps.”

“Nonsense!” chimes in Tiny; “he can’t
prevent our speaking to people we know, and
everyone we do know about here is sure to
be there; and, as they are certain to come
and speak to us, we sha’n’t do badly, I
daresay.”

“Tiny’s a sensible young woman,” says
Jack suddenly, throwing himself into the
argument. “If you play your cards well
and don’t appear to mind being with him,
he’s certain to introduce you right and left,
especially if you dress yourselves properly.
Why, I heard him telling old Monckton the
other day that there was not a girl that could
GENERAL DISSATISFACTION. 75

hold a candle to his eldest daughter at the
last county ball.”

“No! did he?” cries Freda, brightening ~
up. “Oh! well, we must make the best of
it, I suppose, Tiny.”

“Best of it indeed!” cries Gip rather
snappishly ; it will be a best, 1 expect. You
two will go in the carriage, while we unfor-
tunate creatures will be toiling along the hot
dusty road; and by the time we get there
we shall not be fit to be seen, much less
talked to.”

“You can’t expect to go in the carriage
when you have two sisters older than your-
self,” puts in Aunt; “ but if Miss Montgomery
would not mind driving, you can have the
pony-carriage. There will be no need of
walking at all.”

“Oh, Pll drive!” cries Gip; but at a look
from Aunt she stops short and_ blushes
scarlet.

“You forget, my dear,” she says, “ that
Miss Montgomery i8 going with you.”

“Yes; I beg pardon,” says Gip, turning

>
76 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

towards Miss M.; and Jack (who is really
good-natured when occasion requires) comes
to the rescue by attacking Freda once more.

“T suppose you and Tiny won’t condescend
to know the younger members of your fam-
ily,” he says.

“Of course not,” they both cry; and peace
being restored once more, off we all troop to
our different pursuits. (Did I mention that
we were in the midst of our summer holi-
days?)

I seize my opportunity now and rush out
of doors, straight to the kitchen-garden.

aE
he


CHAPTER V.

THE MISSING KEY,




LTHOUGH my tongue was silent at

es breakfast, my brain has been busy,

joy and I have arranged a bold plan
“ca which (though I tremble at the
thought of it) must be carried out. “In
for a penny, in for a pound,” I think, as,
looking round cautiously first, I take a
knife from my pocket and hastily cut some
of the strings which bind one of our finest
pear-trees to the wall. Down drops a heavy
branch, not broken as yet, though it most
assuredly will be if it is left long.

Returning the knife to my pocket, I rush
blindly into the front garden towards the
hot-houses.

I am only just in time, for Williams is
78 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

there just putting the key into the door of
the one in which the roses ought to be.

“Williams!” I cry; “Williams! there’s
a pear branch fallen on the south wall, and
the weight of the pears will break it off if it
is not looked to; I couldn’t do it by myself,
[-~”

Williams waits to hear no more, but
rushes off, and my plan has succeeded. I
instantly rush off to the barn, and run blindly
against someone who is coming out. I look
up terrified and sce Jack with my flowers, a
pot under each arm.

“Hush!” he says. “Come along; I thought
I'd help you, and have been on the look-out;
run and open the door—quick!” Without a
word I fly, and in a trice the new pots are
lodged safely in the places of the original
ones; and while I carefully lock the door,
Jack, armed with the old ones, clambers into
the hay-loft, whither, after looking round to
see if we have been observed, I follow him.

“There!” says Jack, as he leans against
the wall and fans himself, I’ve done you a
WILLIAMS GETS INTO A SCRAPE. 79

good turn for once. Whe—w! how hot I
am!”

“Yes, Jack!” I cry enthusiastically;
“you're a perfect duck;” and, carried away
by my feelings of gratitude, I fly at him and
give him a hug.

“All right! don’t bother,” says Jack, who
does not appreciate this burst of sisterly
affection, “I thought I might do something
for you, as you didn’t behave altogether
badly about the fishing.”

Having hidden the key safely under a
loose board we once more descend from the
loft, and turning into the dining-room from
the verandah, hear Father storming and
stamping about in the next room.

We pretty well know what is amiss, but
nevertheless think it advisable to ask, and
follow Aunt out for that purpose. In the
halk we find Williams standing twirling his
hat round and round, and looking the
picture of misery.

“T’m sure, sir, I don’t know how it could
a happened. I was just fixing up a branch
80 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

on the south wall, and didn’t Icave the hot-
house more nor two minutes, leastways five
at the most, and when I came back, there
was the door, sir, as tight as wax, sir, and
the key nowheres as I could see.”

I here pull Jack’s sleeve, and whisper,
“Come along, don’t let us stay any longer; ”
and as we creep quietly out of the front door
we hear Father say, “More confounded care-
lessness; it will ruin the tree for this year.”

“Oh, Jack!” I say, when we are out of
sight and hearing, “I’m afraid we have got
poor Williams into an awful scrape. I wish
I hadn’t done it.

“Oh, well, never mind, cheer up,” says
Jack consolingly; “it will be all right in the
end.”

“Vm not so sure of that,” I say dejectedly.
“Oh dear! I wonder if I shall ever be like
other girls, and not always getting into
scrapes, as I am.”

“T sincerely hope you won't;” and as
Jack speaks he tucks my arm under his,
adding, “Come, cheer up, old girl; PI take
FATHER’S DEPARTURE. 81

you fishing by and by when Father's gone,
and I'll go out with you all for your morn-
ine’s walk with Miss M. if you like; then if
you stick to me we can talk things over a
bit.” This last is a great condescension on
Jack’s part, forif any one is ever rash enough
to suggest his going out with us, his reply is,
“No, thanks, you don’t catch me going out
with such a troop of girls; why, if any one
met us, they would think I had joined an
‘Establishment for Young Ladies.’ No, no,
you needn’t ask me.”

‘I thank him gratefully, therefore, for his
munificent offer, and just as I am telling him
how good Mother, Aunt, and Miss M. were
about keeping silence on the subject, we hear
wheels coming from the direction of the
stable, and peeping over the low hedge, we
see to our delight that it is the dog-cart evi-
dently going round for Father. At the same
moment we see Miss M. rushing wildly about
the garden, apparently in search of somebody
or Something. Sure enough she flies towards

us directly we emerge from the sheltered
(220) F
82 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

path along which we have been walking, and
beckoning energetically, cries, “Oh, Madge,
where have you been all this time? First
your mother wanted you, and now your
father is waiting to say good-bye to you
and Jack. Pray, make haste; he will be so
angry if you keep him standing there.”

We need no second bidding, and rush off
helter-skelter, nearly tripping each other up
in our haste and anxiety. Father is stand-
ing on the steps looking from right to left
impatiently. The cloud is just clearing from
his face as he sees us, when an unkind
scraper takes hold of and detains a small
piece of braid on my dress, which I have
been desired to sew on times out of number:
on I go, however, unconscious of the fact
until I feel a sharp pull, lose my footing,
and fall with great violence against Father’s
legs,

It is Jack who helps me up and presents
me rather a soiled handkerchief, which I
-press to my poor bleeding chin; but Father
does say as he goes slowly down the steps:
THE ANIMALS OFFER CONSOLATION. 83

“I hope you are not hurt: you should
learn to walk properly like a young lady,
and not go rushing about like a wild creature;”
and Miss M., who has just come up, says,
“Madge, how many times have I desired you
to sew that piece of braid on your dress?”

I don’t answer, for if I open my lips to
speak I know I shall cry, and I dare not ery
before Father, for I know from bitter experi-
ence that to shed one tear before him is to
be banished from society for the rest of the
day; so I gulp down my emotion, and having
handed Jack’s handkerchief to him, with a
smothered sob follow Father down the steps,
and hold up my injured countenance for his
farewell kiss. This being given, I turn away
and walk quietly by myself down one of the
paths until I am out of sight, then I rush
into the kitchen-garden, and making straight
for the menagerie, throw myself down in the
midst of the animals and howl to my heart’s
content. The animals all gather round me,
and offer consolation in various voices; and
Jock, my dear old collie, comes and stands
84 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

beside me, and pushing his velvet nose into
my hand, looks up pityingly with his soft
brown eyes into my face.

The attentions of all these affectionate
animals tend to raise my spirits, till, with
Tuft perched on my shoulder, a kitten in
my lap, and Jock’s glossy head resting on
my arm, I really feel moderately happy
again,

Tam stroking Kitty and wondering what
my next move had better be, when, hearing
a footstep, I look up and see Jack strolling
towards me.

“T thought I should find you here,” he
says when he gets within hearing; then
coming up amongst us all and seating him-
self on the rabbit-hutch, he continues, “I’ve
brought you the last news, thinking you
might like to hear it.”

“Well?” I say, without looking up.

“Oh, you need not hear it if you don’t
wish!” says Jack majestically, and he turns
and begins to march towards the gate.

“Come back!” I ery, jumping up with
JACK BRINGS THE LATEST NEWS. 85

alacrity, “come back; you know I want to
hear it.”

“Why couldn’t you say so, then,” grumbles
Jack, as once more he seats himself.

“Well, for the first thing, Father’s gone;
secondly, Williams has just had a telegram
to say he must leave at once—his sister is
much worse; and thirdly, he gave orders to
Robert before leaving to sweep all round the
hothouse to see if the key has fallen down
anywhere near; so your best plan would be
to get the key at once and pop it under some
leaves near the door.”

“Then has Williams really gone?” I ery,
starting up.

“Yes,” replies Jack; “he was quite ready,
and had just time to catch the twelve up-
train, so he spoke to Mother and she said
he’d better go off at once. I must say,” he
adds, “ that everything seems to be going in
your favour. I only wish I could get out of
all m¥ scrapes as easily.”

“Qh, it’s not as easy as you think,” I say,
feeling rather offended; “I’m sure I’ve thought
86 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

and thought so hard during the last two
days that I shouldn’t wonder if I find my
hair has turned quite gray when it is
all finished;” and with that I get up and
march off.

“Well, don’t be cross,” says Jack, follow-
ing me; “you really have arranged every-
thing so well that it has all seemed to go as
smooth as silk; but come along now or you
may lose your opportunity. I will keep on
the look-out, if you like, while you do the
work.”

“All right!” I cry, and rushing off I scram-
ble up into the hay-loft and lift the board,
secure the key, and hastily descend again —
too hastily, however, for when I arrive at the
fourth rung of the rickety ladder, my foot
slips, and clutching at it wildly to save my-
self, down we both come to the ground. I
get my feet clear of the ladder, however,
before we are both levelled with the dust,
and jumping up find that I am no worse for
my fall, with the exception of a little super-
fluous dust, which is soon shaken off. J am
GIP LOSES HER HAT. 87

quite accustomed to falls of all descriptions,
so one more or less does not make much
difference to me, and I run off after restoring
the ladder to its original position, and getting
a nod of encouragement from Jack, who
stands as sentry, I carefully place the key
near the door under some leaves.

No sooner is this done than I hear Miss
M. calling me once more, and Jack joining
ime, we both hasten towards the house.

Miss M. is standing on the steps ready
dressed for walking, and as I make my
appearance, flushed and heated with anxiety,
she says: “I do wish you would give up
running and tearing about this hot weather;
you will certainly throw yourself into a fever
if you do not. Now go and get dressed for
your walk. We have all been waiting some
minutes.” I hear a hot dispute going on as
I cross the hall, between Freda, Tiny, and
Gip, the last of whom is dressed for walking,
all but her hat. There is a general rummage
going on among the cloaks and hats on the
stand, and as I approach the group Freda
88 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

says, “I know I put it here when I came
in from the garden last night;” and Tiny
Says:

“Depend upon it, I’m right; she is always
running away with something or other of
somebody’s.”

Then as I appear on the scene she cries
triumphantly, “There, didn’t I say so!” and
Gip, turning quickly, makes a snatch at the
hat I am wearing, and pulling it off without
ceremony, tosses mine towards me, and turn-
ing to the glass completes her toilette.

“Well, how should I know it was not
mine?” I ask, as I stoop and raise my own
hat from the floor; “they are all alike,
though I do remember now that it was
always falling off my head this morning.”

“How should you know!” repeats Gip;
“why, by looking for your name in it, I
suppose; they are all marked though they
are alike.”

“Oh, fancy stopping to look when one is
in a hurry!” I exclaim, laughing at the bare
idea of such a thing. “You have often
MY GLOVES? 89

taken mine when you have been late and it
happened to come first.” Having adorned
myself with my hat and necktie—of course
my gloves are nowhere to be found, and
having tumbled over all the articles in my
drawers I leave them in a state of wild con-
fusion, and look hopelessly round the room,
“Come, we can’t wait for ever for you,”
cries Freda up at my window.

At this I turn again to the drawers, for
surely they must be there, and saying to
myself, “More haste, less speed,” which is
the proverb of all others I most believe in,
I institute a careful search.

I have just found one glove, and am hope-
fully looking for the other, when there is a
gradual crescendo of voices outside, which is
suppressed, however, by Miss M., who coming
under my window says: “ We will walk on
slowly, Madge, and you can follow;” and
Jack says: “TIl wait for you, only do look
shafp;” so it is evident that he has made his
magnificent intention known to the party.
“All right!” I say, “coming;” and catching
90 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

sight of the missing glove at last, I pounce
on it, and arrive in the hall (where I find
Jack, true to his word) in two or three
bounds, and in a few seconds we catch the
others up.






CHAPTER VI.

BREAKFAST WITHOUT FATHER.




ii do not go tearing along as if
our lives depended on it, as

At OP SSR

ep x some girls are made to do, but
4 /) ie
AS we all stroll along leisurely,

walking first with one, then with another,
and. plucking the lovely wild roses as we go,
not without a few shrill screams at the sharp
pricks we get in so doing.

Presently we come to a field in which
there are numberless grassy hillocks, and for
which there are various names; we girls
generally speaking of it as the ‘ Knoll,”
while Jack calls it the amateur graveyard.
Having arrived here we one and all throw
ourselvés down on the inviting - looking
mounds to rest.
92 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

“ Whe—w!” remarks Jack, as he takes off
his hat and throws it down; “it is hot and
no mistake. I suppose it’s this wretched
comet upsetting the weather so,”

“Not so much the comet,” replies Miss
M., “as the spots on the sun; the comet
does affect it too, no doubt, but we may put
it down much more to the sun.”

“Wow so; what do you mean?” inquires
Jack, looking interested.

“Have not you heard?” continues Miss
M., “that the sun this summer has several
spots on it, and that it is generally supposed
that these are little holes in the envelope or
outer covering of the sun, and in consequence
of this it is supposed that the rays of heat
we get through these are much more in-
tense (“or as Freda would say,” interrupts
Jack, “more intensely utterly too too!”).

“Nonsense!” says Miss M. smiling;
“don’t be ridiculous, Jack,— Iwas about
to say that the rays from the gun are much
more intense than usual.”

“Oh! I see,” remarks Jack. “Then the
JACK’S PRESCRIPTION. 93

fact of it is the sun is in an unnatural state
of heat—is feverish, in fact.”

“Yes, if you like to have it so,” replies
Miss M. smiling; “or more correctly speak-
ing, this is the effect it has on the earth, I
do not say that the sun itself has more heat
than usual.”

“Well, I suppose the best thing would be
for it to take some cooling doses,” says Jack,
seriously; “I think Tl send up a box of
seidlitz-powders—let me see, how should I
direct them, I wonder?—

—— Son, Esq.,
With Jack Erickson’s compliments.
Directions.—The powders: one to be taken
every other morning before breakfast,

Py
!

for a week

A shout of laughter follows this sugges-
tion, and Miss M. again requests Jack not to
be nonsensical.

“Well, I don’t see anything nonsensical
in that; do you, now, Madge?” he says, pre-
94 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

tending to be deeply offended. “That’s just
what Dr. Randall ordered me when I ap-
peared at breakfast one morning at school,
with two ornaments on my face, consisting of
a spot on my chin and another on my nose!
The doctor said they were heat-spots. So if
this treatment cleared my complexion, why
shouldn’t it do the same for the sun?”

Another burst of merriment, in the midst
of which, however, Miss M. rises and declares
it to be time we retraced our steps.

The first thing we hear on our arrival
home is that the key has been found and
peace and happiness are once more restored.
My spirits also being restored to a more
equable state I begin to consider what will
be the most pleasant way of spending the
afternoon.

Really I need some rest after all my
anxiety, and if I can combine it with pleasure
it will be all the better.

I wonder what Jack is going to do!—if
I thought it would be of any use I’d ask
him to go on the river with me, but I dare-
A PROPOSAL 95

say he will be off on one of his everlasting
fishing expeditions: anyway there can be no
harm in asking him, so I start off at once
and soon discover him lounging in the ham-
mock. I come to the point at once and say,
“Jack, I have something to propose to you.”

“Well, out with it,” answers Jack; “only
I hope it’s nothing more about those precious
roses 2”

“O no!” I ery hastily; “thank goodness
they are finished with for the present, so
pray don’t remind me of them: no, I was
wondering if you would care to come on the
river this afternoon? it’s awfully hot to play
tennis or anything, and I thought if you were
not going fishing that it would be rather
jolly.”

“Well, so it would, of course,’ answers
Jack; “but I must say it’s rather a good joke .
your proposing such a thing, when you pre-
tend to be so tremendously shocked when-
ever I go out fishing; pray, what would
Father say if he heard we had been on the
river alone?”
96 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

“Nothing,” I reply promptly. “Why, I
thought you knew that we had permission, all
of us, to go out in the boat any time before
sunset, as long as we never go beyond the
Hull Farm gate, which you know one can’t
very well pass without seeing, as it is half
sunk in the water, and no easy matter to
steer round, even when one wants to—no,
don’t you be afraid, Jack,” I say confidently,
“Father knew what he was about, depend
upon it; he knows there are few people
handle a scull better than Gip and J, and
what is more, he knows that we can both
swim.”

“Well, £ never knew anything about it,”
remarks Jack, after this long explanation;
“but, then, I don’t think I’ve heard the boat
mentioned since I came home this term;
besides, I don’t care for rowing much myself,
you know, so it’s natural I shouldn’t trouble
my head about the matter.”

“Yes, of course,” I reply; “and as to your
hearing nothing about the boat, that’s not
surprising either, for it only came back from
DLOATING. 97

the boat-builder’s last Saturday—been to be
done up and painted, you know.”

“Done up and painted!” exclaims Jack;
“why, I thought it was only built last
year!”

“Why, yes, so it was,” I answer; “but
Capt. Morris and Mr, Greenway took Freda
and Tiny out one day early this summer,
and they went and gave it a great bang
against that willow about two miles up, you
know, where there are a whole lot of small
trees half in and half out of the water: well,
at all events it requires some management
to pass that spot comfortably, and they
weren't up to it, I suppose; anyway Freda
screamed, Capt. Morris broke the boat-hook,
and between them all they managed to
scrape a good part of the paint off one side.
Great simpletons! didn’t they all look small
when they came back to dinner, and you
should have seen Father’s face as he handed
the girls out! he didn’t say much, but I
‘suppose, like the parrot, he thought all the

more!”
(220) G
98 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

“Well,” remarks Jack, “if you're sure it’s
safe, done, [ll go,” with which brief remark
he drops gracefully out of the hammock.

Lunch over, we start for the boat-house
and find the Betsy (named after Mother)
looking spick and span in her new coat of
paint, and the water looks so inviting that
Jack is quite enthusiastic on the subject.

He appears to be in a lazy mood to-day,
for nothing will induce him to take a scull,
and as he graciously offers to take the ropes
I give way to him, and as I seat myself in
the middle of the boat I feel very thankful
that I have my boating dress on, consisting
of a loose white serge laced up with dark
blue, and a sailor hat to match.

I cannot help looking at Jack with some
contempt, for before we have gone a mile up
the river he has slipped down amongst the
cushions and looks as luxurious as Freda
herself might.

After a delightfully lazy afternoon, at all
events for Jack, we arrive home just in time
for tea, Jack having been inspired to remark
JACK’S CONDESCENSION, 99

on our way to the house, that he shouldn’t
mind a similar excursion some afternoon
soon, by which I am led to understand that
the expedition has not been altogether a
failure. He is also condescending enough
to compliment me on my rowing powers,
which he says are not at all bad for a
girl!

However I do not intend to weary my
readers with an unnecessary account of all we
did in Father’s absence, so I shall go straight
on to the day of the show; suffice it to say
that the change of the roses had not been de-
tected, and that all who saw them thought
them exceedingly fine and far superior to
Mr. Monckton’s!

Aunt and Miss M. of course were the only
people who knew of the affair at all besides
Mother, and they evidently told her, as not
one word on the subject was ever said to
me by any of them. The morning of the
eventful day rose cloudless and hot as ever,
and we literally gasped with horror as we
sat at breakfast, at the thought of what was
100 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

before us. “If only there had been a shower
in the night,” says Aunt to Miss M., “it would
have cleared ¢he air and laid the dust,’—
dust was Aunt’s bitterest foe.

“Tt is really dreadful,” groans Freda, as
she pushes her plate from before her and
leans back in her chair, “I am sure it is,
hotter than ever this morning.”

“Tl see what the thermometer says,” I
ery, and jumping up I go into the hall.

We have become quite accustomed to
ways and manners, in Father’s short absence,
which would be considered quite treasonable
could he see us. I am really glad to sce
that the figure is no less than 97 degrecs,
and carry this news into the dining-room,
quite triumphantly.

Jack and Gip take my view of the case
and seem pleased to hear that it is really as
hot as it seems.

Freda and Tiny, however, grumble more
than ever. “Just think what it will be,”
they cry in a breath, “baking in those
glaring gardens,”
NO ICKS:! 101

“ Anyway,” replies Gip, “you will get a
little air going along in the carriage, while
we shall have ample time to get scorched
and burnt, if Frisk does not choose to go
quickly, which is sure to be the case, so hot
as 1b is,”

“Ah! yes, it’s very well to talk,” replies
Tiny testily. ‘When you are once there you
can do as you like, and sit where you like—
whereas Freda and I shall have to walk
about with Father in the broiling sun listen-
ing to all the compliments paid to him
about his roses.”

“And shall not have the satisfaction of
an ice even,” chimes in Freda. “ Warm
claret-cup will be the most we shall get.”

“Tees are very injurious in such extreme
heat,” observes Aunt, “and your Father will
do quite right in not allowing you to take
any. Iam sure Miss Montgomery would not
allow it either.”

We exchange glances of dismay at this
remark; for, if the truth must be told, we
had been buoying ourselves up with thoughts
102 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

of unlimited ices, and had had more than one
talk on the subject. Miss M. makes a diver-
sion by asking Jack if he intends going,
adding that she could manage to drive with
a fourth in the carriage for once.

“No, thanks!” replies Jack not over
graciously. “No; you don’t catch me going
six miles on a day like this to look at what
I can see at home any day. Many thanks
for the offer, though,” he adds, catching a
reproving glance from Aunt; “but I really
couldn't do it. It’s all very well for girls,
but I haven’t any finery to show off.”

Breakfast over, we disperse in different
directions; and, after having prowled about
the poultry-yard, stables, menagerie, &c., I
wander at last into Mother’s boudoir, where
I find her lying on the sofa alone.

Mother puts her book down as I seat
myself beside her, and, taking my hand in
hers, says:

“And how is my Madge to-day?”

“Oh, all right!” I reply cheerfully ; “it’s as
hot as ever, I think, Mother.”
A CHAT WITH MOTHER. 103

“Yes, dear; in fact your aunt says the
thermometer is higher this morning than
it has been yet. It will be a lovely day for
the show in some respects, but the heat will
he very trying.”

“Yes,” I say with an exhausted sigh; “if
only we could have a large umbrella put up
over the whole ground it wouldn’t be so bad;
but fancy walking about in the full glare of
the sun at that time of the day. I’ve got no
sun-shade now, either,” I add ruefully after a
moment’s reflection.

“No sun-shade, dear?” inquires Mother;
“how’s that? I thought you all had new
ones only a few weeks ago.”

“Yes; so we had,” I answer dismally,
“but I smashed the handle of mine last
week, Auntand I went to M shopping,
and I left it on the seat of the carriage when
we got out last, and when I got in again |
forgot all about it and sat down on it.”

“Careless girl,” says Mother smiling.
“Well, you must get a new handle put on,
and I will lend you mine this afternoon.


104 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

This reminds me,” adds Mother suddenly;
“JT have wanted to know several times how
you had managed about the roses; but I did
not like to ask you. Your aunt and Miss M.
said they fancied your plans had been suc-
cessful, but this is all I have heard, and I
thought, perhaps, you might like to tell me
all about it now.”

This announcement is wholly unexpected,
and I am puzzled as to what I shall say in
answer. Having carefully plaited and un-
plaited the fringe of the anti-macassar on
Mother’s sofa, however, I say:

“Td rather tell you when the show is over,
Mother dear; I shall be in such a state of
mind until I know whether Father has the
prize or not; but to-morrow I'll tell you all
about it.”

“Very well, dear,’

Py

replies Mother. “As
long as you can assure me that all you have
done is honourable and right, you have my
best wishes for your success, dear. Of course
you will tell your father afterwards?”

“Oh, yes! of course,” I answer briskly,
ROBERT INTRODUCES ME TO THE ROSES. 105

but the bare idea fills me with dismay;
and giving Mother a hasty kiss, I run out of
the room and up into my own.”

“Good gracious!” I think to myself, as I
lean my arms on the window-sill, “I never
thought of that. Shall I have to tell Father?
I suppose I shall. It will be only right, of
course. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what a deal of
misery those few wretched roses have led
to!”

At this juncture I hear a wheel-barrow
being trundled along underneath my win-
dow, and, disregarding the possible danger
of falling into it, I lean half out in order to
ascertain what is going forward.

It is Robert wheeling the two identical
pots of roses, with some others, towards the
gate, beyond which I can just descry a small
covered cart waiting.

“Robert!” I cry, “are you sending off the
flowers now?”

“Yes, Miss,” he replies, looking up rather
startled; “why? would you like a peep at
them afore they goes?”
106 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

“Yes, yes!” I ery; “wait a moment and
Tl come down.”

In another instant I am standing beside
the barrow, while Robert introduces me to
each flower in turn, expatiating on the
varied beauties of each as he does so.

“These ’ere is the best of the lot, though,
to my thinking,” he remarks, pointing out
my two purchases; “ they certainly has grown
wonderful these last few days. Williams
did give me a peep at them a fortnight ago,
and he says: ‘Robert, says he, ‘you won't
see them again till you sees em at the show
maybe’ (for Master’s promised us each a
ticket, Miss Madge) ; ‘but when you sees ’em
there I reckon youll hardly know them
again. And faith he was right, Miss, for, as
I said before, they certainly has improved
wonderful, and I can’t help feeling that
Master will be right pleased when he sees
“em.”

I stand and listen to this long speech with
ereat interest, throwing in an appropriate
remark now and then; and then, having
CACHMERE VERSUS STARCH. 107

nothing better to do, 1 walk down to the
gate after the barrow and see the pots (six
in all) stowed away comfortably in the cart.
By this time it only wants half an hour
to luncheon, so I stroll in and up to my
room again to see what Nurse has put out
for me to wear.

On my bed is spread out a white piqué,
handsomely trimmed with embroidery, and
looking delightfully cool and inviting. About
this, however, I have strong doubts, and I
instantly make up my mind, that, should it
be as I suspect, I will not wear it. No; I
would sooner go in the dark blue cotton
frock I have on, torn as it is, and, it must be
confessed, dirty and tumbled too.

I march up to the bed and take up my
dress. Yes; it is as I thought. It will
actually stand alone on the floor in its hope-
less stiffness!

I toss it back on to the bed and rush up
straight to the nursery.

“Nurse!” I cry as I enter breathless, “I
cannot wear that dreadful dress; I might just
108 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

as well have one made of buckram. Lucy
ought to be made to wear it herself. Just
fancy this hot weather having one’s arms and
neck scratched as that would scratch them;
and anyone could hear me coming, too, a
mile off with the horrible stiff rustle it
makes. I declare if I were Aunt I wouldn’t
let a scrap of starch go into the laundry at
all this sort of weather.”

“Gently, gently, Miss Madge,” says Nurse,
quite frightened at this sudden outburst.
“Why, you quite take my breath away.
There’s no need for you to wear the dress at
all, dearie. Come along with me and you
can choose for yourself. J thought the
white looked cool and nice.”

“Yes; so it does look cool,” I reply; “but
you should just feel it: it makes me hot now
to think of it.”

Nurse and I dive into the recesses of a
deep drawer, and after a careful search
among more piqués, muslins, and linens, all
equally starched, I finally pounce upon a
white cachmere and drag it out in triumph.
FATHER’S ARRIVAL, 109

“That, dear,” says Nurse, “is hardly clean
enough for you to go anywhere in, is it?”

“Yes; plenty,” I answer promptly; “it’s
just the thing—so soft and cool, you know.
Besides,” I add, “I'm not going with Father.
Gip and I are going with Miss M. in the
pony-carriage. Oh! it will look lovely with
my hat and the feathers, I’m sure;
before Nurse can say another word I’m off
with my treasure, and in another ten minutes

oy)

and

I am arrayed therein; and even Nurse con-
fesses that it looks wonderfully fresh on.

We get through lunch before Father re-
turns, which is a lucky thing for Jack, as he
does not put in an appearance at that meal,
having gone, I conclude, on a fishing expedi-
tion.

Freda and Tiny have retired to their
rooms to adorn themselves; but as our party
is to start first, Miss M., Gip, and I are all
ready with the exception of hats and bonnets,
so after adding these we all three repair to
Mother’s room to have a final chat while
waiting for the carriage.


110 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

We are just saying, “ How late Father is!”
when we hear the wheels of the dog-cart
coming down the drive. Aunt jumps up
instantly, and running to the foot of the
stairs cries out in an agony of mind:

“Girls, girls, are you ready? Your father
is just coming down the drive.”

A tremendous scuffle upstairs is the result
of this information, and as Aunt returns to
_ the boudoir we hear frantic cries through the
open door of: “Oh! Nurse, have you seen my
long black gloves;” then, “Susan, Susan,
what have you done with my clean lace
ruffs ?”

Aunt having shut the door I hear no
more, but we all exchange glances of dismay
as the dog-cart stops at the door, and in a
twinkling Father is amongst us.

Ile strides straight up to the sofa, and
saying, “ Well, how is my Betsy to-day?”
takes Mother’s hand and gives her an affec-
tionate embrace. Although Father is so
severe with us, there is not the least doubt
that he is perfectly devoted to Mother, and .
TINY JUST SAVES HERSELF. lil

we forgive many a slight and many an
unnecessary punishment when we witness a
scene like this, for we know that when
Father is in one of his bitter and hard
moods a few words from Mother will soften
him.

Ah, yes! often and often when we have
been under sentence of going to bed, per-
haps, in desperation we have flown to
Mother with an agonized cry of, “Oh,
Mother, do speak to Father; he says I’m to
go to bed;” and after a time he will come to
us and say, “It is your Mother’s wish that I
shall forgive you and not punish you this
time: you had better go to her now—she
wishes to speak to you.”

After his greeting to Mother he gives
Aunt a kiss, shakes hands with Miss AL, and
makes a peck at each of our cheeks in turn,
commencing with Tiny, who has just saved
herself, having entered the room quietly at
Father’s heels, and now stands drawing on
one of the missing gloves as if she had been
- there all the time.
112 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

It ig evident that Fathor’s business, what-
ever it was, has gone well, for he appears to
be in a most happy frame of mind, and look-
ing round at us, says, “So you are all ready
like good girls. It’s very hot, Joan—I should
like a sherry and soda before we go. I hope
the drive in the sun will not be too much
for you, Miss Montgomery.” In the midst
of these remarks Freda enters.


eS ee

Awe ape

fe Ed



CHAPTER VII.

THE ROSE-SHOW.



a as
i
eg

% E all gasp and look at one another,
for if ever she was zesthetic be-

fore, she is most intensely so
AK OF
AN CD
“RS 7 now, for she is arrayed in a long

flowing sort of gown (more the shape of a
night-gown than any other) deeply and
highly embroidered with sunflowers about
the size, on an average, of a small tea plate.

She wears also a natural one at her
neck, and has several painted on her sun-
shade, and on the large fan which hangs at
her side.

Tiny raises her eyebrows, and stepping
behind Miss M. whispers to me, “Isn’t it
absurd? I begged her not to do it, but she
would; it’s such a pity, too, for Father seemed

in such a good temper.”
(220) prs
114 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

Tiny says “seemed” advisedly, for Father's
countenance has suddenly changed, and as
he looks upon Freda it seems to grow darker
and darker.

Freda appears not to notice this, however,
and walks straight up to him for his kiss;
but Father does not offer to bestow it on her,
and after standing looking down at her a
minute, says:

“What possessed you to put on that ridi-
culous dress? I am going to a flower-garden,
and therefore do not wish to take one with
me. Go and take it off immediately, and
never let me see it again. You needn't
trouble to put on your bonnet again, as one
of your younger sisters will take your place.”

Poor Freda quits the room leoking rather
erest-fallen, but on the whole we are all
rather relieved that it has been no worse, for
we expected a regular storm.

The question now is—who will be the
chosen one?

“ Gip, of course,” I whisper to Tiny, and she
nods her acquiescence; but Father is not of
I HAVE TO TAKE FREDA’S PLACE, 115

the same opinion apparently, for after look-
ing round at us all he says, “ Madge appears
to me to be the most sensibly dressed, and
the one most likely to be taken for Tiny’s
sister. I do not wish to be set on fire on
my way to the show any more than I wish
to be accompanied by a flower-garden.”

This is meant for Gip, who, true to her
name, is fond of bright colours, and has pre-
sented herself among us to-day, notwith-
standing the heat, in a costume in which red
predominates. Very pretty and picturesque,
no doubt, and undeniably very becoming to
Gip, but a little fatiguing to the eye on a day
like this.

Father leaves the room accompanied by
Aunt to obtain his sherry and soda.

The instant the door is closed Tiny ex-
claims: “There’s a pretty compliment for
you, Madge; I hcpe you feel flattered at
being considered worthy to be my sister.”

“ Nonsense!” says Miss M.; “it is only
because Madge happens to be more quietly
dressed this afternoon than Gip, and like all
116 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

gentlemen, your father dislikes anything
showy or gay.”

“Yes, I must say,” says Mother’s gentle
voice, “that Tiny is always quietly and well
dressed, and I have heard Mr. Erickson speak
of it more than once. It was a great pity
Freda was so foolish. I cannot think why
she takes up these silly notions.”

“Tt is just a little freak, dear Mrs. Erick-
son,” replies Miss M.; “she will very soon
leave it off when she sees how ridiculous it
looks in others; this little contretemps of to-
day will make some impression, I have no
doubt.”

“TfI had known that I should be chosen
when I put on this dress, I'd have dressed
myself in all the colours of the rainbow
instead,” I grumble aside to Gip; “you and
Miss M. will have the best of it after all.”

“T don’t sce that altogether,” replies Gip;
“TI shall only be one of the school-room
girls, but you will be one of the Miss Ericksons
to-day.”

“Well, I shall not find very much pleasure
WE START FOR THE ROSE-SHOW. 117

in that,” I say, “for I shall be certain to do
or say something wrong, and shall very likely
offend Father, or Tiny, or both.”

At this moment the pony-carriage comes
up to the door, and Tiny and I stroll out to see
Miss M. and Gip start. Father is standing
on the steps, and hands them in with much
ceremony and politeness.

Frisk does not seem in the sweetest of
tempers this afternoon, and evidently thinks
it a pity to stir out of the delightful piece of
shade which is now slanting across the front
of the house. Miss M. shakes the reins and
Frisk shakes his head. Miss M. says, “ Come,
Frisk,” in a persuasive tone of voice; but
Frisk is not to be persuaded, and only puts
down his head and examines with much
interest the polish of his shoes.

“Come, Frisk, this won't do,” says Miss
M. with more firmness, and she gives him a
slight touch over the ears with her whip.
Off they go instantly, and though Frisk
evinces a strong desire to patronize the lawn
in lieu of the carriage-drive Miss M. has her
118 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

own way in the matter, and away they go
through the gate and round the corner in
orand style.

The carriage drives up just as they disap-
pear round the corner, and Tiny and I are
soon seated waiting for Father, who has dis-
covered a few leaves on the steps, and is
sending a little message through Rivington
the butler to Robert, to the effect that he
does not wish to see them there on his return
home.

Directly we start I find I have forgotten
mother’s sun-shade after all, but I dare not
ask to go back for it, so ] have to sit oppo-
site Tiny, in the full glare of the sun, and
try to look happy, though I know, to my
sorrow, that I shall arrive at the gardens with
a red nose and scorched eyeballs.

If I were with any one but Father [
should tilt my hat over my nose regardless
of appearances, but as the case stands it is
out of the question.

It may be imagined too that my thoughts
are not very pleasant as I sit listening to
AN UNCOMFORTABLE DRIVE. 119

Father's remarks respecting the hoped-for
result of the show, and I feel in a fever of
anxiety as to whether he will detect any
difference or not.

I quite envy Tiny as she sits there with a
clear conscience, and looks cool into the
bargain, in her soft white dress, and neat
little white bonnet, the only colour about
her being that of a lovely damask rose at her
throat. Father notices this too, for turning
suddenly round, he says:

“That’s a lovely rose, Tiny, it does not
look unlike one of my show ones! have you
been helping yourself to one?”

Tiny laughs, and says: “Yes, of course,
Father,” and he laughs too! How can they
laugh on such a terrible subject!

I have grown so crimson that Father is
moved to pity at my heated appearance, and
Says:

“You do look hot, Madge; couldn’t you
lend her your sun-shade, Tiny, you have not
the sun on you now, and she has it full in
her face.”
120 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

Tiny hands it over to me, and I accept it
gratefully, hiding my guilty face under it
immediately. There are crowds of people
on the ground when we arrive, and Tiny,
notwithstanding her pretended aversion to
going, looks as bright as a star, as she bows
and smiles to our various acquaintances.
The man who has had the placing and
arranging of the specimens now bustles
forward, and with many shuffling bows,
says: “Good-day, sir; if you could step this
way with me, sir, I will show you where I
have placed your roses, sir; I’ve given
them the very best position I could, sir, right
opposite Mr. Monckton’s.”

I think father will be vexed at hearing
this; but no! he is delighted, feeling certain,
I suppose, of the superiority of his roses.
At this instant a cheerful hearty voice be-
hind us says:

“Ah! Mr. Erickson, delighted to see you
sir,—a hotter day than ever, I really think;”
and turning round quickly I see Mr. Green-
way flourishing his hat in the air with one
MR. GREENWAY ARRIVES ON THE SCENE. 121

hand while the other is held out to Father.
Tiny blushes in a manner which astonishes
me, as she puts her small hand in his for a
second, and then instantly steps back to my
side with the original remark, “How hot
it is!”

My attention is once more arrested, how-
ever, by hearing Mr. Greenway say:

“Now, Mr. Erickson, I know you are
anxious to see if your roses are properly
placed; allow me to take one of your daugh-
ters off your hands for a time. I shall have
the greatest pleasure in doing the honours of
the gardens, I assure you. I have made the
round myself twice, so I ought to know some-
thing about them.”

There is not very much doubt as to
which of the two daughters he means,
for as he speaks he steps forward and with
a little smile and a bow places himself by
Tiny’s side in a most confident manner. I
expect Father to fly into a passion, and if he

doesn’t actually box Mr. Greenway’s ears,
to give him one of his contemptuous looks,
122 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

commencing at the culprit’s boots and travel-
ling slowly up to his eyes, varied by some
little observations in reference to his consum-
mate impudence; but no! wonders will
never cease, he looks quite pleased, and to
Tiny’s astonishment, as much as my own,
says, “Thank you, Mr. Greenway, I shall
be very glad if you will; we shall meet
again somewhere, I suppose.”

So Tiny and her cavalier move off, and 1
stand, quite regardless of appearances, gaping
and staring after them; is the world coming
to an end, or, what? I cannot help feeling
amused, though, as I watch the retreating
figures of my sister and Mr. Greenway,—for
he is six feet in his stockings, while Tiny
measures four feet eight in high heels. In
fact, she does not nearly reach his shoul-
der, and I cannot help feeling sorry for him
when I think how tired he will be stooping
to catch her remarks. He does not find it so
irksome as one would imagine, however, and
as they disappear round the corner I see
Tiny craning her neck, and trying to look as
DISMAL REFLECTIONS. 123

if she were taller, while he is stooping his
handsome head and talking to her as if he
did not find it the least trouble in the
world.

Heigh, ho! I groan to myself as I lose sight
of them, I do hope that man won’t want to
marry Tiny and take her away. Whatever
should we do without her?—in fact, the bare
idea of losing any of my sisters is terrible
to me, but Tiny more than all, and I
stand buried in reflections which are not of
the liveliest, until I am startled by a voice
saying, “Come, Madge, are you going to
stand there dreaming by yourself all the
afternoon?”

I turn quickly, and heaving a deep sigh
follow Father and the man who is with him
down the centre walk. When we reach the
end of this we come upon a miniature fairy-
land, or more minutely speaking, a large
portion of the ground over which is stretched
a white awning. To get out of the fearful
glare of the sun is an immense relief, and
the subdued light and the sweet scent of
124 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

the many flowers are most grateful to our
senses.

We all three wander up the principal path
until we come to about the middle thereof,
and here Mr. Simpkins (which I afterwards
learn is the name of our guide) stops.

“There they be, Mr. Erickson, sir,” he says
with pride, as he takes off his hat and
flourishes his red handkerchief round his
bald head; “I don’t really think they could
a had a better position.”

“No, no,” says Father. “Very well placed!
very well placed indeed; and thus saying he
puts his arms behind him, and stands silently
gazing at his treasures, while I stand tremb-
ling at his side.

“P’raps you won't mind excusing me now,
sir,” adds little Mr. Simpkins, evidently in a
fluster of anxiety to be off ‘ You'll always
find me somewhere about the gardens if you
should be wanting me;” and without waiting
for a reply off he bustles. I take one anxious
glance at Father and try to read his thoughts
in his face, but he is still looking attentively
I GET FAINT WITH TERROR. 125

at the roses, and I cannot tell whether his
expression is one of satisfaction or otherwise.
“Wem! strange, very strange!” I hear him
mutter to himself presently. “I certainly
thought there were four red; and if 1 remem-
ber rightly, only three of the tea,’—then
after a minute’s reflection, “ however, I sup-
pose I was mistaken; what say you, Madge?”

I turn hot and cold and tremble so
violently that I begin to fear I shall fall to
the ground, and after opening my lips twice
to speak, and no sound coming therefrom, I
stammer, “ Yes, no, that is I didn’t see them,
at least I didn’t know that they were the
show ones”—and as Father turns round sud-
denly and looks at me, I stop confusedly.

“Why, bless the child, what ails you?” he
cries; “you look ready to faint. 1 suppose
it was the heat of the drive that upset you.
Come along and [ll get you something,” and
as he speaks Father tucks my arm under
his, and away we go towards the tent over
which is written in huge red letters, “Re
freshments.”
126 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

What with the miserable state of my
mind, and the intense heat, I really do feel
ill and faint, and am very thankful when
Father finds a chair in a comparatively cool
corner, and ensconces me therein.

I must be looking pale too, for he hurries
off to the counter and gives an order. Be-
fore he returns to me, however, I see some-
thing which revives me completely, and
causes me to sit up straight in my chair.






CHAPTER VIII

TINY’S ADMIRER.

IGHT opposite to me, in another



|| i secluded corner, are my sister and
Oe ’ Mr. Greenway, the former eating

Ste ices ad lib,—the latter with an
untasted soda and sherry before him, fanning
her assiduously.

I can hardly believe my eyes—has Father
seen them, I wonder, and whatever will he
say to them? He must have seen them,
though, I argue to myself, because at present
there are so few people in the tent!

“Will he order them out, or at least Tiny,
or will he—”

“Drink this up, Madge, it will do you
good;” and looking up with a start I see
Father holding a glass of something before me.
128 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

Really, wonders will never cease to-day!
As I take the glass into my hand I see a
delicious knob of ice bobbing about on the
top of the beverage, which on tasting I
actually find to be champagne and seltzer.
After my first sip I look up incredulous
towards Father—surely he must have made
a mistake and given me what he intended
for himself. |

No! he evidently notices my look of as-
tonishment, for he smiles and says: “I
thought the champagne would do you good,
and the ice really cannot hurt you to-day,
for the drinks are all perfectly warm without,
they manage things so badly at these sort of
places; why cannot they put the bottles in
ice, I wonder?—at anyrate,” he adds, turning
and looking at Tiny, “it’s better than eating
ice!”

He has seen them then, I think to myself,
will he blow up Tiny in front of her admirer,
I wonder? but I have not long to wonder,
for Father, taking my empty glass from me,
says: “You are better now, ar’n’t you? you
MRS. FEATHERSTONE SEIZES UPON ME! 129

look so. I want to speak to some people
before they leave, but you can come back
presently and have some strawberries if you
like;” so I get up and follow him from the
tent.

As we pass the corner where my sister
and Mr. Greenway are sitting Father turns
and gives her one of his long contemptuous
stares. ‘Tiny crimsons to the roots of her
hair, and I feel 1 am doing the same; but on
the whole I am certainly relieved, as I did
not think we should have escaped without a
storm.

I know well, though, as does Tiny, that it
is only a question of waiting till we are alone
in the carriage with him again.

The first people we meet are the Feather-
stones, our vicar and his wife. Mrs. F. is
arrayed in a bright blue silk and a bonnet
which is wonderful to behold, at least to
strangers, but I am hardened to the sight of
them, for have I not seen them twenty times
before? At the flower-show last year, on

every fine Sunday this summer, at the Con-
(220) I
130 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

ways’ and Richardsons’ garden parties, and
lastly at our own only a fortnight ago?

To my horror she ranges up alongside of
me, while her husband walks beside Father
in front.

Now this good lady is deaf, very deaf, but
there is not a greater talker than she for miles
round, and as she cannot hear a syllable one
says she seems quite satisfied and content if
one lets her run on and only nods and smiles
in reply.

“A very hot day, my dear, is it not?”
remarks Mrs, F. as a commencement.

“Yes,” I reply, “it is hotter than ever
to-day.”

“ My dear, how can you say such a thing?”
remonstrates Mrs. Featherstone; “the ther-
mometer is higher to-day than it has been
for sixty years!”

I simply nod to this, as my last remark
was such a failure, and wait patiently for her
next observation,

“How is your dear mother to-day, my
dear?” she inquires at length.
A GRAND MISUNDERSTANDING. 131

“She is a little better to-day, thank you,”
I shout in her ear.

“Ah! [’m sorry to hear it, very sorry,”
says my companion, shaking her head sadly;
“poor dear, how she does suffer, to be
sure!”

“No, no,” I cry desperately, “she is better
to-day, Mrs. Featherstone.”

But she still shakes her head and mur-
murs, “Yes, yes; it’s the heat, to be sure; it’s
trying to those who are strong, so what
must it be to her, poor thing!”

I feel very angry, but it is no use trying
to make her understand, so I give the matter
up as hopeless.

After some little time Mrs. Featherstone
lays her hand on my arm and says:

“My dear, I want you and your sister,
your neat sister, I mean, to come and drink
tea with me next Saturday: one of my nieces
comes to spend a few days with me, and I
should like you to know each other.”

“Thank you very much, Mis, Feather-
stone,’ I reply, trying to speak very slowly
132 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

and distinctly, “ but I am very sorry we are
going out that afternoon—”

“That's right, that’s right,” says the dear
old lady, brightening up. “I want you to
know Edith; she is a dear good girl, and I
am sure you will like her.”

“Whatever shall Ido? I shall never make
her understand,” I groan to myself. Father
and Mr. Featherstone are deep in some botan-
ical discussion, so it is no use appealing to
them. I must try and get out of it by myself,
I suppose, so turning towards her again I say,
“T am very sorry, Mrs. Featherstone, but
Gip and I are going to the Raynors to play
tennis on Saturday, so we should not be able
to go to you that day, as we shall not leave
there until late—”

“Late! who talks of being late?” asks
Mrs. Featherstone, catching up the last word;
“besides, Mr. Featherstone will take you
home again, of course, and I should not think
of your being late in any case—”

I get perfectly desperate on finding that
my last explanation has made no impression
WE MEET MISS M. AND GIP. 133

whatever on my companion, and stepping to
Father’s side, 1 touch his arm and whisper
my difficulty to him, finishing up with, “ Do,
pray, make Mr. Featherstone explain to her—”
which he soon does, in a shout which must
surely be heard at the other end of the gar-
dens.

Old Mrs. Featherstone shakes her head till
the white feather on top of it trembles again
on hearing the rights of the case; but I beg
Mr. Featherstone to tell her that no doubt
we can go to tea with her on Monday, if that
will do as well, and Father will let us, and
finally the good old lady goes smiling and
nodding away on her husband’s arm, appa-
rently quite pacified, her last words as she
moves off being, “ Tell your mother, my dear,
I’m sorry she’s not so well; dear, dear, how
sad it is, to be sure!” and once more thank
goodness we are left in peace again.

We meet the Dickensons and the Raynors
and lots of people after that, and I have to
stand and listen to all the different remarks
on Father's roses.
134 MADGE'S MISTAKE,

Presently we see Miss M. and Gip, the
latter looking fearfully scorched and dusty.
Father actually goes up to them and makes
a few remarks to Miss M., while Gip and I
stare in astonishment at each other; for, as a
rule, when some of us are out with Father
and others with Miss M., it is an understood
thing that the two parties are quite distinct,
and it is a rare thing for him to take the
smallest notice of the opposition party; but
the fact is he is so delighted with the pro-
bable success of his roses that he is at peace
with all men to-day, and acts accordingly.
After making the round of the gardens
several times, always, of course, stopping
before those detestable roses to admire them
once more, we again repair to the tent, and
as we enter we run right up against Mr.
Greenway and Tiny, who are apparently only
just leaving it.

This is more than Father can stand, even
though he is so pleasant to-day, so stepping
up to them at once, he lays a detaining hand
on my sister’s arm, and looking at her com-
TINY IS RECOVERED FROM THE ENEMY. 185

panion, says, “ Many thanks, Mr. Greenway,
for your kind care of my daughter, which I
will now relieve you of, however, as we shall
be leaving the ground in a minute or so.”

Mr. Greenway says something about “hay-
ing been charmed, &c.,” of which I have not
the smallest doubt; but he is not to be sup-
pressed and dismissed in this summary
manner, and follows us as we go in, with
the greatest coolness, taking good care, of
course, to talk to Father this time.

Having found us chairs, they repair to the
counter, and Mr. Greenway remains standing
there while Father brings me my plate of
strawberries and cream, and something in a
glass, which turns out to be warm lemonade
this time.

“ T suppose you have had sufficient refresh-
ment,” he says, turning suddenly to Tiny and
frowning down at her; “if not,” he continues,
“you have sadly wasted your time!” and
without waiting for her answer he turns on
his heel and leaves us again. Tiny is very
wrathful, and looks so, for bags not Mr.
136 MADGE'S MISTAKE,

Greenway noticed this little scene, though he
pretends to be intent on another sherry and
soda?

Presently Father discovers Miss M. and
Gip struggling wildly with the numbers who
have now flocked into the tent, and vainly
trying to obtain some refreshmertt; he
instantly goes to the rescue, and having
made a clear passage for them, orders what
they wish and retires, leaving them standing
in comparative ease and comfort.

Father is evidently in a hurry to be gone
now, and intimates as much to Tiny and me
immediately on his return to us. We girls are
not sorry either, especially after the uncom-
fortable turn things have taken, so rising
with alacrity we join him and commence a
slow progress towards the door.

Mr. Greenway sees the move, and hastily
putting down his glass, makes the best of his
way towards us. Father is too quick for him,
however, this time, and before the enemy
can reach us has Tiny safely tucked under
his arm: there is nothing left for the discom-
MR. GREENWAY AND I DO NOT AGREE, 137

fited admirer, therefore, but to take charge of
me, which he does at once, I must say, with
a very good grace.

“Fairly warm, Miss Madge,” he says as I
take his offered arm (I am taller than Tiny,
and can do so with less difficulty), “we shall
all be glad to get out of these stifling gardens,
I think.”

“Yes,” I answer with my usual brusque-
ness, “it’s simply scorching here; I can’t
imagine how Tiny can manage to look so
and I give

{”

cool; it’s very provoking of her
a great sigh, which appears to amuse my
companion much, for he laughs and says:
“Yes, your sister does look charming, and
even cool; she is about the only person who
does, though,” he adds, looking round con-
temptuously on the heated crowd of faces.
“JT didn’t say anything about her looking
charming,” I answer rather crossly, for I feel
that Mr. Greenway should not be encouraged,
and moreover I am angry at his last sweep-
ing assertion; “and as for her being the only
person who looks cool, you're wrong there,”




138 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

I continue, “quite wrong, for I saw Miss
Montgomery just now, looking as cool as any-
thing; a perfect contrast to Gip with her red
face!”

“ Ah! well, [ daresay I am wrong,” replies
Mr. Greenway with provoking good humour;
“T haven’t had the pleasure of seeing or
speaking to Miss Montgomery to-day, but I
was particularly struck with your sister's
appearance,”

“T know that as wellas you do,’ I think to
myself, as, having reached the entrance of
the gardens, I take my hand from my com-
panion’s arm, and stand in silent dignity.

“Mr. Erickson’s carriage,” is being lustily
shouted for by half a dozen different link-
men, and I am very glad when I see the
same drawn up alongside of the gates, and
Father waiting by the side to hand me
In.

Tiny is already seated in the furthest
corner, looking very cross and glum; she
brightens up, however, on seeing Mr. Green-
way behind me, for it appears she thought
TINY LOSES HER ROSE! 139

he had departed without bidding her adieu,
which would naturally have hurt her feel-
ings; but he comes up to the carriage door
and stands there beside Father talking a
minute, until someone else’s carriage being
called for, Father steps in, and Mr, Greenway,
leaning across him, gives Tiny’s hand a
squeeze which brings the colour back to her
face.

I notice, as he shakes hands with me, that
he has a lovely red rose in his button-hole
which I do not remember seeing there be-
fore. I glance at Tiny’s dress—yes! it is as
I thought; the rose she wore but half an
hour ago is no longer there, and Mr. Green-
way is evidently the happy possessor of it.

“How can she be so silly!” I think to
myself; “Father is certain to notice it, and
whatever will he say to her!”

Sure enough, he turns towards her the
instant we have started, and says: “Tiny,
what has become of your rose?”

“T lost it in the gardens, Father,” replies
Tiny, promptly; but her face flushes scarlet
140 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

as she puts up her parasol, naughty little
story-teller that she is!

““Hem!—so I thought,” mutters Father,
and I think, “Now for a storm!” but no, Iam
mistaken once more, and we arrive home in
complete silence, all feeling about equally
uncomfortable, I suspect: there is one thing
in my favour, however; Father’s mind is so
completely taken up with my sister’s dis-
graceful conduct, that the show, and even
the hateful roses, have evidently slipped en-
tirely out of it for the present; so I lean back
in my seat less ruffled in mind and spirits
than I have been for some days past, and
give myself up to enjoying the little ghost
of a breeze which is now trying to spring up.
In this manner we arrive home, and as
Father hands Tiny out of the carriage with
elaborate politeness I catch sight of the look
he bestows upon her, and I know full well
that we have not heard the last of the Green-
way escapade, and that he is treasuring up
some little plan which will be a more effectual
punishment to poor Tiny than a mere scolding.
A COLLISION. 141

Mother and Aunt are all anxiety to hear
the account of the show, and Father recovers
sufficiently to satisfy their curiosity, and as
I leave the room I overhear him saying:
“Oh, yes, I am certain to get it; it is the
general opinion, and I must say I was sur-
prised myself even at the beauty of the
flowers: they have improved, wonderfully
even in my short absence.”

Mother and Aunt look in a scared, bewil-
dered sort of manner towards me, but I take
not the smallest notice of either of them,
and hastening out of the room, bound up-
stairs to my own, and tearing off my hat
and gloves, fling them on to the bed and rush
down again, out into the garden in search of
Jack.

I have not turned the corner of the path,
however, when clang goes the gong, and
as I am to be promoted to the dinner-table
this evening, in consequence of having
missed the school-room tea, I fly back again
in hot haste for fear of being late.

I enter the hall in such a flurry that I
142 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

knock up against Rivington’s broad back:
which is the first object I come across, and
stepping back again hurriedly, I see that he
is helping Father to wheel Mother’s sofa into
the dining-room, so anxious is she to hear
every detail of the eventful afternoon.

Finding there is plenty of time, therefore,
I leisurely follow and seat myself at the
table, quietly enough even to please Father.

The dinner-table is quite lively this even-
ing, though the conversation is chiefly carried
on between Father, Mother, and Aunt: Freda
occasionally makes a remark too, for Father
has been pleased to notice her, her offences,
no doubt, appearing small beside Tiny’s.

After a small lull in the conversation
Father looks up suddenly, and addressing
Mother, says: “Who is asked to dinner
next Tuesday ?”

“Sir John and Lady Bennet,” replies
Mother. “Mr. and Mrs. and Gerty Raynor,
the Teatherstones, Hugh Campbell, Mr.
Greenway, and Capt. Morris.”

“Hem!”—mutters Father, “ fourteen with
MR. GREENWAY’S NAME IS cUT ouT! 148



ourselves; too many!—can’t you strike some
out?”

“Oh! I don’t know,” replies Mother, look-
ing alarmed, “they are most of them asked, ©
and some have accepted even; the Raynors
and the Featherstones have, and I am only
waiting for the Bennets; the three young
men I haven’t asked yet, as they are less
likely to be engaged.”

“Well,” says Father, taking a pear and
examining it minutely, “couldn’t you dis-
pense with one or two of them?”

“ My dear Charles,” remonstrates Mother,
“you forget that I have only arranged for
the proper number of gentlemen we really
require; if I left any of them out, Freda or
Tiny would have to go in to dinner alone!”

“Well, and why not?” inquires Father,
leaning over to put a quarter of the pear on
Mother’s plate; “it wouldn’t hurt them for
once, I suppose! or if you object to that,
strike Mr. Greenway out of your list, and if
Tiny does not like going in alone she can
stop out altogether!”
144 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

Mother says, “ Very well, dear, so be it,
then,” and with a gentle sigh leans back
amongst her cushions.

I glance across at Tiny—she evidently
sees, as I do, that the whole thing is a ruse,
for at our dinner-parties they seldom sit
down less than twelve or fourteen, and more
often sixteen is the number: she raises
her head suddenly, and with an angry flush
upon her face says: “I have not the smallest
wish to dine at all that evening, so, pray,
don’t consider me: I shall enjoy my usual
tea and a walk with Miss Montgomery and
the girls far more, only (turning towards
Mother) I thought it was Father’s par-
' ticular wish that I should appear on this
occasion,’—and Tiny returns to her dinner
with a slight tremble about her lips which
Father notices and chuckles over.

Mother gives the sign for our departure
soon after this, and my sisters and I gladly
escape, and take our way to the school-
room,

I shall pass over the stormy scene which
AN ANXIOUS TIME. 145

ensues upon our arrival there, for after all it
has nothing to do with my story, and I fear
my readers will begin wishing that I would
come to the end of this, one of my early
recollections.




CHAPTER IX.

THE RESULT OF THE ROSE-SHOW.

AM down early next morning, in
order to ascertain if possible how
matters stand regarding the show;



Rivington has been before me, how-
ever, and has taken up the newspaper to
Father’s dressing-room, so I have to dance
(metaphorically speaking) upon hot bricks
until he appears with it in his hand at
the breakfast-table. Dear old Aunt sees my
anxious face, I believe, as I take my seat
at the table, and looking up from the cups
immediately says: “Well, Charles, what
about the show, is it all right?”

“Yes, all serene!” replies Father, looking
awfully pleased: and shaking out the paper
he reads:
SUCCESS! 147

“*The Annual Flower-show at the Horti-
cultural Gardens, M-——, took place yester-
day, and was honoured by a large and
fashionable attendance of all the nobility
and gentry around, &c &c.,’”” said Father.
“Tl leave you to read all that for your-
selves after; this is the paragraph which
chiefly concerns me.

““*Amongst the best specimens were some
unusually fine roses, the respective properties
of Charles Erickson, Esq., of the Oaks, and
Edward Monckton, Esq., of the Manor House.
The blossoms of each were so especially
beautiful that it appeared somewhat difficult
to decide in preference of either; we hear,
however, that the first prize will be awarded
to Mr. Erickson, on account of the difficulties
generally encountered in rearing the
rose (a deep damask), which is comparatively

29)



rare in these parts.

Jack gives me such a kick under the table
that I drop my cup, which I was just about
to carry to my lips, with a mighty crash, most
of the contents going splash into Gip’s plate.
148 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

“ Horrid creature!” cries she, as she pushes
her chair back, thereby letting the stream
down upon the floor: “will you ever learn
to behave decently, I wonder?”

The catastrophe does not trouble me much,
however, and for a wonder I am not ordered
out of the room.

I finish my breakfast in peace, therefore,
and as soon as we rise from the table I rush
out of the room and into the garden, followed
by Jack.

“Isn't it splendid?” I cry, as he comes
up with me; “really I am happier now than
I have been for days, now it’s all over: oh!
Jack, you really can’t tell what the anxiety
has been.”

“T havea very fair idea, notwithstanding,”
answers Jack, as we saunter down the path:
“T must say, though,” he adds, “ you have
been most precious lucky to get out of all
the scrapes that you have: just look now
what a heap you got into trying to get out
of the first one!”

“Yes,” I answer, with a deep sigh, “so I
AN AWFUL SOUND FALLS ON MY EAR! 149

did ;—but, for goodness sake, Jack, don’t you
take to lecturing, it doesn’t become you
either,” I say with dignity. “Charity begins
at home, you know!—now I’m going in to -
get my hat; and then I think I shall go
for a walk, now my mind is easy: will you
come?”

“Yes, I don’t mind,” replies Jack, with
immense condescension; and he follows me
leisurely while I rush into the hall and
begin a wild rummage amongst the many
hats hanging there. I have just pounced
upon the right one, and am dragging it out
by the string in triumph, when I hear a
sound which causes me to stand still with
the hat suspended in mid-air.

The library door is a little open, and I
hear a warm argument going on between
Father and some one whose voice I have
surely heard before. I creep a little nearer
to the door, trembling and shivering from
head to foot, for a terrible thought suddenly
springs up, though as yet I will hardly

acknowledge it to myself even. Yes, I know
150 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

that husky little voice, I am sure I do, and
gathering courage from sheer desperation I
go close to the door and listen. “‘ You see,
sir, directly as I see’d the paper this morning,
and read as how you had won first prize,
I says to myself, says I, ‘Mr. Erickson of
the Oaks is not the sort of gentleman to let
a poor man lose nothing, so I'll go straight
off and see if maybe he won’t go shares in
the prize, or anyways give me something
handsome, after.obliging him as I have.’”

“QObliging me!” cries Father, perfectly
aghast; “my good man, I don’t know really
what you are talking about, you must be
labouring under some extraordinary mis-
take!”

“ ixtraordinary or no extraordinary,” says
the man, with slow emphasis, “it’s no mis-
take at all, sir; ask the young lady if it’s a
mistake.”

“Young lady!” cries Father, fairly startled,
“what young lady, in the name of good-

y7

ness?”
“Why, one of your young ladies, sir, one
I AM PANIC-STRICKEN. 151

of the young ones I think it was; I don’t
think as I knows her name,—no, no, sir,” he
adds suddenly, “it’s no mistake, take my
word for it; James Mullins is not the man
to go and make such a mistake!”

It is then as I feared, and I sink down
upon the soft mat in a shivering heap,
doubled up with silent fear and misery.

“So this is the end of all my success!” I
eroan; “oh dear, oh dear, Pl never touch
another rose as long as I live; if only the
earth would open and swallow—”

The door is suddenly thrown open, and
before I can move an inch Father strides
literally over me, and only saves himself
from measuring his length along the floor by
catching wildly at the hat-stand.

I am too wretched to scream (although he
trod upon my foot unmercifully), or make
any sound at all, so Father stands and looks
down upon me with silent wonder. I believe
he thinks I have lost my senses.

“Well, this is ladylike behaviour,” he says
at length; ‘“‘pray, have you been to sleep here?”
152 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

I shake my head dismally, and at last it
seems to strike him that my manner is
curious, to say the least of it, for he suddenly
goes back into the room, saying: “Come in
here, I want you.”

I limp in after him (oh, he has hurt my
foot), and stand before Mr. Mullins, who
looks aghast and somewhat uncomfortable,
for it seems to dawn upon him suddenly that
he has got me into dire trouble.

“Pray, is this the young lady?” asks
Father, taking me by the shoulder, and
turning my terror-stricken face towards the
man.

“Yes, sir,” he replies, looking in amaze-
ment from one to the other. “Yes, that’s
the young lady, sir, but I don’t wish, sir, to
get her noways into trouble; I wouldn’t ha’
called if Pd knowed there’d be any harm
done, indeed I wouldn’t, and I hope the
young lady ’Il believe me, for it’s true, every
word on’t.”

“Whether she gets into trouble or not is
my affair, not yours,’ says Father. Perhaps
I GIVE AN ACCOUNT OF MY WICKEDNESS. 153

you will both be good enough to give me a
clear account of what has happened, that I
may not be acting quite in the dark: it is
very evident that I have been grossly de-
ceived and misled by some one: sit down
there, Madge, and hear for yourself what this
man has to say;” and Mr. Mullins, with many
preparatory coughs, at last gives the whole
account of my early visit to him that un-
lucky morning, adding that as the roses went
to the show, and he let me have them cheap,
he thought there would be no harm in his
asking for a trifle more than the price I
gave,

Father having listened in silence to his
long account, turns to me and asks, “if it is
all correct.” I simply nod my answer, for
it is as much as I can do to keep from
bursting into tears, and I think I have men-
tioned before that Father objects to these
little displays of feeling.

-I am then and there commanded to give
an account of all my wickedness from begin-
ning to end, and Mr. Mullins stands and
154 MADGE'S MISTAKE.

listens to the story with much astonishment,
evidently pitying me from the bottom of his
good old heart.

“Then I am to understand,” says Father,
“that you picked these particular roses quite
ignorant of what they were?”

“Oh, yes, Father,” I cry, my spirits reviv-
ing a shade, “I had no idea that they were
intended for the show, and I wanted to take
Mother a nice bunch, she was so poorly that
day, and she loves roses so.”

“Yes, yes, I understand all that,” says
Father, rather impatiently, “and it was care-
less of Williams, very, to leave the place
open; but the fault lies here, Madge, that
you did not come straight to me and say
what had happened, directly you found out
what you had done unconsciously.

I stare at Father in complete astonishment
at this awful suggestion! What can he be
thinking about? as if he did not know as
well as I do myself, that not one of us would
dare do such a thing.

“Tf you had done this,” continues Father,


MR. MULLINS PLEADS FOR ME. 155

“everything would have been perfectly easy,
for if that was all I could have withdrawn
from sending any specimens to the show, but
as the case stands I don’t really see what
can be done now; you see” (turning to
Mullins), “the names of the successful com-
petitors are even published, so I don’t really
see how I can withdraw now—”

“No, sir,” replies Mullins, “I don’t really
see as how you can; if I was you I should
just let the matter drop now, sir.”

“T don’t see what else can be done,” says
Father reflectively: “and as to the matter
of the price of the flowers, I suppose a
couple of guineas will set that right, now
that you really understand how the case
stands?”

“Why, yes, sir, certainly it will,” replies
Mullins, looking pleased that matters have
turned out no worse, “and I hope, sir, if I
may make bold to say such a thing, I hope
the young lady won't get into no more
trouble.”

“O no, I'll see to that,” says Father, with
156 MADGE'S MISTAKE.

wonderful good nature, as, having received
the two guineas into his great fat palm, Mr.
Mullins shuffles towards the door and departs
with many low bows.

“ And now, Madge,” says Father, standing
before me, “what do you think of all this
business yourself ?”

“T don’t know, Father,’ is my meek reply.
“Tam very sorry, but it was the only thing
I could think of, and I thought you would
be so angry if old—if Mr. Monckton got the
prize after all.”

A slight smile passes over Father's face: I
have hit the mark, that is plain, and if I
am forgiven at all it will be simply because
I have been the unconscious means of gaining
the first prize for Father.

I think it wise to follow up the subject,
therefore, so drying my eyes (which are wet
notwithstanding my frantic efforts to com-
mand myself) I look up again and say: “I
hope you'll forgive me this time, Father, I'll
never do such a dreadful thing again, and
the state of my mind has been awful,—I’ve
I AM GRACIOUSLY FORGIVEN, 157

spent a heap of money too!” I add dole-
fully.

“Well,” says Father, evidently amused,
though he tries hard not to show it, “1 must
talk to your mother, and hear what she says
about it all; I had certainly made up my
mind to send you to school, and indeed that
is quite possible still; but I believe you have
fairly punished yourself this time, so we
shall see; I am glad at any rate that you
have confessed all now,—I suppose it 7s all?”

“Oh! yes,” I ery, jumping up, “I’ve told
you everything now: and, Father—”

“Well?”

“ Please don’t tell any one else; of course
1 don’t mind Mother and Aunt, nor Miss
Montgomery if you like, but please don’t
tell the girls: I should never have any more
peace; and Williams too, Father, don’t tell
him, for he’d never forgive me for getting him
into trouble.”

“Well, well, Dll see,’ returned Father.
“Run away now, and try to be a better and
wiser girl in future.”
158 MADGE’S MISTAKE.

I am so overwhelmed with this unusual
kindness that I am inspired suddenly to
lift up my face for a kiss, which Father
instantly gives; not the usual peck, but
actually a kiss on my forehead, and as he
gives it he says, “ There, never mind, little
girl, you've punished yourself enough this
time, I think!”

Away I rush out into the garden in search
of Jack, who by this time is tired of waiting
for me, I expect.

I find him before very long in the mena-
gerie, feeding the pups, so I rush in, and,
throwing myself down upon some hay ex-
claim: “O Jack! Father knows all about it,
and he hasn’t killed me!!!”

“Gracious me!” cries Jack, “you don’t
surely mean it?”

“ True,—true as I’m here,” I say, nodding
seriously. “That wretched old Mullins, the
gardener, you know, came this morning, and
wanted to go shares in the prize! Father
thought he was mad at first; then he came
and fell over me, for I was listening in a
JACK CONSOLES ME. 159

heap on the mat, and I think he saw from
my looks that I knew something, so he took
me into the room and I had to make a clean
sweep of it all before the man.”

“Whe—w!” whistles Jack. “My stars!
and what did he say?”

“Why,” I reply, lowering my voice to a
confidential whisper, “the fact is he is so
charmed at having outdone old Monckton,
that it is in consideration of that he has
forgiven me: I believe he is secretly glad it
didn’t come out before, as he would have
been obliged to withdraw, you know, and
now that the verdict is given, and it is
all published, there’s nothing that can be
done excepting for us all to hold our
tongues.”

“What about Mullins, though?” inquires
Jack; “won't he let it out?”

“O no!” I answer briskly. “Father's made
it worth his while to keep silent—given him
tivo guineas!”

Jack whistles again, while I add in rather
a woebegone manner, “I shall very likely
160 MADGE’S MISTAKE,

have to go to school, though! Father’s going
to talk to Mother about it.”

“Never mind, old girl,” says Jack consol-
ingly, “I don’t suppose you will go; but
even if you do, why, we can have lots of
larks when you come home for the holidays:
oh, bless you, youll get into lots more
scrapes yet, see if you don’t!”

“OQ no!” I say, shaking my head sadly.
“JT mean to turn over a new leaf now: the
recollection of this one will last me some
time, though, as you say,” I add with a sigh,
“T daresay I shall have plenty more to tell
about by and by.

THE END.


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Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, bevelled boards, olivine edges, 6s.

Owing to the unsuccessful termination of the war between Great Britain
and her American colonies, the subject is one which English writers have
for the most part avoided, and our histories have been generally drawn
from American sources. In the present volume the author has gone to the
accounts of English officers who took part in the conflict, and lads will find
that in no war in which British soldiers have been engaged did they behave
with greater courage and good conduct, than in the long struggle with
the American colonists. Older people will read with surprise and interest
this accurately written narrative of the war. The historical portion of the
book being accompanied with numerous thrilling adventures with the red-
skins on the shores of Lake Huron, in which the hero of the tale, the son
of a British officer settled in the States, and who joins the Royal army as
a scout, takes part, a story of exciting interest is interwoven with the
general narrative and carried through the book.

IN FREEDOM'S CAUSE:

A Story of Wallace and Bruce. By G. A. Henry, author of
“ With Clive in India,” “By Sheer Pluck,” “Facing Death,”
“Under Drake’s Flag,” &. ‘With 12 full-page Illustrations
by Gorpoy Browne in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth
elegant, bevelled boards, olivine edges, 6s.

In this story the author relates the stirring tale of the Scottish War of
Independence and of the exploits of Wallace and Bruce. The extraordinary
valour and personal prowess of these historical characters rival the deeds
of the mythical heroes of chivalry Roland and Arthur, and indeed at one
time Wallace was ranked with these legendary personages. The researches
of modern historians have shown, however, that he was a living, breathing
man, and that in spite of the fact that the contemporary writers were, for
the most part, his bitter enemies, there can be no doubt that he was a
great man as well as a valiant champion. The hero of the tale fought
under both Wallace and Bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy
has been maintained with respect to public events, the work is full of ‘‘ hair-
breadth ’scapes” and wild adventure.
4 Blackie & Son's New Publications.



BOOKS BY G. A. HENTY.

WITH CLIVE IN INDIA:

Or the Beginnings of an Empire. By G. A. Henry, author of
“Facing Death,” “Under Drake’s Flag,” “By Sheer Pluck,” &.
With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gorpon Brownz. Crown
8vo, cloth elegant, bevelled boards, olivine edges, 6s.

The period between the landing of Clive as a young writer in India and
the close of his career was critical and eventful in the extreme. At its
commencement the English were traders existing on sufferance of the
native princes. At its close they were masters of Bengal and of the greater
part of Southern India. The Author has given a full and accurate account
of the historical events of that stirring time, and battles and sieges follow
each other in rapid succession, while he combines with his narrative a tale
of daring and adventure, which gives a lifelike interest to the volume,

“In this book Mr. Henty has contrived to exceed himself in stirring adventures
and thrilling situations, while the realities are preserved. The pictures are by Mr.
Gordon Browne, who may be congratulated on their success in adding to the interest
of the book.”—Saturday Review.

** Among writers of stories of adventure for boys Mr. Henty-stands in the very first
rank, and Mr. Gordon Browne occupies a similar place with his pencil. . . . Those
who know something about India will be the most ready to thank Mr. Henty for
giving them this instructive volume to place in the hands of their children.” — Academy.

** He has taken a period of Indian History of the most vital importance, and he has
shown by what means the work was accomplished. He has embroidered on the
historical facts a story which of itself is deeply interesting. Young people assuredly
will be delighted with the volume as a whole.” —Scotsman.

UNDER DRAKE'S FLAG.

A Tale of the Spanish Main. By G. A. Hzwnry, author of “By
Sheer Pluck,” &c. Illustrated by 12 full-page Pictures by
Gorpon Browne. Crown 8vo, cl. elegant, bevelled boards, 6s.

A story of the days when England and Spain struggled for the supre-
macy of the sea, and England carried off the palm. The heroes sail as lads
with Drake in the expedition in which the Pacific Ocean was first seen by
an Englishman from a tree-top on the Isthmus of Panama, and in his great
voyage of circumnavigation. The historical portion of the story is abso-
lutely to be relied upon, but this, although very useful to lads, will perhaps
be less attractive than the great variety of exciting adventure through
which the young adventurers pass in the course of their voyages.

“A stirring book of Drake’s time, and just such a book as the youth of this mari-
time country are likely to prize highly.”—Daily Tclegraph.

“Ned in the coils of the boa-constrictor is a wonderful picture. A boy must be
hard to please if he wishes for anything more exciting.” —Pall Mall Gazette,

“It is well illustrated, and is a real good story really well told.” —Punch.

“*A book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough one would
think to turn his hair gray.”—Harper’s Monthly Magazine.
Blackie & Son’s New, Publications. 5



BOOKS BY G. A. HENTY.

ST. GEORGE FOR ENGLAND:

A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By G. A. Henry, author of
“With Clive in India,” “By Sheer Pluck,” “ Facing Death,”
“Under Drake’s Flag,” &c. With 8 full-page Illustrations
by Gorpon Brownz in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth
elegant, 5s.

No portion of English history is more crowded with great events than that
of the reign of Edward III. Cressy and Poitiers laid France prostrate at
the feet of England. The Spanish fleet was dispersed and destroyed by a
naval battle as remarkable in its incidents as was that which broke up the
Armada in the time of Elizabeth. Europe was ravaged by the dreadful
plague known as the Black Death, and France was the scene of the terrible
peasant rising called the Jacquerie. All these stirring events are treated
by the author in St. George for England. The hero of the story, although
of good family, begins life as a London apprentice, but after countless
adventures and perils, becomes by valour and good conduct the squire, and
at last the trusted friend and companion of the Black Prince.

BY SHEER PLUCK:

A Tale of the Ashanti War. By G. A. Henry, author of “ With
Clive in India,” “ Under Drake’s Flag,” &. With 8 full-page
Illustrations by Gorpon Browne in black and tint. Crown
8vo, cloth elegant, 5s.

The Ashanti Campaign seems but an event of yesterday, but it happened
when the generation now rising up were too young to have made them-
selves acquainted with its incidents. The author has woven, in a tale of
thrilling interest, all the details of the campaign, of which he was himself
a witness. His hero, after many exciting adventures in the interior, finds
himself at Coomassie just before the outbreak of the war, is detained a
prisoner by the king, is sent down with the army which invaded the British
Protectorate, escapes, and accompanies the English expedition on their
march to Coomassie.

“Mr. Henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys’ stories. ‘By Sheer Pluck’
will be eagerly read. The author's personal knowledge of the west coast has been
turned to good advantage.” —A theneum.

““No one could have done the work better than he has done it. The lad must be
very difficult to satisfy who is not satisfied with this.”—Scotsman.

“The book is one which will not only sustain, but add to Mr. Henty’s reputation.
The illustrations are particularly good.”—Standard.

“Of all the new books for boys which the season has produced, there is not one
better fitted to win their suffrages than ‘ By Sheer Pluck,’ It is written with a simple
directness, force, and purity of style worthy of Defoe. Morally, the book is every-
thing that could be desired, setting before the boys a bright and bracing ideal of the
English gentleman.”—Christian Leader.
6 Blackie & Son's New Publications.



BY G. A. HENTY.

FACING DEATH:

Or the Hero of the Vaughan Pit. A Tale of the Coal Mines.
By G. A. Henry, author of “By Sheer Pluck,” “ With Clive
in India,” &c. With 8 full-page Ilustrations by Gorpon
Brownz in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 5s.

“Facing Death” is a story with a purpose. It is intended to show that
a lad who makes up his mind firmly and resolutely that he will rise in life,
and who is prepared to face toil and ridicule and hardship to carry out his
determination, is sure to succeed. The hero of the story, though only a
colliery lad, is a character that boys will delight in. He isa typical British
boy, dogged, earnest, generous, and though ‘‘ shamefaced ” to a degree, is
ready to face death in the discharge of duty. His is a character for imita-
tion by boys in every station, who will assuredly be intensely interested in
the narrative.

“The tale is well written and well illustrated, and there is much reality in the
characters.” —A thenceum.

“Tf any father, godfather, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the look-out for a good
book to give as a present this season to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the book
we would recommend.” —Standard, :



BY PROFESSOR POUCHET.

THE UNIVERSE:

Or Tne InFINITELY GREAT AND THE InFiniTELY Litriz. A
Sketch of Contrasts in Creation, and Marvels revealed and
explained by Natural Science. By F. A. Poucuer, mp.
Illustrated by 273 Engravings on wood, of which 56 are
full-page size. 8th Edition, medium 8vo, cloth elegant, gilt
edges, 7s. 6d.; also full morocco, blind tooled, 16s.

The object of this Work is to inspire and extend a taste for natural
science. It isnotalearned treatise, but a simple study. The title adopted
indicates that the author has gathered from creation at large, often con-
trasting the smallest of its productions with the mightiest.

“We can honestly commend this work, which is admirably, as it is copiously
illustrated.”—Times.

“ As interesting as the most exciting romance, and a great deal more likely to be
remembered to good purpose.”—Standard.

“Scarcely any book in French or in English is so likely to stimulate in the young
an interest in the physical phenomena.”—Fortnightly Review.

“The volume, and it is a splendid one, will serve as a good pioneer to more
exact studies.”—Saturday Review.

“Among the most attractive of the treatises on science there is not one more
suggestive and impressive than Pouchet’s Universe. The work brings so forcibly
before the thoughtful reader the infinite variety of the universe that he must be
dull indeed who is not awed by the impressive lesson.”—Knowledge.
Blackie d&: Sons New Publications.

.

Leeprinted from the Author's Edition 1719.



THE LIFE-AND SURPRISING ADVENTURES OF
ROBINSON CRUSOE.

BY DANIEL DEFOE.

Beautifully Printed, and Illustrated by above 100 Pictures
Designed by Gordon Browne.

Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, 6s.

SSS
SS

SS

SS
ANS

—



There have been countless editions of ‘‘ Robinson Crusoe,” and they have
mostly been imperfect, inasmuch as they have been so largely altered from
the original text that the language in many instances has not been that of
Defoe but of his revisers. The present volume has been carefully printed
from the original edition, and all obsolete or little known terms and obscure

The ‘ Editing ” is not a corrup-

phrases are explained in brief foot notes.
tion or pretended improvement of Defoe’s great work,
8 Blackie & Son’s New Publications.



BOOKS BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.

BUNYIP LAND:

The Story of a Wild Journey in New Guinea. By G. Man-
VILLE Fenn, author of “The Golden Magnet,” “In the King’s
Name,” “Nat the Naturalist,” &. With 12 full-page Illus-
trations by Gorpon Browyz in black and tint. Crown 8vo,
cloth elegant, bevelled boards, olivine edges, 6s.

“Bunyip Land” is the story of Joseph Carstairs, son of an eminent
botanist, who, in his search for new plants for the London nurserymen,
ventures into the interior of New Guinea. Years pass away, and Professor
Carstairs does not return ; and though he is supposed to be dead, his young
wife and son, who live at a station in Australia, refuse to believe this to be
the case; and as soon as he is old enough, young Joe declares his intention of
going in search of his father. To his surprise and delight his mother is
willing that he should go, and their friend the young doctor offers to
be Joe’s companion. Jimmy, a native black, insists upon bearing them
company; and a passage is taken to New Guinea in a cruising schooner.
They land, are made prisoners, get free, and finally journey into the interior
of that terra incognita, New Guinea, which Jimmy believes to be full of the
native demons or bunyips, as he calls them, hence the title Bunyip Land.
Their adventures are many and exciting, but after numerous perils they dis-
cover the professor a prisoner among the blacks, and bring him home in
triumph to his anxious wife,

THE GOLDEN MAGNET:

A Tale of the Land of the Incas. By Gro. ManviLue FEny,
author of “In the King’s Name,” “Nat the Naturalist,” &c.
With 12 full-page pictures by Gorpon Browne. Crown 8vo,
cloth elegant, bevelled boards, olivine edges, 6s.

The tale is of a romantic lad, who leaves, home where his father conducts
a failing business, to seek his fortune in South America by endeavouring to
discover some of that treasure which legends declare was ages ago hidden
by the Peruvian rulers and the priests of that mysterious country, to pre-
serve it from the Spanish invaders. The hero of the story is accompanied
by a faithful companion, who, in the capacity both of comrade and hench-
man, does true service, and shows the dogged courage of the English lad
during the strange adventures which befall them. The plot of the story
is simple, but the movement is rapid and full of strange excitement.

“Tt forms a handsome volume, and clearly a rival to ‘Robinson Crusoe’ as a gift-
book.”—Edinburgh Daily Review.

“‘Told with admirable force and strength. Few men other than Mr. Fenn have
the capacity for telling such stories as this, and we do not remember to have seen one
of his productions which has exceeded it in merit.”—Scotsman.’

“There could be no more welcome Christmas present for a boy. There is not a
dull page in the book, and many will be read with breathless interest. ‘The Golden
Magnet’ is, of course, the same one that attracted Raleigh and the heroes of ‘ West-
ward Ho!’”—Journal of Education.
Blackie & Son's New Publications. 9



BOOKS BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.

IN THE KING’S NAME:

Or the Cruise of the Kestrel. By G. Manvitie Ferny, author
of “The Golden Magnet,” “Nat the Naturalist,” &c, Illus-
trated by 12 full-page Pictures by Gorpoy Brownz. Crown
8vo, cloth extra, bevelled boards, olivine edges, 6s.

“In the King’s Name” is a spirited story of the Jacobite times, con-
cerning the adventures of Hilary Leigh, a young naval officer in the
preventive service off the coast of Sussex, on board the Hestrel. Leigh
is taken prisoner by the adherents of the Pretender, amongst whom is an
early friend and patron who desires to spare the lad’s life, but will not release
‘him. The narrative is full of exciting and often humorous incident.

“Mr. Manville Fenn has already won a foremost place among writers of stories
for boys. ‘In the King’s Name,’ is, we are inclined to think, the best of all his pro-

ductions in this field. It has the great quality of always ‘moving on’—adventure
following adventure in constant succession.” —Daily News,

“Told with the freshness and verve which characterize all Mr. Fenn’s writings and
put him in the front rank of writers for boys.”—Standard.

‘A book in which boys will delight. Just the sort which can be given to a healthy-
minded youngster with the certainty that he will enjoy it.”—Scotsman.

** A capital boy’s story, full of incident and adventure, and told in the lively style
in which Mr. Fenn is such an adept.”—Globe.

MENHARDOC: °

A Story of Cornish Nets and Mines. By G. Manvitir Ferny,
author of “The Golden Magnet,” “Nat the Naturalist,” &e.
With 8 full-page Illustrations by C. J. Sraymuanp in black
and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 5s.

The scene of this story of boyish aspiration and adventure is laid among
the granite piles and tors of Cornwall, where the huge Atlantic waves,
clear as crystal, come flowing in to break in glittering cascades upon the
barriers of rock. Here amongst the hardy, honest fishermen and miners the
two sons of Mr. Temple meet with Will Marion, the nephew of a retired
purser of the Royal Navy and owner of several fishing-boats. The lads, in
spite of their differences of temperament, fraternize, and the London boys,
whose father is a mining engineer in search of profitable lodes or veins,
are inducted into the secrets of fishing in the great bay. They learn how
to catch mackerel, pollack, and conger with the line, and are present at the
hauling of the nets, but not without incurring many serious risks. Adven-
tures are pretty plentiful, but the story has for its strong base the develop-
ment of character of the three boys, who are wonderfully dissimilar. There
is a good deal of quaint character throughout, and the sketches of Cornish
life and local colouring are based upon experience in the bay, whose fishing
village is called here Menhardoc. The search for valuable mineral proves
successful in an unexpected manner, through the knowledge of the London
boys’ Cornish companion, and with good result. This is a thoroughly
English story of phases of life but little touched upon in boys’ literature up
to the present time.

Az2
10 Blackie & Son’s New Publications.



BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.

NAT THE NATURALIST:

Or a Boy’s Adventures in the Eastern Seas. By G. Manvin.e
Fenn, author of “The Golden Magnet,” “In the Kino’s
Name,” &c. Illustrated by 8 full-page Pictures by Gorpon
Browne in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 5s.

This is a pleasant story of a lad who, though he is brought up in a strictly
quiet fashion by an aunt, has a great desire to go abroad to seek speci-
mens in natural history, and has that desire gratified by an uncle who
comes home from distant lands, whence he brings a beautiful collection.
The boy Nat and his uncle Dick go on a voyage to the remoter islands of
the Eastern seas, and their adventures there are told in a truthful and
vastly interesting fashion, which will at once attract and maintain the
earnest attention of young readers. The descriptions of Mr. Ebony, their
black comrade, and of the scenes of savage life, are full of genuine humour.

“Mr. Fenn has hit upon a capital idea. This is among the best of the boys’ books
of the season.”—-The Times.

“We can conceive of no more attractive present for a young naturalist.”—Land
and Water.

“This sort of book encourages independence of character, develops resource, and
teaches a boy to keep his eyes open.”—Saturday Review.

“The late Lord Palmerston used to say that one use of war was to teach geography:
such books as this teach it in a more harmless and cheaper way.”—Athencum.



BY HARRY COLLINGWOOD.

THE PIRATE ISLAND: ~

A Story of the South Pacific. By Harry Continewoop, author
of “The Secret of the Sands,” “Under the Meteor Flag,” &c.
Illustrated by 8 full-page Pictures by C. J. Sraninanp and
J. R. Wetts in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 5s.

This story details the adventures of a lad who was found in his infancy on
board a wreck, and is adopted by, and brought up as, a fisherman. By a
deed of true gallantry his whole destiny is changed, and, going to sea, he
forms one of a party who, after being burned out of their ship in the South
Pacific, and experiencing great hardship and suffering in their boats, are
picked up by a pirate brig and taken to the ‘Pirate Island.” After
many thrilling adventures, they ultimately succeed in effecting their es-
cape. The story depicts both the Christian and the manly virtues in such
colowrs as will cause them to be admired—and therefore imitated. There
is not a single objectionable expression or suggestion throughout the book;
and it abounds in adventures of just the kind that are most eagerly devoured
by juvenile readers,
Blackie & Sons New Publications. 11



BY ASCOTT R. HOPE.

STORIES OF OLD RENOWN.

Tales of Knights and Heroes. By Ascorr R. Horr, Author of
“The Wigwam and the War-path,” &. With nearly 100
Illustrations by Gorpon BrownE. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant,
bevelled boards, olivine edges, 5s.

A Series of the best of the Stories of Noble Knighthood and Old
Romance, told in refined and simple language, and adapted to young
readers. A book possessing remarkable attractions, especially for boys
who love to hear of great deeds and enterprises of high renown.









“Ascott R. Hope here breaks new ground, and he deserves as much credit for
his choice of subject as for his mode of treatment.”—Academy.

“ Ogier the Dane, Robert of Sicily, and other old-world heroes find their deeds
embedded in beautiful type, and garnished with animated sketches by Gordon
Browne. It is a charming gift-book.”—Land and Water.

“Mr. Hope’s style is quite in accord with his theme, and the simplicity with
which he recounts these ‘Stories of Old Renown’ is by no means the least part of
their attractiveness. Mr. Gordon Browne has furnished some excellent drawings
to illustrate the text.”—Pictorial World.

“The stories are admirably chosen. It is a book to be coveted by all young
readers.” —Scotsman.

“
“ It is impossible to praise this charming volume too highly.”—Life.
12 Bluckie & Son's New Publications.



BY ASOCOTT R. HOPE.

THE WIGWAM AND THE WAR-PATH:

Stories of the Red Indians. By Ascorr R. Hops, author of
“Stories of Old Renown,” &c. With 8 full-page Pictures by
Gorpon Browyr. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 5s.

The interest taken by boys in stories of the North American Indians is
probably as keen as ever. At all events the works of Fenimore Cooper and
other writers about the red men and the wild hunters of the forests and
prairies are still among the most popular of boys’ books. ‘‘The Wigwam
and the War-path” consists of stories of Red Indians which are none the
less romantic for being true. They are taken from the actual records of
those who have been made prisoners by the red men or have lived among
them, joining in their expeditions and taking part in their semi-savage but
often picturesque and adventurous life.

“Mr. Hope’s volume is notably good: it gives a very vivid picture of life among
the Indians.” —Spectatur.

“Mr. Ascott Hope is so deservedly popular as a teller of stories of adventure, that
in order to recommend a new volume from his pen we need little more than say it is
his. All the stories are told well, in simple spirited language and with a fulness of
detail that makes them instructive as well as interesting.”—Journal of Education.

‘*So far, nothing can be better than Mr. Ascott Hope’s choice of ‘The Wigwam and

the War-path’ as the name of a collection of all the most scalping stories, so to speak,
of the North American Indians we have ever heard.” —Saturday Review.



BY MARY C. ROWSELL.

TRAITOR OR PATRIOT?

A Tale of the Rye-House Plot. By Mary C. Rowse tt, author
of “ Love Loyal,” “St. Nicholas’ Eve,” “ Filial Devotion,” &c.
Illustrated by 6 full-page Pictures by C. O. Murray and
C. J. Sranizayxp in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth
elegant, 3s. 6d.

“Traitor or Patriot?” is a romantic story of the later days of the reign
of Charles II. The main theme of the story is the conspiracy for the assas-
sination of the king and his brother the Duke of York, which was to be
effected in the lane skirting the premises of the Rye-House in Hertfordshire,
belonging to Richard Rumbold, a maltster. The brothers were to return
from Newmarket to London, and the design was to hew down the guards,
attack the coach, and murder its two royal occupants. The hero of the
story, Lawrence Lee, a young farmer of the neighbourhood, learns the
truth from Rumbold’s pretty daughter Ruth, who has accidentally over-
heard the intentions of the traitors. Thereupon Lee starts on horseback for
Newmarket without a moment’s loss of time, and obtaining an audience of
the king, warns him of his impending fate. After a series of adventures,
the young man succeed§ in his loyal enterprise, and duly receives his re-
ward for his conspicuous share in the frustration of the ‘‘ Rye-House Plot.”
Blackie & Son’s New Publications. 13



BY JOHN C. HUTCHESON.

THE WRECK OF THE NANCY BELL;

Or, Cast Away on Kerguelen Land. By Joun C. Hutcuzson,
author of ‘ Picked up at Sea,” &c. Illustrated by 6 full-page
Pictures in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d.

This is a book for boys after a boy’s own heart, for it has the savour and
spirit of the sea inevery page. The story narrates the eventful voyage of a
vessel on her way from the port of London to New Zealand, and the haps
and mishaps that befell her—the contrary winds in the Chops of the
Channel, the calms when in the Doldrums off the African coast—culminat-
ing in the wreck of the ill-fated Nancy Bell on Kerguelen Land. There is
no lack of incident. From the opening chapter, with the cowardly steward’s
alarm of ‘‘a ghost in the cabin” to the end of the story, which details the
rescue of the shipwrecked passengers, one engrossing narrative holds the °
attention of the reader, until he reaches the final page that tells in an
almost poetic vein ‘‘the last of the old ship.” The characters, also, are full
of interest; jolly old Captain Dinks and the quaint brave Irish mate
M‘Carthy, winsome Kate Meldrum and the hero Frank Harness, down to
the mischievous imp Maurice Negus, and the eccentric Mr. Zachariah
Lathrope, and Snowball the negro cook, who need only to be known to be
appreciated. ‘The Wreck of the Nancy Bell” has all the elements of a
popular and favourite story.

PICKED UP AT SEA:

Or the Gold Miners of Minturne Creek, and other Stories. By
Joun C. Hurcurson. With 6 full-page Pictures in tints.
In crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d.

The story of a young English lad, rescued in mid Atlantic from a watery
grave, and taken out west by a party of gold diggers to the wild regions of
the Black Hills in Dakota. Here, after warring with the elements during
months of unceasing toil in their search for the riches of the earth, and
having the result of their indefatigable labour well-nigh torn from their
grasp when on the verge of victory by a desperate onslaught of Sioux
braves, success at last rewards the efforts of the adventurous band and
their protégé. The tale abounds in exciting scenes and stirring incidents
—all tending to show that pluck and perseverance when allied to a good
cause invariably win in the long run all the world over.

“This is the first appearance of the author as a writer of books for boys, and the
success is so marked that it may well encourage him to further efforts, The descrip-
tion of mining life in the Far-west is true and accurate.”—Standard.

“A story of thrilling adventure which seems to combine every essential quality
of a present-book for boys.”—Morning Advertiser.

“A capital book; full of startling incident, clever dialogue, admirable descriptions
of sky and water in all their aspects, and plenty of fun.”—SkeMield Independent.
14 Blackie & Sows New Publications.



DR. JOLLIFFE’S BOYS:

A Tale of Weston School. By Lewis Hoven, author of “Phil
Crawford,” &. ‘With 6 full-page Pictures in black and tint.
In crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d.

A story of school life which will be read with genuine interest, especially
as it exposes some of the dangers which even in these days of high instruc-
tion may beset lads who are ill instructed at home or have been thrown
among vicious or unscrupulous companions. The descriptions of some of
the characters of the boys at Dr. Jolliffe’s are vivid and truthful,—that of
the worst boy being not too revolting, although it is necessarily painful as
conveying a very distinct impression which should be useful in warning
lads against giving way to overweening personal conceit and envy of the
achievements of others. Perhaps the best touch in the book is the subtle
description of the manner in which the best boy may exhibit weakness of
purpose and some meannesses under the influence of flattery and of tem-
porary luxury. The narrative throughout is bright, easy, and lighted by
touches of humour.

“Young people who appreciate ‘Tom Brown’s School-days’ will find this story a
worthy companion to that fascinating book. There is the same manliness of tone,
truthfulness of outline, avoidance of exaggeration and caricature, and healthy mor-
ality in this tale of school life as characterized the masterpiece of Mr. Hughes.”—
Newcastle Journal.

“This is a racy vigorous story of school life; but it is more than this. The char-
acters are drawn with great nicety and discrimination, while the whole spirit of the
narrative is such as to encourage and instruct boys in the trials which they cannot
avoid.” Edinburgh Courant.

“The tone of the book cannot fail to be beneficial. The narrative ‘moves on’
from first to last with great vigour. It should be read not only by boys but by the
seniors who are apt to forget the troubles which their boys have to meet.”—Glasgow
News,

“Mr. Lewis Hough may be frankly complimented on having written a book for
boys in which boys will recognize their hkes. He knows what schoolboys are, and
he paints the characters with a firm hand.”—Morning Advertiser,

BROTHER AND SISTER:

Or the Trials of the Moore Family. By Exizaperu J. Lysacut,
author of “Nearer and Dearer,” &c. With 6 full-page Illus-
trations in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.

An interesting story for young people, showing by the narrative of the
vicissitudes and struggles of a family which has ‘‘ come down in the world,”
and of the brave endeavours of its two younger members, how the pressure
of adversity is mitigated by domestic affection, mutual confidence, and
hopeful honest effort.

“A pretty story, and well told. The plot is cleverly constructed, and the moral
is excellent.” Atheneum.

“A charming story, admirably adapted for young people, which relates the brave
endeavours of the two youngest members of a family which has become reduced in
circumstances to mitigate the pressure of adversity.”—Socicty.
Blackie & Son’s New Publications. 15



CHEEP AND CHATTER:

Or, Lessons FRom Fietp anp Tree. By Auice Banks. With
54 Character Illustrations by Gorpoy Browns, of which four
are full-page size. Small 4to, cloth, handsome design on
cover, 3s. 6d.; gilt edges, 4s.



About a dozen highly dramatic sketches or little stories, the actors in
which are birds, beasts, and insects. They are instructive, suited to the
capacities of young people, and very amusing. The curious and laughable
thing is the clever way in which mice, sparrows, and butterflies are made
to act and talk. We take an absorbing interest in the adventures of
“Peepy” and ‘‘Cheepy,” and ‘‘ Birdie” and “ Pecky,” in the opinions
they express and the characters they develop, just as if they were papas
and mamas, and boys and girls; and whether we are in Fairy-land, or
Mouse-land, or Bird-land, or in real Boy-and-girl-land, we cease to be sure,
or, for the matter of that, to care. The character drawings, with which
the book is profusely illustrated, are delightfully funny.

“The real charm of the volume lies in the illustrations. We have more than once
approved Mr. Gordon Browne's pencil. Here we can give it unstinted admiration.
Now of these fifty-four illustrations every one is a success. With birds and mice and
insects the artist is equally at home; but his birds above all are inimitable.”—
Academy.

“This isa very pleasing book for the young. The morals of the stories are very
sound, and by no means obtrusive. Of the illustrations it is sufficient praise to say
that they are worthy of the good-natured drollery, the invention, and the sense of the
humorous side of the ways of the lower animals which the author displays.”—Daily
News,

“The author has done her work extremely well, and has conveyed very many
admirable lessons to young people in an excellent way. The illustrations are capital
—full of fun and genuine humour.”—Scvtsman,
16 Blackie & Son's New Publications.



BOOKS BY MRS. EMMA RAYMOND PITMAN.

“Mrs, Pitman’s works are all to be prized for their ennobling character—pure,
elevating, interesting, and intellectual,”—Christian Union,



GARNERED SHEAVES.

A Tale for Boys. By Mrs. E. R. Pirmay. With 4 full-page
Illustrations in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d.

This Tale gives in narrative form the history and adventures of a class
of Sunday-school boys. Each boy’s career is full of interest. In some
chapters we are taken to America, during the civil war, and mingle in
scenes relating to the battle-field; while, in other chapters, we listen to
the quiet teachings of one of God’s faithful servants who strove to “ garner
sheaves for Christ.” The wide difference between the honourable upright
youth, and one who is clever and cunning, but dishonest, is here depicted
by incidents from the life; and it is proved that ‘godliness hath promise
of the life that now is,” as well as of that which is tocome. From this
tale Sunday-school teachers may learn that their ‘‘labour shall not be in
vain in the Lord.”

“Has an earnest purpose running through it, and a high and healthy tone. The
writer shows a thorough knowledge of the character of boys.”—Glasyow Herald.

“This book is of unusual merit. It breathes out good thoughts in earnest and
true tones that speak to the heart, with that force which a story does when well
told. It would grace any child’s library.”—Schoolmistress.

“We can honestly recommend ‘Garnered Sheaves’ as one the best boys’ stories
we ever read.” —Christian Globe.

“The incidents are well-depicted and the characters are true to life. . . . We
shall be glad of more such sheaves as these.” — Freeman.

“Tt should be read by every youth who is leaving school and home for business.”—
Literary World.

MY GOVERNESS’ LIFE:

Or Earning my Living. By Mrs. E. R. Pirman. With 4 full-page
Illustrations in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth neat, 3s. 6d.

This Story, told in the first person, is largely concerned with a young
woman cast upon the world by her father’s death, and compelled to earn
her living by the exercise of whatever talent she possesses. Some of the
minor characters in the narrative are skilfully depicted, notably the old
Cornish couple who figure in the little Methodist chapel; and the young
man of science, who is shown to have missed his way in substituting
science for faith in a personal God, but by painful chastening is recovered
and led to the cross of Christ as a humble believer. Finally, he marries
the heroine of the story, and turns out a good and useful man. The aged
clergyman is a fine specimen of culture and Christian charity. The scenes
of boarding-school life here depicted are full of vivacity and reality.

“Told in the author's usual winsome style, which holds the reader spell-bound
from first to last.” —Christian Union.

“A beautiful and instructive story. . . . Mrs. Pitman never fails to interest
her readers.” — The Rock.

“We strongly urge all young ladies to read the book.” —Christian Globe,
Blackie & Son’s New Publications. 17



BOOKS BY MRS. EMMA RAYMOND PITMAN.

LIFES DAILY MINISTRY.

A Story of Everyday Service for Others. By Mrs. Emma Ray-
mMonpD Pirmay. With 4 full-page Illustrations in black and
tint. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d.

A Story of self-sacrifice and of some touching experiences of life. Some
of the characters are very attractive, others very repulsive; but all tend
to show that true honour and happiness are to be found in serving others,
according to our capacity, and so imitating Him ‘“‘ who went about doing
good.” Some experiences of a sincere and gifted, but doubting youth,
helpless through spinal disease and destined to early death, and his attain-
ment of faith, light, and peace, are peculiarly affecting. Olive Forrester,
the chief heroine of the story, presents an example of saintly self-denial
for the sake of her dead sister’s children.

“The whole story is full of tender pathos, touching incident, and enchanting
interest.”—Christian Union.

“Full of sound teaching and bright examples of character.”—Sunday-school
Chronicle.

“This story is powerfully written, and maintains the reader’s interest to the end.”
—Schoolmistress.

“Full of stirring interest, genuine pictures of real life, and pervaded by a broad
and active sympathy for the true, beautiful, and good.”—Christian Commonwealth.

FLORENCE GODFREY’S FAITH.

A Story of Australian Life. By Mrs. Emma Raymonp Pirman.
With 4 full-page Illustrations in black and tint. Crown 8vo,
cloth extra, 3s, 6d.

This Tale traces the career and adventures of a family who were forced
to leave Manchester during the time of the cotton famine, and seek a home
in Australian wilds. Florence, the central character of the story, is a very
lovely one; and in spite of girlish timidity, girlish fear, and natural shrink-
ing, succeeds in raising a Christian church in the wilderness. The story
teaches the lesson of perseverance in well-doing, and shows how faithful
effort is rewarded.

“This is a clever, and what is better still, a good book, written with a freshness
and power which win the reader’s sympathies, and carry the story along unflaggingly
to the close.”—Christian Globe.

“ A story which will be eagerly read by boys, and which can hardly fail to promote
the growth of a manly type of Christian character.”—Literary World.

“This is a very interesting book, and a suitable present for young men or women.
The infinence of the tale is pure and bracing.” —Freeman,

“A very interesting and instructive story.”—Record,
18 Blackie & Sons New Publications.



BOOKS BY MRS. R. H. READ.



DORA:

Or a Girl without-a Home. By Mrs. R. H. Reap. With
6 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 3s. 6d.

The story of a friendless orphan girl, who is placed as pupil-teacher at
the school in which she was educated, but is suddenly removed by hard
and selfish relatives, who employ her as a menial as well as a governess,
Through a series of exciting adventures she makes discoveries respecting
a large property which is restored to its rightful owners, and at the same
time she secures her escape from her persecutors. The character of Dora
is a very sweet one, and the interest of the story is so sustained that it can
scarcely fail to please the reader.

**One of the most pleasing stories for young people that we have met with of late
years. There is in it a freshness, simplicity, and naturalness very engaging.”—
Harper's Magazine.

‘«It is no slight thing, in an age of rubbish, to get a story so pure and healthy.”—
The Acadeny.

“The heroine is a beautiful character, well conceived and well portrayed. The
tale is a faselnating one.”—Schoolmistress.

‘‘Mrs. Read has succeeded in writing an exciting tale. The character of Dora is
one which every gir] would do well to imitate.”—The Schoolmaster.

OUR DOLLY:

Her Words and Ways. By Mrs. R. H. Reap. With many Wood-
cuts, and a Frontispiece in colours. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 2s.

A story for children, showing the growth and development of character
in a little girl, and describing the surroundings of the family and a series
of entertaining small adventures suitable for very juvenile readers.

“Prettily told and prettily illustrated.”—Guardian.

“Sure to be a great favourite with young children.”—School Guardian.

“ The little London child will read with a longing heart the story of Our Dolly.”—
School Board Chronicle.

FAIRY FANCY:

What she Heard and what she Saw. By Mrs. R. H. Reap.
With many Woodcut Illustrations in the text, and a Frontis-
piece printed in colours. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 2s.

The tale is designed to show the influence of character even among little

children, and the narrative is such as to awaken and sustain the interest of
the younger readers.

“The authoress has very great insight into child nature, and a sound healthy tone
pervades the book.” —Glasgow Herald.

“All is pleasant, nice reading, with a little knowledge of natural history and other
inatters gently introduced and divested of dryness.”—Practical Teacher.
Blackie & Sons New Publications. 19





BOOKS BY GREGSON GOW,

NEW LIGHT THROUGH OLD WINDOWS.

A Series of Stories illustrating Fables of Asop. By Grecson
Gow. With 2 full-page Pictures in colours. Crown 8vo,
cloth extra, 2s.

A series of stories designed to bring before the young mind, in a new
and entertaining form, some of the shreds of wit and wisdom which have
come down to us from ancient times in the guise of fables. Although
amusement has been a chief end aimed at, most of the tales will be found
to suggest some important truth, or teach some sound lesson in practical
morality.

“ Agreeable reading for the young.” — Atheneum.

“Racy, pointed, and fitted to delight young folks.”—Freeman.

“The most delightfully-written little stories one can easily find in the literature
of the season, Well constructed and brightly told, they are sure to be great
fayourites.”—Glasgow Herald.

DOWN AND UP AGAIN:

Being some Account of the Felton Family, and the Odd People
they Met. By Grucson Gow, author of “New Light through
Old Windows,” “ Little Tim,” “Brave and True,” &e. With
2 Illustrations in colours. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 1s. 6d.

A story of city life, in which, though the chief aim is to amuse through
the recital of interesting events and the exhibition of original and humor-
ous character, the reader may see something of the spirit in which mis-
fortune should be met, find an illustration of the maxim that ‘‘ Heaven
helps those who help themselves,” receive an impulse towards kindliness
of deed and charity of thought, and fall on sundry other things worth
knowing and noting.

TROUBLES AND TRIUMPHS OF LITTLE TIM.

A City Story. By Greeson Gow. ‘With Illustration in colours.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 1s. 6d.

\ “‘Strong in character and full of incident, and the narrative all through is in-
teresting and touching.”—Edinburgh Daily Review.

“An unmistakable undercurrent of sympathy with the struggles of the poor, and
an ability to describe their feelings under various circumstances, eminently charac-
teristic of Dickens, are marked features in Mr. Gow’s story.”—North British Mail.

BRAVE AND TRUE:

Or, the Story of Emmy Dutton. By Greeson Gow. Illustrated.
Coloured boards, 4d.

JOHNNIE TUPPER’S TEMPTATION:

Or, the Story ofa Top. By Grecson Gow. Illustrated. Coloured
boards, 4d.
20 Blackie & Sons New Publications.



BY KATE WOOD.

WINNIE’S SECRET:

A Story of Faith and Patience, By Kars Woop, author of
“Lory Bell,” “A Waif of the Sea,” &. With 4 full-page
Pictures in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2s. 6d.

Miss Kate Wood has a talent for writing a simple and pathetic story with
a great deal of quaint easy description and enough of fun to enliven some
chapters that might otherwise seem to be very sad because they relate to
the suffering and poverty of orphan or destitute children. ‘* Winnie’s
Secret” has a plot as interesting as that of many more ambitious volumes,
and while the vicissitudes of the two little sisters are narrated with touching
sympathy and a feeling of genuine piety, the characters of the numerous
juvenile and grown-up friends who come to their aid in the course of the
story are admirably depicted.

A WAIF OF THE SEA:

Or, the Lost Found. By Kare Woop. With 4 full-page Illus-
trations in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2s. 6d.

“A Waif of the Sea” deals very pathetically with the sorrows and trials
of children, and of mothers who are separated from their children. The
narrative is full of human interest, and the lives and struggles of the
people of a poor London neighbourhood are well portrayed. ‘The child-
character of “ Little Birdie” and her short but affecting story will attract
and delight many readers.

“Little Birdie isa beautiful child-character with whom no one can come in contact
without feeling purer and fresher for life’s work.”—Glusgow News.

“This is a very tonching and pretty tale of town and country, full of pathos and
interest embodied in a narrative which never flags, and told in astyle which deserves
the highest praise for its lucid and natural ease.” —Edinburgh Courant.



BY ESME STUART.

MISS FENWICK’S FATLURES:

Or “Peggy Pepper-Pot.” A Story. By Esm#é Srvuart, author
of “Tsabeau’s Hero,” “Mimi,” “The Little Brown Girl,” &c.
With 4 full-page Illustrations in black and tint. Crown 8vo,
cloth extra, 2s. 6d.

‘““Miss Fenwick’s Failures” will doubtless be a very complete success
among young people. The story abounds in capitally told domestic adven-
tures, and though it has an excellent and well-sustained moral purpose, is
so humorous and lively that very few readers, having taken it up, will like
to part with it till they have followed the fortunes of the Fenwick family
to the end of the volume. Like other books by the same author this tale
is a striking example of the ability which can tell a story with spirit and
harmless fun and sustained interest, and at the same time imbue it with
an excellent lesson which the youthful reader may learn without having it
forced on the attention.


Blackie & Son’s New Publications. 21

BY F. BAYFORD HARRISON.

BROTHERS IN ARMS:

A Story of the Crusades. By F. Bayrorp Harrison, author of
“A Wise Woman,” “ As Good as Gold,” “ Under Canvas,” &c.
With 4 full-page Illustrations by Gorpon Browye in black
and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2s. 6d.

‘Brothers in Arms” is a story which while it provides exciting incidents
and vivid descriptions, will be of real value to the young reader because of
its containing accurate historical information on the subject of the Crusades
and the doings of Richard the Lion-heart and his army in the Holy Land.
There are few tales which comprise within so brief a compass, such pictur-
esque representations of life in that olden time, and such stirring and well-
told adventures of two lads who took a prominent but not by any means
an impossible part in the wars in Cyprus and Palestine.



BOOKS BY ROSA MULHOLLAND.

HETTY GRAY;

Or Nobody’s Bairn. By Rosa MuiHouanp, author of “ Four
Little Mischiefs,” &c. With 4 full-page Illustrations in black
and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2s. 6d.

“Hetty Gray ” is the story of a girl who, having been found as an infant
by a villager, is brought up by his wife, and is a kind of general pet, till an
accident causes a rich widow to adopt her, and spoil her by bringing her up
in alternate indulgence and neglect. On the death of her adoptive mother
Hetty, who is left unprovided for, is taken by the widow’s relatives to be
educated in the family as a dependant, but with a view to her gaining her
livelihood as a governess, an event which is prevented by a rather remark-
able discovery. The tale is carried on throughout with the simplicity but
genuine effect which distinguishes Miss Mulholland’s writing.

“A pleasantly told story for girls, with a happy ending.”—A theneeum.

“A charming story for young folks. Hetty is a delightful creature—piquant,
tender, and true—and her varying fortunes are perfectly realistic.” — World.

‘A good story. The characters are well drawn, and the tale is altogether interest-

ing.” —Guardian.

FOUR LITTLE MISCHIEFS.

By Rosa Muyoiuanp, author of “Hetty Gray,” &. With 3
full-page Pictures in colours. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, Qs.
This story of child-life is one of the most amusing of the author’s excel-
lent little books. Its fun is innocent, its incident both captivating and
instructive.
‘* Will be read with absorbing interest by the youngsters.” —Land and Water.
“‘A charming bright story about real children,”— Watchman.
bo
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Blachie & Son’s New Publications.



STORIES OF THE SEA IN FORMER DAYS:

Narratives of Wreck and Rescue. With 4 full-page Illustrations
by Frank Feuzer in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth
extra, 2s. 6d.

While no attempt is made in ‘‘ Stories of the Sea” to paint the sailor’s
life in glowing colours, or invest it with a glamour of romance, the narratives
selected, though serving, perhaps, more as beacons to warn than as lures
to attract, are full of such thrilling incidents of peril, suffering, and ship-
wreck, as are always deeply interesting to the young reader.

ADVENTURES IN FIELD, FLOOD, & FOREST:

Stories of Danger and Daring. With 4 full-page Illustrations by
Frank Feuuer in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth extra,
2s. 6d.

Incidents of daring, hardship, and danger have ever had, and doubtless
always will have a powerful fascination for the youthful mind, and these
narratives of real personal experience in ‘‘ Field, Flood, and Forest,” while
in no sense fictitious, and conveying much sound information on the
topography and customs of foreign lands, will be found quite as exciting
and more truly interesting than the most cunningly devised fables,

JACK QO’ LANTHORN.

A Tale of Adventure. By Henry Frits. With 4 full-page Illus-
trations in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 2s. 6d.

This is a story of the days when George the Third was king, and when
“ Jack the Painter” was trying to set fire to the shipping in Government
dockyards. The hero gets into certain scrapes, and at the sea-coast makes
the acquaintance of Jack o’ Lanthorn, the keeper of a light-ship. The lad
and a companion accidentally drifting out to sea in an open boat, discover
in a singular manner the approach of the Spanish fleet, and Jack accom-
panies the hero of the tale to report what they have seen. Seized by a
press-gang they are taken off to sea, and eventually take part in the defence
of Gibraltar. There have been few books published recently which so well
represent the spirit of the stories of Marryat and of the author of ‘‘Tom
Cringle’s Log.”

“Full of movement, picturesque situations, and illustrations of historical events,
‘Jack o’ Lanthorn’ will hold its own with the best works of Mr. Henty and Mr.
Manville Fenn.”— Morning Advertiser.

“The author has related the story in a very natural and attractive manner, and he
has caught the spirit of the times which he tries to delineate.” —Hdinburgh Courant.

“The narrative is crushed full of stirring incident, and is sure to be a prime
favourite with our boys, who will be assisted by it in mastering a sufficiently exciting
chapter in the history of Epgland.”—-Chiistian Leader,
Blackie & Son's New Publications. 23



BY DARLEY DALE.

THE FAMILY FAILING.

By Dar.ey Date, author of “Little Bricks,’ &. With 4 full-
page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 2s. 6d.

This is a lively and amusing account of a family, the members of which
while they lived in affluence were remarkable for their discontent, but who,
after the loss of fortune has compelled them to seek a more humble home
in Jersey, become less selfish, and develop very excellent traits of char-
acter under the pressure of comparative adversity. Their escapades and
narrow escapes from serious dangers form an exciting part of the narrative,
which contains many pleasant episodes of life in the Channel Islands.

one isa cheery tale. The lesson is Content, and very nicely the story is told.”
—Tablet.

“This is at once an amusing and an interesting story, and a capital lesson on the
value of contentedness.”—Aberdcen Journal.



BY CHARLES PEARCE.

THE BALL OF FORTUNE;

Or Ned Somerset’s Inheritance. By Cuartes Pearce. With
4 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2s. 6d.

A story of plot and character dealing with some out of the many scenes
of London life, and founded on the strange bequest left by a sea captain,
and the endeavours of some unscrupulous persons to obtain possession of
it before the discovery of the true heir in the person of a neglected street
Arab. The story is lively and attractive, and the incidents move so quickly
that the attention of the reader is sustained throughout.

“ A capital story for boys. It is very simply and brightly written. There is plenty
of incident, and the interest is sustained throughout.” —Journal of Education.

“It is a bright genial story, which boys will thoroughly enjoy. . . . We have
seen few better stories for boys this season.”— Birmingham Daily Post.

“The most exciting of them all.” —The Times.



BY ALICE CORKRAN.

ADVENTURES OF MRS. WISHING-TO-BE.

By Axice Corkray, author of “ Latheby Towers,” &e With 3
full-page Pictures in colours. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2s.
The strange adventures of a very young lady, showing how she met with

the wonderful people of nursery legend and the manner of her introduction
to them. A tale for the Little Ones.

“Simply a charming book for little girls.” Saturday Review.
“Written just in the style and spirit to win the hearts of children.” —Daily News.
‘Well worth buying for the frontispiece alone.”— Times.
24 Blackie & Son's New Publications.



MAGNA CHARTA STORIES:

Or Struggles for Freedom in the Olden Time, Edited by
ArtTuur Ginman, aM. With 12 full-page Illustrations.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2s.

These stories of heroic deed in the cause of national liberty, from Mara-
thon and Thermopyle to the times of King Alfred and the Magna Charta,
are designed to stimulate a love of history, and add to the inspiration of

freedom, which should be the heritage of every English-speaking boy and
girl, :

LONDON, PAST AND PRESENT.

Being Notices Historical and Descriptive of Ancient and Modern
London. With Illustrations. cap 8vo, cloth extra, 2s. 6d.

“* A compilation from which a variety of interesting information may be gathered
with regard to the past history and present condition of the metropolis.” —Athenewin.

THE NEWSPAPER READER.

Selections from leading Journals of the Nineteenth Century on
Events of the Day. By H. F. Bussey and T. W. Rep.
With engraved Frontispiece. F’cap 8vo, cloth éxtra, 2s. 6d.

The “idea of the book is admirable, and its execution is excellent. It may be
read not merely by young people, but by old ones, and they will find profit to them-
selves in its perusal.”—Scotsman.

THE BRITISH BIOGRAPHICAL READER:

Brief Biographies of prominent British Heroes, Statesmen, Dra-
matists, Poets, Scientific Men, &c. Illustrated by numerous
Portraits. Foolscap 8vo, cloth extra, 2s. 6d.

“A number of excellent portraits add to the attractiveness of the work, which
may be pronounced one of the most interesting of the Series.” —.A berdeen Journal.

MYTHS AND LEGENDS
OF ANCIENT GREECE AND ROME.
A Hand-book of Greek and Roman Mythology, by E. M. Berens.

Illustrated from Antique Sculptures in a highly interesting
and instructive manner. Cloth elegant, 3s. 6d.

“Written in a spirit of reverent sympathy, and of well-sustained interest, while its
absolute purity should secure it a place in every family.”—Schoolmaster,
Blackie & Sons New Publications.

bo
oH



THE WINGS OF COURAGE,

Anp THE Ciovup-Spinyer. ‘Translated from the French of
GerorGE Sanp, by Mrs. Corxkran. With 2 coloured Illustra-
tions. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2s,

These stories are among the most attractive of the many tales which the
great French novelist wrote for her grandchildren. They are full of fancy,
of vivid description, and of a keen appreciation of the best way to arouse
the interest of juvenile readers. ‘The romantic manner in which they are

told lends to them the kind of enchantment which thoughtful children
deeply appreciate.

“‘Mrs. Corkran has earned our gratitude by translating into readable English these
two charming little stories.”— Atheneum.

“The finest of all these books beyond question is the ‘Wings of Courage,’ which
ranks with the writings of Erckmann-Chatrian for finish, beauty, and naturalness.
The whole story is delightful.”—Dundee Advertiser.

NAUGHTY MISS BUNNY:

Her Tricks and Troubles. A Story for Little Children. By
Ciara MvuLHoLLAND. With 3 Illustrations in colours. Crown
8vo, cloth extra, 2s.

This is a book which will amuse quite little folks, as a story of the way-
ward tricks of a spoiled child, and the scrapes into which they lead her.
The story consists of small incidents such as please small listeners, who will
be interested not only in Miss Bunny’s naughtiness, but in her reformation.

“This naughty child is positively delightful. Papas should not omit ‘Naughty
Miss Bunny’ from their list of juvenile presents.”—Land and Water,

MADGE’S MISTAKE.

A Recollection of Girlhood. By Anniz E. Armstrone. With
2 coloured Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, ls. 6d.
This is a lively, interesting little story, the characters are well marked,

and the plot, although simple, is so well worked out as to lead the reader,
young or old, on to the last word.

“Will please the eye and the fancy of girls, for its illustrations are as excellent as
its letterpress.” — Academy.

“« We cannot speak too highly of this delightful little tale. It is charmingly written,
and abounds in interesting and laughable incidents.” —Bristul Times.

BOX OF STORIES.

Packed for Young Folk by Horack Happymay. A Series of
interesting Tales for the Young. With 2 Illustrations printed
in colours. Crown 8vo, 192 pp., cloth extra, 1s. 6d.
26 Blackie & Son’s New Publications.



BOOKS BY ANNIE §S. SWAN.

WARNER'S CHASE:

Or the Gentle Heart. By Annis §. Sway, author of “Into the
Haven,” &. With 3 Illustrations printed in colours. Crown
8vo, cloth extra, 2s.

‘‘Warner’s Chase” is a domestic story, in which we see the failure of an
essentially self-seeking and self-assertive nature to secure happiness to
itself or bestow it upon others, and the triumph of gentleness, love, and
unselfish service, in the person of a feeble girl, over the coldness and indif-
ference of a heart contracted and hardened by a life-long pursuit of gain.

INTO THE HAVEN.

By Annis 8. Sway, author of “A Year at Coverley,” “Climbing
the Hill,” &. With 2 Illustrations printed in colours.
Crown 8vo, 192 pp., cloth extra, 1s. 6d.

“No story more attractive . . . by reason of its breezy freshness and unforced
pathos, as well as for the wholesome practical lessons it conveys,”—Christian Leader,

CLIMBING THE HILL.
By Ayniz S. Swan. Illustrated. Coloured boards, 4d.

A YEAR AT COVERLEY.
By Awniz 8. Sway. Illustrated. Coloured boards, 4d.

THE PATRIOT MARTYR:

And other Narratives of Female Heroism in Peace and War.
Illustrated by 2 Pictures printed in colours. Crown 8vo,
192 pp., cloth extra, Is. 6d.

“It should be read with interest by every girl who loves to learn what her sex can
accomplish in times of difficulty and danger.” —Bristol Times.

THE HAPPY LAD.

A Story of Peasant Life in Norway. From the Norwegian of
Bjérnstjerne Bjérnson. With Frontispiece in colours. Crown
8vo, 192 pp., cloth extra, ls. 6d.

“This pretty story has a freshness and natural eloquence about it such as are
seldom met with in our home-made tales. It seems to carry us back to some of the
love stories of the Bible.” —Aberdeen Free Press,
Blackie & Son’s New Publications. 27



THE SHILLING SERIES OF BOOKS
FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.

Thirteen books, square 16mo, neatly bound in cloth extra. Each
book consisting of 128 pages and containing a coloured Ilus-
tration.



“‘The whole of the set will be found admirably adapted for the use of the young.
The books, well-printed and elegantly bound in cloth, are a marvel of cheapness.” —
Journal of Education.

“They are unusually good, and are calculated to produce sound, wholesome, moral
effects.” —Glasgow Herald.

THE NEW BOY AT MERRITON. By Jvtia
GoDDARD.
‘*A story of English school life. It is an attempt to teach a somewhat higher code

of honour than that which prevails among the general run of schoolboys, and the
lesson makes a very good story.”—School Board Chronicle.

THE BLIND BOY OF DRESDEN.

“This is a family story of great pathos. It does not obtrusively dictate its lesson,
but it quietly introduces, and leaves it within the heart.”—A berdcen Journal.

JON OF ICELAND: A True Story.

“*Jon of Iceland’ is a sturdy, well-educated young Icelander, who becomes a suc-
cessful teacher. It gives children a clear idea of the chief physical features of the
island, and of the simple and manly character of its inhabitants.”—School Guardian.

STORIES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

“The stories are told in such a way that young people having 1ead them will desire
to study the works of Shakespeare in their original form.”— The Schoulimistress,

EVERY MAN IN HIS PLACE. The Story of a
City Boy and a Forest Boy.

“This is the history of the son of a wealthy Hamburg merchant, who wished to

follow in the steps of Robinson Crusoe. He was put to the test, and becaine con-

vinced in the end that it is better to live the life of a wealthy merchant ina great
city than to endure hardship by choice.”—School Board Chronicle,

FIRESIDE FAIRIES anp FLOWER FANCIES:
STORIES FoR GIRLS.

“Nine stories are included, all for girls, encouraging them to try and do their
duty. Young servants would find this book very interesting.” —The Schoolmistress.
28 Blackie & Son’s New Publications.



THE SHILLING SERIES—Continued.

TO THE SEA IN SHIPS: Stories oF SUFFERING
AND SAVING AT SEA.

“To the Sea in Ships records several noted disasters at sea, such as the foundering
of the Londoa and the wreck of the Atlantic. It also contains narratives of success-
ful rescues, This is a capital book for boys.”—Schvol Guardian.

JACK’S VICTORY: AND OTHER STORIES ABOUT
Dogs.

“Tavery boy, and some girls, take great delight in reading about dogs. Well, Jack

was a dog; a famous and wonderful oue, too. He became leader of a team in Green-

land, and some rare exploits he took part in. Besides ‘Jack’s Victory’ there are
ten other stories about dogs in this volume.”—The Schooliistress.

THE STORY OF A KING, ToLp By ONE oF HIS
SOLDIERS.

“This book recounts the boyhood and reign of Charles XII. of Sweden. The wars

in which he was engaged and the extraordinary victories he won are well described,

and equally so are the misfortunes which latterly came on him and his kingdom
through his uncontrollable wilfulness.”— Aberdeen Journal.

LITTLE DANIEL: A Story of a Flood on the Rhine.

“A simple and touching story of a flood on the Rhine, told as well as George
Eliot so graphically wrote of The Mill on the Floss.” —Governess.

PRINCE ALEXIS: A Tale of Old Russia.

This is a legend wrought into a story, rendering a fiction of Life in
Russia, something more than a hundred years ago; a state of things which,
as the author says, ‘‘is now impossible, and will soon become incredible.”

SASHA THE SERF: And other Stories of Russian
Life. :

The stories in the volume comprise:—The Life of Sasha, a poor boy who
saved the life of his lord, and finally rose to wealth and gained his free-
dom,—Incidents of remarkable personal bravery in the Russian army,
&e. &e.

TRUE STORIES OF FOREIGN HISTORY. A
Series of Interesting Tales.

The book contains stories—How Quentin Matsys the Antwerp smith
became a great painter,—The rise and fall of Jean Ango the fisherman of
Dieppe,—The heroism of Casabianca the little French midshipman, &c. &c.
Blackie & Son's New Publications. 29



THE SIXPENNY SERIES
FOR CHILDREN.

Twelve books, 16mo, neatly bound in cloth extra.

Each book

consisting of 64 pages and containing a Coloured Illustration.

THE LITTLE BROWN BIRD: a Story
of Industry.

THE MAID OF DOMREMY: and other
Tales.

LITTLE ERIC: a Story of Honesty.

UNCLE BEN THE WHALER: and
other Stories.

THE PALACE OF LUXURY: and
other Stories.

THE CHARCOAL-BURNER: or, Kind-
ness Repaid.

WILLY BLACK: a Story of Doing
Right.

THE HORSE AND HIS WAYS:
Stories of Man and his best Friend.

THE SHOEMAKER’S PRESENT: a
Legendary Story.

LIGHTS TO WALK BY: Stories for
the Young.

THE LITTLE MERCHANT: and other
Stories.

NICHOLINA: a Story about an Ice-
berg.

“The whole of the set will be found admirably adapted for the use of the young.”—

Schoolmaster.

‘CA very praiseworthy series of Prize Books.

Most of the stories are designed to

enforce some important moral lesson, such as honesty, industry, kindness, helpful-

ness, &c.”—School Guardian.

A NEW SERIES OF
FOURPENNY REWARD BOOKS.

Each 64 Pages, 18mo, Illustrated, in Picture Boards.

BRAVE AND TRUE. By GREGSON
Gow.

POOR TOM OLLIVER. By JULIA
GODDARD.

THE CHILDREN AND THE WATER-
LILY. By JULIA GODDARD.

JOHNNIE TUPPER’S TEMPTATION.
By GREGSON Gow.

FRITZS EXPERIMENT. By LETITIA
M‘CLINTOCK.

CLIMBING THE HILL. By ANNIE
8. SWAN.

A YEAR AT COVERLEY. By ANNIE
8S. SWAN.

LUCY’S CHRISTMAS-BOX; or, How
Georgie found his Cousin.

* * These little books have been specially written with the aim of inculcating
some sound moral, such as obedience to parents, love for brothers
and sisters, kindness to animals, perseverance and diligence leading

to success, &c. &c.

“ Any one who wishes to send a dainty packet of story-books to a household blessed

with little children will find in these exactly what he wants.

They are issued with

the prettiest of all the coloured covers we have yet seen.”—Christian Leader,

« placed so prettily within the reach of even the humblest purchaser.”—Newcastle

Journal.

“Bright, pretty, and entertaining little books.
All are of a natural, fresh, and wholesome tone,

brief novelettes for little people.

The stories are really admirable

and all lively and interesting.” —School Board Chronicle,
30 Blackie & Sons New Publications.



VERE FOSTERS
WATER-COLOR DRAWING-BOOKS.

SIMPLE LESSONS IN FLOWER PAINTING.

Eight Facsimiles of Original Water-Color Drawings, and nu-
merous Outline Drawings of Flowers, after various artists.’
With full instructions for drawing and painting. 4to, cloth
elegant, 3s.

“Everything necessary for acquiring “Such excellent books, so carefully
the art of flower painting is here: the written and studied, cannot fail to have

facsimiles of water-color drawings are great advantage in the creation and fos-
very beautiful.”—Graphic. tering of a taste for art.”—Scotsman.

SIMPLE LESSONS IN LANDSCAPE PAINTING.

Eight Facsimiles of Original Water-Color Drawings, and Thirty
Vignettes, after various artists. With full instructions by an
experienced Master. 4to, cloth elegant, 3s.

SIMPLE LESSONS IN MARINE PAINTING.

Twelve Facsimiles of Original Water-Color Sketches, and
numerous Illustrations in Pencil. By Epwarp Duncay.
With practical lessons by an experienced Master. 4to, cloth
elegant, 3s.

EASY STUDIES IN WATER-COLOR PAINTING.

By R. P. Lzrrcu and J. Cattow. A series of Nine Plates
executed in Neutral Tints. With full instructions for draw-
ing each subject, and for Sketching from Nature. 4to, cloth
elegant, 6s.

SKETCHES IN WATER-COLORS.

By T. M. Ricnarpson, R. P. Lerrcn, J. A. Houston, T. L. Row-
sotHam, E. Duncan, and J. Nrzppam. Nine Facsimiles
in colors. With full instructions for drawing each subject.
4to, cloth elegant, 6s.

“The pictures are judicious in selec- “The books deserve the highest com-
tion and artistic in execution, while the mendation; they are extremely service-
instructions are so full and clear as to able for their purpose, and are got up
almost supersede the need of a teacher.” with remarkable care.” — St. Jaives’s
—Liverpool Courier, Gazette.

STUDIES OF TREES,

In Pencil and in Water Colors, by J. NezpHAM. A Series of
Eighteen Examples in Colors, and Thirty-three Drawings in
Pencil. With full instructions for Drawing and Painting.
First Series, 4to, cloth elegant, 5s. SEconp SerRigEs, 4to,
cloth elegant, 5s.
BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
Classified according to Price.

ELEGANTLY BOUND IN EXTRA CLOTH.

Book at 7s. 6d.
The Universe; or The Infinitely Great and Infinitely Little. By F. A. PoucHET, M.D.

Books

Robinson Crusoe. Illustrated by GoRDON
BROWNE.

In Freedom’s Cause. By G. A. HENTY.

With Clive in India. By G. A. Henry.

Bunyip Land. By G. MANVILLE FENN.

The Golden Magnet. By G. MANVILLE
FENN,

Books

St. George for England. ByG. A. Henty.

By Sheer Pluck. By G. A. HENtYy.

The Pirate Island. By HARRY COLLING-
WOOD.

The Wigwam and the War-Path. By



Ascott R, Hope.

at 6s.

True to the Old Flag. By G. A. Henty.

Under Drake’s Flag. By G. A. HENTY.

In the King’s Name. By G. MANVILLE
FENN.

Easy Studies in Water-Color, with
Colored Plates.

Sketches in Water-Color, with Plates.

at 5s.

Menhardoc. By G. MANVILLE FENN,

Facing Death. By G. A. HENTY.

Stories of Old Renown. By AscorT R.
Hopr. Illustrated by GORDON BROWNE.

Nat the Naturalist, By G. MANVILLE
FENN,

Books at 8s. 6d.

The Wreck of the Nancy Bell. By J.C.
HUTCHESON.

Traitor or Patriot? By M. RowsELu.

Cheep and Chatter. By ALICE BANKS.

Picked up at Sea. By J. C. HUTCHESON.

Dr. Jolliffe’s Boys. By LEwis Hovau.

Brother and Sister. By Mrs. LysacHr.

Books

Simple Lessons in Flower Painting.
Simple Lessons in Marine Painting.



Dora. By Mrs. R. H. READ.

Garnered Sheaves. By Mrs. PITMAN.

Life’s Daily Ministry. By Mrs. PrTman.

Florence Godfrey’s Faith. By Mrs. Prt-
MAN.

My Governess Life. By Mrs. PITMAN.

Myths and Legends of Ancient Greece.

at 3s.

Simple Lessons in Landscape Paint-
ing.

Books at 2s. 6d.

Brothers in Arms. By F. B. HARRISON.

Winnie’s Secret. By KATE Woop.

Miss Fenwick’s Failures. By Esmi
STUART.

Jack o’ Lanthorn. By HENRY FRITH.

A Waif of the Sea. By Karr Woop.

Hetty Gray. By Rosa MULHOLLAND.

The Ball of Fortune. By CHAS. PEARCE.
The Family Failing. By DARLEY DALE.
Stories of the Sea in Former Days.
Adventures in Field, Flood, and Forest.
The Newspaper Reader.

The British Biographical Reader.
London Past and Present.
Blackie & Son's Books for Young Readers.



Books at 2s.

Warner’s Chase. By ANNIE 8. SWAN.
The Wings of Courage. By GEORGE SAND.

Four Little Mischiefs. By Rosa MUL-
HOLLAND.
Our Dolly. By Mrs. R. H. READ.

Fairy Fancy. By Mrs. R. H. READ.

Books a:

Down and Up Again. By GREGSON Gow.

Troubles and Triumphs of Little Tim.
By GREGSON Gow.

Madge’s Mistake.
STRONG.

The Happy Lad. By Byornson.

By ANNIE E. ARM-

Books

The New Boy at Merriton.

The Blind Boy of Dresden and his Sister.
Jon of Iceland: A True Story.

Stories from Shakespeare.

Every Man in His Place.

Fireside Fairies and Flower Fancies.
To the Sea in Ships.

Little Daniel: aStory ofa Flood on the Rhine.

Books

The Little Brown Bird: aStory of Industry.

The Maid of Domremy: and other Tales.

Little Eric: a Story of Honesty.

Uncle Ben the Whaler: and other Stories.

The Palace of Luxury: and other Stories,

The Charcoal-Burner: or, Kindness Re-
paid.

Books

Brave and True. By GREGSON Gow.

Poor Tom Olliver. By JULIA GODDARD.

The Children and the Water-Lily. By
JULIA GODDARD.

Johnnie Tupper’s Temptation.
GREGSON GOW.

By

Magna Charta Stories.

Mrs. Wishing-to-be. By ALICE CORKRAN.

New Light through Old Windows. By
GREGSON GOW.

Naughty Miss Bunny.
HOLLAND.

By CLARA MUL-

t is. 6d.

Into the Haven.
Box of Stories.
HAPPYMAN.
The Patriot Martyr: and other Narratives

of Female Heroism.

By ANNIE 8, SWAN.
Packed by HORACE

at Is.

Jack’s Victory: and other Stories about
Dogs.

The Story of a King: told by one of his
Soldiers.

Prince Alexis, or ‘‘Beauty and the
Beast.”

Sasha the Serf: Stories of Russian Life.

True Stories of Foreign History.

at 6d.

Willy Black: a Story of Doing Right.

The Horse and his Ways.

The Shoemaker’s Present: a Legendary
Story.

Lights to Walk by: Stories for the Young.

The Little Merchant: and other Stories.

Nicholina: a Story about an Iceberg.

at 4d.

Climbing the Hill. By ANNIE 8. SWAN.

A Year at Coverley. By ANNIE S. SWAN.

Fritz’s Experiment. By LEriTia M‘CLIN-
TOCK.

Lucy’s Christmas-Box; or, How Georgie
found his Cousin.





LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, 49 OLD BAILEY, E.C;

GLASGOW, EDINBU.

RGH, AND DUBLIN.






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