Chapter IV: Part 4

Bessie laid down her book, and sat looking at Maggie. "My poor Maggie," she said to herself, "she's so good and patient. I wish I could do something for her, and I wish Aunt Annie or somebody would come and see us and tell her a story while mamma is down-stairs. Oh, I wish Colonel Yush would come; he tells us better stories than any one. Wouldn't it be nice if he was to come while Maggie is asleep? and then she'd see him when she wakes up, and she'd be so glad. If he knew she was sick, I'm sure he would come. I'll just go out on the sidewalk and ask nursey if she wont take me over to the hotel door, and then I'll go up to my soldier's room and ask him to come and see Maggie."

She rose up softly from her chair and went into the nursery, followed by Flossy, who, being very wide awake himself, had no mind to be left with the sleeping Maggie, and jumped down from the lounge to run after Bessie as soon as she stirred. Bessie went to the closet and took down her garden-hat and sack from the peg where they hung. The hat was very shabby, for it had been worn all summer at the sea-shore, and had seen some hard use in the garden since she came home. But she could not reach her best one, and said to herself that this would do, if nurse would only let her wear it, of which she was not at all sure. She put it on, walked down-stairs, and out upon the front stoop; but she saw no sign of nurse. Up and down the street she looked, but the old woman was nowhere to be seen.

Now the truth was, that nurse had not intended to lose sight of the front-door, but as she passed Mr. Hall's house, Miss Carrie was at the basement window, and calling her, begged that she would bring the baby and let her speak to her. Nurse, always proud to show off her pet, was willing enough, and for a few moments quite forgot her other nurslings, as well as the open front-door; and it was just during these few moments that Bessie came out to look for her.

"Nurse said she wouldn't go far away," said Bessie to herself, "and she has, and now I can't go and find the colonel, 'cause mamma wouldn't like me to go alone."

Flossy had run down to the foot of the steps, and there he stood, wagging his tail, whisking and frisking, and altogether behaving like a puppy who had quite taken leave of his senses, so glad was he to be out of doors.

"We can't go, Flossy," said Bessie, as, with a sigh, she turned to go into the house. "We're very disappointed, but we must mind mamma. Come, Flossy, come. Don't you leave me, Flossy."

But Flossy was not so obedient as his little mistress, and instead of coming back, he ran a short distance up the street, and then stopped, barking joyously, and looking back to see if she were following. Bessie went down the steps, calling him over and over again in such a coaxing voice, that it was strange even such a wilful doggie could resist. But it was of no use. Away went Flossy as fast as he could run, and frightened at the thought of losing her pet, and forgetting everything else, away went Bessie after him. Up to the end of the block, around the corner, and so down the other side of the square, till they came to the long, crowded crossing, over which Bessie was never allowed to go without some grown person to hold her hand. Over it went Flossy, in and out among the carriages and omnibuses, escaping the wheels and the horses' hoofs in a way that was quite wonderful to see, until he reached the opposite corner, where he again waited for Bessie. But poor Bessie dared not cross by herself, and stood still in great trouble.

"I wish I was over at the hotel," she said to herself, as she looked up at the great building opposite, "and then the colonel would take me home."

There was generally a tall policeman on the corner, whom Bessie knew quite well, for he had often taken her hand, and led her over, or sometimes even carried her if the stones were wet; but now he was not there. In his place was another, who was a stranger to her, and now he came over to her corner Bessie went up to him.

"Will you please tell me where my policeman is, sir?" she said.

"Who is your policeman?" said the officer.

"I don't know his name, but he takes me over the crossing, and mamma don't 'low me to go alone."

"I suppose I can take you over as well as another," said he; "but your mother must be a queer one to allow you to go out alone at all."

"She didn't," said Bessie, "and I didn't mean to, but Flossy yan away, and I went to get him. Please take me over; I am afraid somebody will catch him; then I'll go to the colonel's yoom, and he'll take me home."

The policeman lifted her up, and carried her to the opposite sidewalk. Flossy was off again as soon as he saw her near him, but the officer ran after him, and soon had him safe in Bessie's arms.

"And what are you going to do now?" said the good-natured man. "You're over small for running about the streets by yourself."

"I am going to the colonel's," said Bessie. "I know the way, and he'll take care of me."

She thanked him, and ran off; but the policeman followed till he saw her go into the hotel as if she were quite sure of her way.

"She's all right," he said to himself, and then went back to his post, thinking no more about the little stray lamb whom he had only helped into farther trouble.

Bessie found her way without difficulty to the colonel's room, and seeing the door open, she peeped in. There was no one there but a servant-woman, who was dusting.

"Where is my soldier?" asked Bessie.

"Your soldier?" said the woman. "If you mean the lame gentleman, he and the lady have gone out to ride. I don't want you here bothering round with your dogs. Go back to your own rooms;" for the woman supposed Bessie to be some child who belonged in the hotel.

"My soldier lets me come in his yoom when I choose, and it isn't yours to talk about," said Bessie, very much offended, and she walked away with her head very straight.

What should she do now? She would go back to the corner, she thought, and ask her friend, the policeman, to take her home. But she was becoming a little confused and frightened with all her troubles, and when she left the hotel, turned the wrong way. On she went, farther and farther from home, though she did not know it, and expected every moment to see the well-known crossing. Some few people turned and looked at her, as she passed with her dog clasped in her arms; but she did not act at all like a lost child, and it was easy enough to think that she was some little girl playing about her home and perhaps watched by loving eyes.

At last she came near a broad avenue, where the cars were passing up and down, and then she knew she was not on her way home. But just then she heard music, and her eye was caught by a new sight. Quite a crowd was gathered upon the sidewalk, where were two men, one with a hand-organ, the other with a table on which little figures of gayly-dressed men and women were spinning around. Bessie stopped to look, standing back from the crowd; but three or four rough boys who were hanging about took notice of her and her dog. Presently they came up to her.

"Whose dog is that?" asked one.

"Mine and Maggie's," said Bessie.

"You give him to me, and I'll give you this," said the boy taking a large red apple from his pocket.

"I can't even if I wanted to," said Bessie, "'cause he's half Maggie's."

"Well, you give me your half, and Maggie's will run after it."

"No," said the little girl. "I wouldn't give you my Flossy for fifty seventeen apples;" and she walked away, but the boys followed.

"Where did you get so much hat?" said one.

"It is not much," said Bessie. "It is old and torn, 'cause I carried peach-pits and stones in it. Mamma is going to give it away."

"I don't know who'd thank her for it," said another. "I guess your ma spent all her money on your frock, and left none for your hat."

"She didn't," said Bessie, angrily; "she has plenty left."

"She's right stingy, then, to give you such a hat; it's only fit for the gutter, so here goes!" and the rude boy twitched off the unlucky hat, and sent it flying into the middle of the street, where a car passed over it. Bessie did not care much about her hat, but she was frightened and displeased.

"You are very yude," she said, "and I wont walk by you. You sha'n't talk so about my mamma."

"Maybe we'll walk by you though," said the boy, and they kept by her side for a few steps farther, when suddenly, with a loud yelp of pain, Flossy sprang from her arms, for one of the boys had pinched his tail so as to hurt him very much. The boys shouted, Flossy ran, they after him, and the next moment one of them caught him up, and they all disappeared with him round the corner.

Bessie ran on a few steps and then stood still, crying loudly with terror and distress. Several persons immediately stopped, asking her what ailed her, and if she were lost; but she only called, "Oh, Flossy, Flossy! oh, mamma! oh, Maggie."

Among the people who stopped, was an old lady, who looked at Bessie through her spectacles in rather a severe manner, and as she asked questions in a quick, sharp way, the little girl felt afraid of her, and would not answer. Poor lost baby! There she stood, bareheaded, with the wind blowing her curls, her tiny hands over her face, crying so pitifully that some of those who stood by felt as if they must cry with her, but still no one could get a word from her.

But presently a policeman came by, and Bessie, looking up, saw him and was a little comforted; for though he, too, was a stranger, she felt somehow as if every policeman was a friend; and she ceased her loud cries, though her sobs still came heavy and fast.

"Here's a lost child," said one of the crowd.

"Please take me home, sir," said Bessie, stretching out her hands to him.

The tall officer was pleased, and, stooping, lifted the little creature in his arms.

"Where do you belong?" he asked, kindly.

"In mamma's house," said Bessie.

"And where is mamma?"

"In a committee," answered the child.

"Humph!" said the old lady, who stood close at the policeman's side, "in a committee, with a parcel of other foolish women, I suppose, while her babies go running wild about the streets. She'd better attend to her own affairs."

"She hadn't," said Bessie, who thought every one had something to say against her own dear mother,--"she hadn't, and you are naughty to say that. She's a nice, pretty lady, and better than anybody, and not a bit foolish; and, oh, I do want her so, I do want her so!" and she began to cry afresh.

"There then, never mind!" said the policeman; "we'll find her pretty soon. Can't you tell me where you live?"

Bessie had long since been taught this, but now, in her fright and distress, she quite forgot the street and number of the house, and only shook her head.

"Tell me your name then," said the man.

"Bessie--Yush--Byad-ford," sobbed the child.

"Brightford--Brightford," repeated the policeman. "Does any one here know any people of the name of Brightford?"

Poor little Bessie! Between her sobs and the difficulty of pronouncing her r's, the officer had quite mistaken the name, and no one answered.

"You'll have to take her to the station-house," said the old lady.

"Oh, no, Mr. Policeman! I'm not to be taken up,--indeed, I'm not," said Bessie. "I wasn't naughty, and mamma wont say so, only Flossy yan away, and the colonel wasn't in his yoom, and I can't find my street."

"Poor baby!" said the policeman, as he felt her trembling in his arms. "Nobody shall hurt you, my child; but if your people miss you, they will send up to the station, and if I take you there, they will find you right off. You can't tell where your mamma lives, hey?"

"I sha'n't talk about my mamma," said Bessie; "everybody says naughty things about her; but I want to go to her, and please find Flossy, Mr. Policeman."

"Who is Flossy?" asked he.

"He's her dog, I guess," said a boy who stood by. "Four big fellows ran away with him. I se'ed 'em. They cut up the alley, and down by the back lots. I guess you must cotch 'em in a hurry, or see no more of the pup."

"Don't you believe that," said the policeman, as Bessie's tears and sobs came faster than ever. "We'll find him for you one of these days; but now I must see you safe;" and he moved on with the little girl in his arms.

"Do you think some one will come and find me pretty soon?" she asked.

"To be sure they will. Have you a papa?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you be sure when he finds you are gone, he'll come right off to the station-house to see if you are there. Why, the other day I picked up a little chap in the street not nigh as big as you. He could scarce walk, and couldn't speak a word plain, and there, when I got him to the station, was his mother waiting for him."

So the officer talked on kindly and pleasantly, till Bessie was a little comforted, and when they reached the station, looked eagerly round to see if any of her own friends were there awaiting her. But no, there was no one there yet, only several policemen were sitting or standing about, to one of whom Bessie's protector spoke, telling him where he had found her.

"And now I am going back to my beat," he said to the child, "and if any one comes that way looking for you, I'll send them right up here."

Bessie's lip began to tremble once more. She had been terribly disappointed to find that no one was waiting for her; and now here was her new friend going away, and leaving her with these strangers.

"Don't you cry any more," said the second policeman, taking her from the arms of the first. "Why, those brown eyes of yours are almost washed out. Come along with me, and see me send off a telegraph message to the other stations to say you're here."

"I couldn't help crying," said the little girl. "I had so many troubles to-day."

"Bless your heart!" said the sergeant. "You shall tell me all about them presently. Why, you are just about the size of my Jenny, and I wouldn't like to see her looking that way."

When the policeman spoke of telling him her troubles, it came into Bessie's mind that she had not told them to her Father in heaven, and covering her face with her little hands, she whispered, "Dear Father in heaven, please let my own home father come and find me very soon, 'cause I'm so tired, and I want my own mamma; and don't let those naughty boys hurt my Flossy, and let papa find him too."

The officer heard the low, soft whisper so close to his ear, though she had not meant he should. "Bless her!" he said to himself, "I guess her father'll be brought along pretty soon after that."

Bessie was now quite interested in watching the working of the telegraph wires which were put in motion to carry the message that a stray child was to be found at this station. One of the men who had gone out came back, bringing her a cake and an apple, but though it was long past her usual dinner hour, she could not eat.

"Now," said the sergeant, sitting down and putting her upon his knee, "let us hear all about those troubles of yours;" for the kind man thought if he could make her talk of herself, he might find out where she belonged.

X.

_HOME AGAIN! HOME AGAIN!_

MEANWHILE the stray birdling had been missed from the home-nest, and great was the trouble and alarm there. Nurse, coming in, found Maggie at the head of the stairs with a discontented face.

"What's happened ye?" she asked; "and what are ye standing here in the draught for? Go back to the nursery, my honey."

"I can't find Bessie," said Maggie. "I went to sleep, and when I woke up, she was gone, and Flossy was gone too, and I looked all over, and they are not here."

"She hasn't taken wings, and flown away," said nurse. "You mind baby a moment, and I'll hunt her up for you."

Nurse hunted in vain, and at last told Maggie she thought Bessie must have found her way into the parlor, where the ladies were talking. "She'll soon tire of it, and come back to you," she said; "but it was not like her to go off and leave you."

But the time passed on; Jane came in with Franky; the children's dinner-bell rang, and still Bessie did not come. At last the ladies of the committee went away, and mamma came out of the parlor, but no little girl was with her. Then the whole house was searched, up-stairs and down, from cellar to attic; but the pet was not found.

"Could her grandmamma or aunt or Mrs. Rush have come and taken her out?" said Jane.

"They would not be so thoughtless; they would know I should be anxious if they left no word," said Mrs. Bradford, who was growing very much alarmed.

"No one came in; for I did not have my eyes off the front-door while I was out on the sidewalk," said nurse. "Yes, I did, too, just a couple of minutes while I spoke to Miss Hall; but no one could have come in and gone out, too, without my seeing them."

Ah, nurse, nurse, it was just those two minutes when you forgot your duty, which did all the mischief.

"And there's her hat," said Jane, looking in the box. "Ah, there's her garden hat and sack gone. Now maybe she's just run out after you, nurse, and somebody's caught her and run away with her when you wasn't looking. I've heard of such things, and how they make 'em beg, and beat 'em and frighten 'em so they don't dare tell where they belong."

This was very pleasant for the poor anxious mother, who, however, told Jane that was nonsense; while nurse, who knew she was to blame in letting her attention be called off, grew very angry and scolded Jane, saying she must have seen Bessie if she left the house.

Nevertheless, Bessie was certainly not in the house; and one servant was sent to grandmamma's, another to the hotel, to see if any trace could be found of the missing treasure; while Mrs. Bradford herself ran to all the neighbors, and poor Maggie stood by the window crying bitterly for her lost sister. In a little time grandmamma and Aunt Annie were on the spot, as anxious as the rest, to see if they could help in the search. As people were running in all directions, it seemed to grandmamma that the best thing she could do was to comfort poor, distressed Maggie. But Maggie was not to be comforted, and declared that she knew she should never, never, never see Bessie again. "Oh, I am so very sorry I went to sleep," she sobbed. "I just expect she went to heaven in a chariot of fire when no one was looking." Grandmamma could not smile at Maggie's strange idea, she was so anxious herself, but she told her this could not be so; and that Bessie had probably run out in the street and so lost her way.

"But Bessie would not do such a thing, grandmamma; she would know mamma would not like it, and she never disobeys her."

"Perhaps your mother never told her she was not to go out alone, dear, and so she was tempted to run a few steps, and then could not find her way back."

"Oh, no, indeed, grandmamma. Bessie knew quite well mamma would not wish us to go alone even if she did not say so; and she would think it was just the same; and Bessie never falls into temptation except about passions. If it was me, maybe I might; and I know she'll never come back; and oh, I cannot do without her, we are so very intimate, grandmamma."

Grandmamma said she was almost sure Bessie would soon be found, and told Maggie how well everything was arranged at the police-stations, so that if a little child was lost, it could soon be restored to its friends. Still Maggie only shook her head sorrowfully, feeling it quite impossible to believe that Bessie had gone away of her own free will.

Then Mrs. Bradford came in, looking very pale and troubled, for she could hear nothing of her lost baby; but a moment after, Patrick came with news. The policeman at the corner told how he had helped a little girl over the crossing, and seen her safe in the hotel and that she had said she was going to see the colonel; but that he could tell nothing farther. Patrick had gone to the colonel's rooms, but they were closed and locked; and he heard that the colonel and Mrs. Rush had been out for a long while.

Hearing this, Mrs. Bradford and her sister went round to the hotel, and giving the alarm, the great building was searched from top to bottom. Every room and closet, every hall and corridor, even the roof, and the cellar far underground where the gas was made, were looked through; but still no Bessie. But when the servants were questioned, the woman who had spoken to Bessie told how she had come to the colonel's room, and then walked off.

"She has probably wandered out again, madam," was said to the pale mother by one of the gentlemen who had been helping in the search; "and now you had better at once send to the police-station, and give notice of her loss."

As Mrs. Bradford was leaving the hotel to do this, the colonel and Mrs. Rush drove up. In two minutes they had heard all that was known, and the colonel said he would himself go to the station.

The station to which Bessie had been taken was not the one nearest to Mr. Bradford's house; and it was to the latter that the colonel drove first. He did not find his lost pet there, of course; but he heard that a telegram had come sometime since, saying that a stray child was at the station in ---- Street, and there he went as fast as his horse's feet could carry him.

We left the little girl who had caused all this commotion sitting upon the knee of the kind sergeant of police, while he coaxed her to tell him the story of her troubles, in the hope that he might find out where she belonged.

"You don't look big enough for such a many troubles," he said; "now let's hear about them, and see what we can do. What was the first one?"

"First Maggie had a earache and cried; and then mamma had a committee, and had to leave us; and then I could not find nurse, and Flossy yan away," said Bessie; and the poor child began to cry again at the thought of Flossy.

"And who is Flossy?" asked the sergeant.

"He is our puppy that Donald gave us,--Maggie's and mine."

"And who is Maggie?"

"My own sister; don't you know that?"

"Indeed, I did not," said the policeman. "What is her name?"

"Maggie Stanton Byadford," said the child.

"And what is yours?"

"Bessie Yush Byadford."

The policeman shook his head; still he could make nothing of the name.

"And when Flossy ran away, you ran after him, did you?" he asked.

"Yes, but I didn't mean to, sir; I forgot mamma wouldn't want me to, and Flossy yan so fast. He went 'way over the long crossing, and our policeman was not there."

"Who's your policeman?"

"I don't know his name, only he helps us over the long crossing, when we want to go to the hotel."

"Ho, ho, I think we are coming at it," said the sergeant. "What hotel is that?"

"Why, the hotel where the colonel lives," said Bessie, as if there could be but one hotel and one colonel. "I thought mamma would not like me to go home by myself, and I asked that other policeman whom I did not know to take me over, so I could go ask the colonel to send me home. But he was out, and a woman scolded me, and so I went away, and the crossing wouldn't come, and the boys were naughty and yude, and Flossy's gone--oh, dear! oh, dear! I do want my own house and my own mamma; and everybody said naughty things about mamma."

"There, then, don't cry any more," said the policeman. "I think that must be the hotel, and you can't tell me what street you live in?"

"Why, yes, I can," said Bessie, who quite forgot that she had not been able to tell where she lived while she had been so frightened. "I live in papa's house in ---- Street, Number ----, and I want to go home so much."

"So you shall, right off, now that you have told me where you belong," said the policeman. "I'll send, and see if you are right."

But just as he turned to speak to one of the men, an open carriage drove quickly to the door. Bessie looked around, then gave a scream of joy.

"Oh, it's my soldier, my own dear soldier! He came and found me--oh, he did, he did!"

In less time than it would have been thought possible, the colonel had been helped out, and was within the room. Bessie almost sprang out of the policeman's arms, and clung about the colonel's neck, while he, dropping one crutch, steadied himself on the other, and held her fast with the arm that was free. It was touching to see, as, half laughing, half crying, she poured out broken words of love and joy, now covering his face with kisses, now burying her own on his shoulder, then lifting it again to lay her soft cheek to his and pat it with her tiny hand. Colonel Rush was almost as much overjoyed as she, but he was in haste to carry the recovered treasure to her anxious mother. Nor was Bessie in less haste to be at home; but for all that, she did not forget to speak her thanks to those who had been kind to her, going from one to another, and shaking hands with them in her own polite little way. The sergeant carried her out and put her in the carriage.

"Good-by," she said, giving him her hand, "I am very much obliged to you for letting me come in your nice station-house, and for speaking so kind to me."

"Bless your heart," said the man, "if it wasn't for your own sake, I'd be sorry enough to part with you. Now don't you go and lose yourself again."

"I did not lose myself," said Bessie; "I just came lost, I did not mean to do it."

"I don't believe you did," said the man; "good-by to you."

Then the colonel put something into his hand, and they drove home as fast as possible. Oh, what joy there was over the little darling who had been so long away! Mamma held her fast and cried over her; it seemed as if she could never let her go out of her arms again; Maggie jumped about and clapped her hands, and kissed Bessie's face, hands, dress, and even her feet; Franky did as he saw Maggie do, saying, "Bessie tome, all nice now." Grandmamma, Aunt Annie, and Mrs. Rush were quite as much rejoiced, and the very servants had to take part in the welcome. Even the new cook, whom the children scarcely knew, had to come in for a peep at the dear little cause of all this excitement. Then papa, who had been sent for, that he might help in the search for his lost daughter, came home to find the sorrowing changed into rejoicing, and Bessie running to the front-door to meet him, saying,--

"I am quite found papa. I asked our Father to let you find me, and he sent the colonel instead, but that was just as good when he brought me home; wasn't it?"

"Quite as good, perhaps even better, darling, since dear mamma was spared another hour of anxiety, and you one of waiting. Our heavenly Father often does better for us than we ask, although we may not always know it."

"And you don't think I was naughty; do you, papa? Mamma does not."

"I must hear the story first; but now let me thank our good, kind colonel, who has put himself to some trouble I am sure, to find you."

When Mr. Bradford had heard Bessie's story, which she told in her own straightforward way, he satisfied her by saying that he did not think her in the least naughty, since he was sure she had not meant to disobey. He would not consent that grandmamma and Aunt Annie, and Colonel and Mrs. Rush should go home to dinner; they must all stay and have a great jubilee over the happy ending to Bessie's adventures. And oh, such a pleasure! The children were allowed to take dinner with the grown people, a treat which was only granted on great occasions.

"It's just like the man in the Bible, who lost his sheep and found it, and called all his friends to come and be glad, and have a nice time with him," said Maggie, "only we're a great deal more glad than that man, because our Bessie is a great deal better than the sheep, and we don't have ninety and nine, either."

"No," said papa, "we have only one Bessie and one Maggie, and a very good Maggie and Bessie they are of their kind. I would not change them for any others that could be offered to me. How is the ear, Maggie?"

"Oh, it's 'most well, papa. When I felt so bad about Bessie, I forgot about it, and when I was so glad, the pain just went away before I knew it."

"So the greater trouble cured the lesser, eh?"

"But, papa," said Bessie, "we have a great, great trouble with all our happiness. You know Flossy is quite lost, and we'll never have him to play with again."

"I am not sure about that," said Mr. Bradford; "I shall go to-morrow and see what I can do to find him. Still I have not much hope, and you must not think too much about it."

"You mean you will do all you can, papa," said Bessie, sorrowfully, "but probaly we will never see our dear Flossy again."

"Never mind, Bessie," said Maggie, tenderly; "it is not very much matter if we don't. We have you back again, so we've no reason to complain."

Dear, generous-hearted little Maggie! She would not say how badly she felt about Flossy, lest Bessie should think she blamed her for his loss, but it was a great trial to her, as her father knew. She was more fond of him than Bessie was, and Flossy cared more for her than he did for any one else. Never were two merrier playfellows, and their droll antics and frolics were a source of great amusement to the whole family. And now he was gone, perhaps never to come back; and Maggie's little heart was very sore, though she said nothing of her grief. Thoughtless she often was, but never where Bessie was concerned; she never forgot her little sister's happiness or comfort, and would bear anything herself if so she might keep harm or trouble from Bessie. Her father knew this, and why she spoke as if she did not care much about Flossy, and he loved her the better for it, for he saw that it was hard work for her to keep back the tears. He put his arm about her, and kissed her tenderly, as he began to talk of other things.

Quite late that night, when Mrs. Bradford went up-stairs, she heard a low sobbing from the room opening out of her own, where Maggie and Bessie slept, each in her own pretty little bed.

"What is it, my darling?" she asked, going in. "Is your ear feeling badly again?"

"Not so very, mamma," said Maggie, "but--please put your head down close, mamma, so Bessie wont wake up--I do feel so very, very badly about Flossy. If I knew somebody had him who would be kind to him, I think I could try to bear it, but I know they will hurt him and tease him, and he'll have such a hard time. I know he'll be homesick, too--oh, dear--and I can't go to sleep, 'cause I think so much about him, and I don't want Bessie to know it."

Mamma sat down on the bed and comforted Maggie, and then, holding her hand, began to tell her a story which she took care not to make too interesting, until presently the little hand which held her own loosened its grasp, and Maggie's regular breathing showed that she had forgotten her trouble.

All this made Mr. Bradford resolve that he would spare no pains to recover Flossy, and the next morning he went to the police-station, and asking the name and beat of the man who had brought in his little daughter, went in search of him. He was soon found, and told where he had met Bessie; but he had been able to learn nothing of the lost dog. Mr. Bradford inquired all about the neighborhood in vain; the boys whom he met either could not or would not answer his questions. He offered a reward to whoever could tell anything that would lead to the recovery of the dog, and when he went down town, put an advertisement in the papers saying the same thing.

But three days passed, and still no word came of Flossy. On the fourth morning, the family were all at breakfast, when Patrick, who was passing through the hall, heard a scratching and whining at the front-door. He hurried to open it, and Flossy rushed in, ran through the hall into the breakfast-room, and before any one had recovered from their first surprise, scrambled into Maggie's lap, buried his face under her arm, and lay trembling and whimpering with joy. Poor little fellow! he was in a sad state. His glossy silken coat was all matted and dirty; he looked thin and half-starved; his pretty red collar, with its brass lettering, was gone, and around his neck the hair was rubbed off, as if it had been worn by a rope, and his mouth was cut and bleeding. Papa said he thought he had been tied up, and in his struggles to free himself, had worn the hair from his neck, and cut his mouth with gnawing at the rope.

The children cried and laughed over him by turns, hugged and kissed him, and although it was against mamma's rules to feed him in the dining-room, begged that they might do it for this once. Permission was given, and then they wanted to stuff him with everything that was on the table; but mamma said they must be careful, or he would be sick, so a saucer of warm bread and milk was brought and put on the hearth, and glad enough the poor puppy was to have it. But he would not eat unless Maggie's hand was on him, and every now and then he would stop to look up in her face with a low whine, as if he wanted to tell her his pitiful story. Afterwards he was well washed, and then, wrapped in his blanket, went to sleep in Maggie's lap. He woke up quite refreshed, but for a day or two, did not care to play much, content to lie most of the time in Maggie's or Bessie's arms, or curled up in a ball in some comfortable corner. But after this long rest, and several good meals, to say nothing of a great amount of petting, he began to bark and act like himself, and was once more the bright, merry, affectionate plaything he had been before.

Where he had been, or how he had escaped from those who had treated him so cruelly, was never known, but every one thought it quite wonderful that so young a dog, and one who had been such a short time in the house, could have found his way home alone.

XI.

_NEW PLANS._

THINGS went very smoothly and pleasantly after this for several weeks. Maggie finished the whole number of towels, and she had taken so much pains, and they were so well done for a little girl of seven, that mamma said she thought she must give her six cents apiece instead of five. Bessie's small patient fingers were learning to do nicely, too, and Mrs. Bradford said she should soon have two neat young seamstresses. There were now more than four dollars in the box. They had each had one new pair of gloves bought for them, and it was not likely, if these were not lost, that more would be wanted before New Year. Maggie had improved surprisingly in the matter of boot-laces, and now did not wear them out much faster than Bessie, who did not put on her own shoes. Growing daily more careful in this one thing, she became so in others. Fewer buttons and strings were dragged from her clothes, her aprons and dresses were not so soon soiled, and her hat, instead of being tossed down in any spot where she happened to be when she took it off, was always carried to the nursery and given to Jane, that she might put it away.

Quite often the children had small presents of money. Grandmamma Duncan or Uncle John, papa or grandpapa, would give them a new five or ten cent piece,--once Uncle John had given them each twenty-five,--but they never spent it for their own pleasure. As soon as they received any such little gift, away they ran for the library-box, and popped the money in. One day Maggie found ten cents in the street, and came rushing in to her mother's room with it.

"See here, mamma," she said, "what I have found! It was lying right down by our stoop, and there was no one near it, and I don't know whose it is."

"Well, if you do not find the owner, we may think you have a right to it, I suppose," said Mrs. Bradford.

"But, mamma, ought we not to put it in the paper first, and see if any one comes for it?"

"No, dear, that would not be worth while for such a small sum."

"But, mamma, when papa found that pocket-book with money in it, he put a piece in the paper, so the person who lost it would know where it was."

"There were more than a hundred dollars in that pocket-book, Maggie. It was only right that papa should let the owner know where it was to be found. But ten cents is a very small sum, and if he put half a dozen advertisements in the paper, it is not at all likely that any person would come for it."

"And no one came for the money in the pocket-book," said Maggie, "though papa kept it a great while. But, mamma, he said it did not belong to him; and since he could find no owner, he should think it belonged to the Lord. So he gave it to the Sunday-school. Well now, if I do not know who lost this ten cents, do you not think it belongs to the Lord, and I ought to return it to him?"

"Perhaps you ought, my darling," said Mrs. Bradford, well pleased to find her little girl so strictly honest, and so unwilling to keep that which she could not quite surely feel was her own. "Suppose you put it with your library money?"

"Would that be quite fair, mamma? Would it be giving to the Lord that which belonged to him to put it with that money which we are to earn?"

"Quite fair and right, I think, dearest. That money you have certainly devoted to the Lord's work; and you may put this with it with a clear conscience."

So the ten cents were added to the sum in the box, which, in one way and another, was fast growing to the desired amount.

Each Sunday Maggie and Bessie went over to the hotel to Mrs. Rush's class. Not one had they missed, for they counted so much upon it that their mother could not bear to keep them at home, even in bad weather. Two or three Sabbaths had been very rainy, but papa had wrapped Bessie in mamma's water-proof cloak, and carried her over to the hotel, while Maggie, in her own cloak and high india-rubber boots, trotted along by his side holding the large parasol, which made a capital umbrella for the small figure beneath it. Two bright little faces they were which peeped forth from the hoods of these water-proofs when they appeared in Mrs. Rush's parlor, and dearly did she and the colonel love to see them. Then the wrappings were pulled off, and there were the two darlings as warm and dry as if they had never stirred from their own nursery fire.

Mrs. Rush still did all the teaching herself, but since that first Sunday, she had quite given up the office of story-teller to her husband. She never could invent such stories as he did, she said, and since he had begun with it, he had better go on! So each Sunday he had one ready for them, and when the lessons were over, teacher and scholars were alike eager to listen. He had to repeat "Benito" more than once, so fond were they all of it, and the children, especially Bessie, would stop him if he told it in any way different from that in which they had first heard it, and tell him he was wrong. They remembered it, he said, better than he did.

Maggie and Bessie were very busy just now. Christmas was drawing near, and they were each working a book-mark which were to be presented to Colonel and Mrs. Rush. Bessie's was for "her soldier," and Maggie's for his wife. Aunt Annie had promised to show them how they were to be worked, and one afternoon took them out to buy the materials. They came home each with a piece of cardboard, a skein of silk, and half a yard of ribbon; and no lady who had spent hundreds of dollars that day took half the pleasure in her shopping that our little girls did in theirs.

Aunt Annie had offered to give them what they needed from her stock of pretty things. But no, they must buy all with their own money, or it would not be quite their own presents. As soon as their walking dresses were taken off, Aunt Annie was coaxed to show them at once how the book-marks were to be made. She told them they must first decide what mottoes they would work, and proposed several. Maggie chose, "Remember me;" and Bessie, "I love you, Sir." Annie said it was not the fashion to put "Sir" on a book-mark; but Bessie thought it would not be at all the thing for little girls to give "unpolite presents."

"We ought to make our book-marks just as proper as our own speaking," she insisted.

Maggie was a little doubtful; but at last she said she would do as Bessie did, since it was "better to be too polite than not polite enough." So Aunt Annie let them have their way, and greatly to her own amusement, cut the card long enough for "I love you, Sir," and "Remember me, ma'am." They did not think it any the less their own work that their aunt put the points of the needles into the holes where they were to go. Did they not pull them through with their own fingers and draw the silk to its proper place? Of course, it was their own work; Aunt Annie would not have said it was hers on any account. After two or three letters were made, Maggie learned to find the right hole for herself with a good deal of direction.

Before bed-time that night, Maggie had worked "Remem," and Bessie, "I lo;" and they looked at what they had done with great satisfaction. Besides these book-marks, they were each to work one for papa or mamma, so that they had enough to keep them busy until Christmas.

Meanwhile the picture which Aunt Helen was painting was nearly finished. She had never allowed Maggie to see it, which the little girl thought very strange; but she had kept the secret well. Sometimes they went to Riverside, and sometimes Aunt Helen came to grandmamma's house, when they would be sent for; and if mamma was not there, their aunt would paint very industriously. Bessie wondered why she would not let them see what she was painting, and why Maggie should always be so full of glee at such times, and shake her head so very wisely. But after she had been once told that it was a secret, she asked no more questions.

On the morning after the book-marks were commenced, Mrs. Bradford, who was not very well, was lying on the sofa, while her little daughters were playing quietly on the other side of the room, and she heard them talking together.

"Bessie," said Maggie, "I am so glad that I have all my towels done, so I can have leisure to make my Christmas presents."

"What does leisure mean?" asked Bessie.

"It means not to be busy."

"Oh, I am glad, too, Maggie! You was very industrious, and had a great deal of per-se-were."

"Ance," said Maggie.

"Ance what, Maggie?"

"Per-se-ve-rance. That's what you must say," said Maggie.

"No. This morning Fred was mad 'cause he couldn't do his sum, and be asked papa to help him, and papa said he must persewere, and he could do it himself."

"Yes, I know it," said Maggie; "but it is persevere to do it, and perseverance to have it."

Bessie did not quite understand, but she thought it must be right, since Maggie said so.

"We'll ask mamma about it when she feels better," said Maggie. "Isn't she good to us, Bessie, to help us so much to get our library?"

"Yes," said Bessie, "she's such a precious mamma. I do think every one is so kind to us, Maggie."

"Yes," said Maggie, "when I think about my friends, I feel as if I could not say 'God bless them' enough."

"Yes," said Bessie, thoughtfully; "and when everybody is so good to us, and Our Father is so good to us, and we have such pleasant times, I suppose we ought to be the best children that ever lived."

"But we're not," said Maggie; "least, I'm not. I think you are almost as good as any one that ever lived, Bessie."

"No, I'm not, Maggie. Sometimes I feel very naughty, and just like being in a passion, and I have to ask Jesus very much to help me."

"It's a great deal better to feel naughty, and not be naughty, than to feel naughty, and be naughty, too, Bessie. Anyhow, you're just good enough for me."

"But we ought to be good enough for Jesus," said Bessie. "I wish I was as good as that boy named Nathan Something, that Harry yead to us about on Sunday."

"Oh, yes," said Maggie, "it's all very well to read about these wonderful children, but when one comes to do it, it's a different thing. I don't believe that any one could be so good as never to do or to think a wrong thing. But, Bessie, you know, I will be quite sorry when mamma don't give us glove-money any more. I think this plan has been of service to me in my carelessness. Don't you think I'm pretty tol-able now?"

"Not pretty," said Bessie; "I think you are very tol'able now. Why, Maggie, don't you know papa said he could trust you to take a message or do an errand now as soon as any of his children?"

"Yes, and it was very nice to hear him say that, Bessie. I didn't mind for all the trouble I took to be careful, when he said it. When we have our glove-money, it will make more than six dollars in our box, if mamma don't have to spend any of it for us. We only want five for the library, so what shall we do with the rest of it, Bessie. Mamma said we must only spend that money in doing good."

"Perhaps mamma will tell us something," said Bessie.

"But I'd like to think of something ourselves, and I did think of a nice thing, Bessie, if you would like to do it."

"I guess I would. Tell me, Maggie."

"Yesterday, when Mary Bent came here, she had on only a thin little cape, that did not keep her warm at all, and she looked so cold, nurse asked her if that was the warmest thing she had, and she said yes. So nurse brought an old piece of flannel, and basted it all inside the cape to make it warmer; but she said the child ought to have a thick cloak or shawl, and if mamma was home, she knew she would do something for her. Mary said her mother had a warm shawl, but when the weather was cold, they had to keep it to put over Jemmy, 'cause he shivered so if he was not covered up warm. I felt so sorry for her, and last night, I thought maybe we could take the rest of our money and buy her a warm thing to wear. Would you like that, dear Bessie?"

"'Deed, I would," said Bessie. "You do make such nice plans, Maggie. If we can do it, I shall just tell Mary you made it up. I don't believe anybody has such a smart Maggie as I have."

Maggie kissed her sister, for dearly as she loved praise, none was sweeter to her than that which Bessie was always so ready to give.

"I'm afraid we wont have enough to buy anything _very_ warm," she said, "'cause that would cost a good deal, and we have not time to earn any, we are so very busy."

"Yes," said Bessie, "we have our hands full; but we will ask mamma."

Later in the day they did ask her, and she said that, if they pleased, they might use what they did not need for the library for this purpose.

"But you will not have enough to buy a warm sack for Mary, such as she should have, my darlings," she said. "Nurse told me how poorly Mary was clothed for this cold weather, and I had intended, the next time I should go out, to buy some gray flannel, and let Jane make a sack thickly lined and quilted. This will cost more than you can spare."

"Well, mamma," said Bessie, "if you will wait till after Christmas, perhaps we might earn enough to buy a sack for Mary, and we would like to do it ourselves."

"But in the mean while, the poor child would be suffering with the cold," said Mrs Bradford. "Suppose I give Mary the cloak, and you buy for Jemmy a comfortable, so that he will not need his mother's shawl."