Chapter IV (3)

At this moment the footman entered with a letter for Mrs. Haffenden. The old lady glanced through it, and then exclaimed, "Here's a surprise, Rose, or rather, I am afraid I must say here's a disappointment. You will just miss seeing your dear friend Adelaide Mountford."

"Addy Mountford! Oh, mamma, you don't mean it! How delightful! I thought there wasn't a chance—"

"And I am afraid there isn't now, Rose. She says she and her mother will be passing through Wadborough on the 6th, and she proposes to come up here in the evening. But there is our party—"

"She may come in spite of the party. Why not come to it?"

"My dear, you forget. I don't suppose she would have any dress. Her means have been so reduced that I don't suppose she can afford to go out to parties. Isn't that so, Christian?"

The Admiral assented rather grumpily. Mrs. Mountford, who was a distant connection, had made several raids of late on his purse.

"But, mamma, she proposes to come here."

"Yes; but I think that is most likely on business, not pleasure."

"Most likely," observed Admiral Haffenden, still more curtly.

"But, mamma, what do we care about her dress. I declare if that is all I'll lend her one of my dresses. If we can persuade her, may we do so?"

"Oh yes, Rose, if you like," answered Mrs. Haffenden wearily. "But look here, you two girls, it is high time that these invitations should be sent out, or half our intended guests will be engaged. It will be plenty of time to settle anything about Adelaide when the 6th arrives. She won't be here till then, and no one knows where she will be betwixt this and then, so no one can write to her."

There was no denying this. So Aunt Maria and the two girls sat down to their writing tables, and filled up a vast number of "Admiral and Mrs. Haffenden at Home, January 6th, 18—. Five o'clock, Christmas Tree and games. Dancing in the evening. R.S.V.P."

When these had been despatched, there were still endless arrangements to be made. The dresses they were to wear, the music, the waiters, the supper, the Christmas Tree, the shifting the furniture—there was no rest for anybody all day and every day. The girls were heartily glad when Twelfth Day arrived, and everything seemed to have been satisfactorily ordered.

"At what time do you expect that Addy will reach Wadborough?" asked Violet, when early dinner had been concluded, and she and her sister had retired to the schoolroom—the only place where they had a chance of having a quiet talk that afternoon.

"I can't tell. Nothing has been heard of her since she wrote to grandmamma last Friday."

"That is not so," said Violet, "she has written to papa. I know her handwriting quite well. Indeed, I asked papa if he hadn't heard from her, and he said, 'yes'—rather shortly I thought."

"These preparations put him out. He'll be glad when the party is over. But he didn't tell you when Addy was coming?"

"No. But, now I think of it, she must be already in Wadborough. There was no stamp on the letter. It must have been sent up from the Inn."

"From the Inn? from the 'Greyhound,' where I know they meant to put up? Is there time to go down to the Inn and see her?"

"I am afraid not, Rose; but we can write, and send the note by Abigail, when we have done dressing. Sit down and write at once. I'll go up to papa, and see that he has got everything he wants, or he may come badly off to-day."

Rose sat down, and began a most plaintive entreaty to her beloved Adelaide not to leave Wadborough without coming to their party. They hadn't met for ever so long, and it had been such a distress to them. Perhaps it was Rose's fault, but if so, she was so grieved that she did not know how to express her sorrow. Would not her dearest overlook it? The letter began, "Darling of darlings," and ended, "Ever your own—Rose."

It was just finished, when there came a tap at the door, and Violet and nurse came in together.

"Miss Rose, may I leave Master Hugh with you till five o'clock?" said nurse. "He must be dressed then, and by that time I shall be able to attend to him; but they want me to dress the Christmas Tree, and declare it can't be done if I don't do it."

The sisters looked a little put out, but no one ever objected to Hugh's company, and he was just then looking his very brightest. His curly locks, ruddy complexion, and laughing eyes formed a study, which would have added a rose to the chaplet of the renown of Millais himself, if he had painted him as he appeared at that moment.

"I suppose, Violet, there isn't time for me to take this note to the 'Greyhound,' is there?" asked Rose. "I am sure she would come if she got it. But I'm half afraid Abigail 'won't' be able to go."

"Abigail? No. That she certainly won't. She has overworked herself, I suppose. But she is quite ill, and has been sent to bed. Mamma says we must help one another to dress."

"How very unlucky! How is the note to go? I see it is too late for me to take it."

"It is unlucky; and it is all the worse because papa wants this note taken to Aunt Salter's. He says it must go. I don't know who is to take that either."

"Can't it wait till to-morrow?" asked Rose.

"He says not. He was in a great hurry, and thrust it into my hand, telling me I must direct an envelope, and send it. I can direct the envelope, but who is to take it?"

"I can take it, Aunt Violet," said Hugh. "It won't take me above a quarter of an hour to go to Grandmamma Salter's, and the 'Greyhound' is still nearer. And it wants three quarters of an hour to the time when nurse will want to dress me."

"You, Hughie? Do you think you really can be trusted?"

"Oh, yes: you may be sure I shall make no mistake, and I'll be back again long before nurse wants me."

"Very well, then, you shall take the notes. Have you written the envelopes, Violet?"

"Yes; they are on the table there."

"Very well. Then Hughie, do you put the notes into the covers, and be off with them at once. And you and I must go and dress, Violet, or we shall not be in time to receive the first comers."

The sisters retired to their bedroom, but were so delayed by one interruption or another that the time for the arrival of the guests had quite come, and grandmamma, indeed, was downstairs receiving them before the final touch was put to their toilette. Just as they were taking a final look in the glass, somebody rapped at the door with the request, "May I come in?"

"Oh, Violet!" exclaimed Rose, "it is Adelaide, I declare. Come in, love, we are delighted to see you."

The door opened, and a young lady in evening dress entered the room, and, running up to Rose, threw her arms round her neck. But it was not Adelaide Mountford, but Julia Salter!

"O dear Rose," she exclaimed, scarcely able to speak for sobbing, "I am so ashamed and sorry I don't know how to thank you for your kind, kind letter. To think, after all my thanklessness, all my rudeness, you should have written to me so kindly, and entreated me to come to your party. I don't deserve it, Rose. I don't think anyone in the world but you and Violet—"

"My dear Julia," said Rose, taking advantage of a fit of sobbing which prevented her visitor from proceeding, "don't distress yourself in this way. Neither Violet nor I—"

"No, I know you are too kind and good to have taken offence with me. But I am sure anybody else would. But if you'll only overlook my past behaviour I'll never give you cause to complain again."

"I assure you, Julia," said Violet, "neither Rose nor I have ever complained—"

"I understand that, dear Violet," interposed Julia. "But that is your goodness; but you shall never—"

At this moment the heavy tread of a man was heard in the passage outside. The door was pushed sharply open, and Admiral Haffenden, with a wrathful brow, such as—to do him justice—he seldom displayed, entered the room. He did not see Julia Salter, and the latter, perceiving, as the phrase is, that there was thunder in the air, took the opportunity of slipping out of the room.

"Do you understand what she means, Violet?" asked Rose, too much bewildered by Julia's protestations to notice her father's demeanour. "Have you been writing to her and entreating her to come to-night?"

"No," said Violet, "I know no more what she means than you do."

"Do you understand this?" cried the Admiral, angrily, throwing a note on the table. "Read that out, and tell me if you know anything about it."

Rose complied. She took up the note and read:—

"Greyhound Inn, Jan. 6th, 18—.

"DEAR, KIND, AND GENEROUS FRIEND,

"How shall I thank you for your unexpected and most munificent gift? I had not ventured to hope for the fifth part of the sum you have sent me. This will enable my mother to go to Bournemouth for a month, where I have no doubt her health will be restored. Believe me, we are truly grateful.

"Yours deeply obliged,

"ADELAIDE MOUNTFORD."

"Why, papa, you must have sent her Julia Salter's ten pound note!"

"I? I didn't send anything to her. I gave you the note wrapped in paper, with merely the words, 'From C. H., with the best wishes of the season,' and told you to address an envelope to her and send it."

"I understand now, papa," said Rose. "This is Hughie's mistake—"

"Hughie's mistake!" interposed her father. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I had written a letter to Adelaide Mountford full of, full of—"

"Full of girl's gush," supplemented her father. "I have no doubt you did, but what has that to do with Julia's banknote?"

"Why, we could not find anyone to take the notes, and Hughie offered to do so. We thought there was no harm in his going, and we told him to put the two notes into the envelopes which were lying on the table and deliver them. He, I suppose—"

"Put the banknote into Miss Mountford's cover, and your letter into Julia's—that's what you mean, isn't it?"

"Yes, papa; but the mistake may be set right. You can tell Adelaide that the banknote was sent to her by mistake—"

"No, I can't do that, Rose. I should be ashamed."

"And I can tell Julia that the letter she received was intended not to her, but for Adelaide."

"No, you mustn't do that, Rose. Mrs. Mountford is a good woman, and needs help; and though ten pounds is rather a pull on a man at Christmas time, she's welcome to it. And as regards Julia, I am too thankful that the quarrel is made up, and the girl has come to her senses, to allow any explanation there either. But one thing, Rose, you call this Hughie's mistake. I don't see that the dear little fellow was to blame at all. How could he be expected to distinguish between the two letters?"

"Of course not, papa, one thing is always certain. Whoever may be to blame, it can't be Hughie."

The Fox Family.

A STORY OF THE THÜRINGER WALD.

_BY FANNY BARRY._

————————

IT was the very beginning of the winter time, and in the village of Ruhla, in the Thüringer Wald, the houses of the one long street were all getting in their double windows and preparing for the first fall of snow.

The stores for the winter were laid in, and the children of the forester—who lived in the corner house, with the great cross-beams painted brown, and the deep, sloping roof—were playing in their yard with the old fox "Finklie."

Finklie, who had been chained up there for the last dozen years, had a comfortable kennel like a dog, and was treated quite as a friend of the family by Elsie, Lina, and Heinrich Heppenheim.

He had been caught by the forester's men as he prowled about in search of food for his family, and though at first he repined bitterly at the fate in store for him, by degrees he had become reconciled to his lot. Time had softened the remembrance of his wife and little ones in the comfortable hole under the shadow of the pine trees, and he had attached himself to the children he had known from babyhood, and who now filled his heart in the place of his own long-lost family.

"It'll soon be winter now, Finklie," said Heinrich. "I'm glad, for I want to play with the snow. I wonder if you're glad or sorry?"

"Why sorry, of course," said little Elsie. "He has no warm hole to get into, like he would have in his own home."

Finklie said nothing, but he understood it all, for he had learnt the German language when very young. He found it was absolutely necessary to his safety in a place where traps were always being laid for stray foxes, and where they were treated as "vermin." It was, therefore, taught in every well-regulated fox-hole, and even baby foxes could conjugate their German verbs quite correctly. However, they always pretended—whenever they were caught—that they could not speak at all, for they had to swear a most solemn oath to the king of the foxes that they would never betray their friends; and they very justly thought, that if the foresters ever knew they could talk, they would soon be forced to give up all the fox secrets, which have been handed down from father to son for countless generations in the Thüringer Wald.

While the forester's family were playing with Finklie, a whole fox family were crowded together in a hollow tree in the very heart of the forest. It was a nice, out of the way spot, where the forester's dogs seldom came, and the father, "Fritzlie," as he looked round upon the children clustered at his knee, congratulated himself on being the possessor of such a remarkably safe retreat.

"This tree has been in our family for the last fifty years," he said, proudly. "Never once has it been surprised. See that your guard it, as your ancestors have done, with your heart's blood!"

The fox father was fond of long words, and rolled them out as if he enjoyed them. The little foxes were much impressed.

"What arrangements are you making for the winter?" enquired the fox mother, as she sat by the entrance to the tree, with her knitting in her hands. Like all Germans, she was industrious; and she was now particularly busy, for she was finishing off comforters for her children to wear during the snow-time.

"I have my eye on several houses," replied father Fritzlie, thoughtfully. "The pipe manufacturer's with the duck-yard, and the Heppenheims, where my poor father has been so long chained up. They have chickens by the score, there. Such chickens my little ones. They will support us through the winter in comfort."

"But how will you get them, my dear?" observed the fox mother, placidly, as she knitted off her comforter, and tried it on the neck of the little fox nearest to her.

"Oh, easily enough," replied father Fritzlie, "you have my sack ready mended, haven't you?"

"Oh yes," said his wife; "but the stuff is rather rotten, it will soon fall into holes again. I am always begging you to get another."

"It will do well enough for what I want," said the fox father, "give it to me now. As it is your birthday, Raetellie, my child, I shall bring home the best of dinners. You can ask Aunt and Uncle Badger to join us. Good-bye for the present! It looks like a snow-fall, and if so, why all the better; it will hide my foot-marks."

The fox children lifted up their voices and begged to be allowed to accompany him, but he smiled upon them in a superior manner, and waved them away.

"No, no! little ones; stay with your good mother. Leave me to battle with the world," he said, and throwing the sack over his shoulder, he put on a hat and overcoat, and bidding his family an affectionate farewell, had soon disappeared in the green gloom between the tree stems.

As soon as Fritzlie had disappeared, the fox mother began to tidy up her house, like a good German house-wife. She swept the floor, scoured the walls with a dusting brush, made of dried fern leaves, and sprinkled some camphor over the scarves she had been knitting, which she laid away carefully in a hole in the ground, with the rest of her family's winter clothing. She then brushed up the children's hair with a pine cone, tied a bib-pinafore round each of their necks, and told them to sit down quietly, and behave nicely until their father returned.

Now, unfortunately, the fox children were very much like other children in their disinclination to keep still, and no sooner had their mother put them down in a neat row, with their backs against the wall of the tree-house, than they began to play about, untidying their hair, and rumpling their clean bib-pinafores.

"Keep still, children! keep still!" cried the old fox, severely. "What will your father say? Your know how particular he is."

"Oh, mother," cried Atala, the eldest, "Raetellie has been saying such funny things. He heard father Fritzlie and the Badger talking yesterday when they were smoking their pipes."

"Little foxes should not listen at door-holes," said the fox mother, reprovingly. "However, as you seem to be so very lively, you, Raetellie, can run and ask Aunt Badger to lend me a little pepper, and a few coffee beans. I shall be going to the market, at Marientahl, on Monday, and can return what we borrow. Mind you ask aunt and uncle to come to dinner this evening, and 'be sure' you are very civil. Aunt is sometimes a little out of temper this cold weather; she feels the rheumatism."

Raetellie jumped up and ran off to obey his mother's order, and the other two children skipped about singing—

"Oh, what good dinners the father fox brings
With the forester's chickens, and other good things.
Aunt Badger and Uncle shall join in the feast,
And however they scold, we won't mind in the least."

"Children, will be children," said the indulgent mother fox as she took up her needles, and cast on the proper number of stitches for a warm winter cap, with ear flaps, to protect her eldest daughter.

Meantime, Raetellie ran as fast as he could to the house of the Badgers. He knocked at the hollow tree; a screen of bushes was pushed aside, and Aunt Badger's high, thin voice was heard from within.

"Who's that knocking like a hailstorm in winter time?"

From this, Raetellie knew that Aunt Badger was suffering from a severe attack of rheumatism, so he determined to proceed with great caution.

"It is only me, dear aunt—little Raetellie—come with a message from the fox mother. I am sorry I disturbed you."

"Come in! come in! I don't expect manners from your family," said the Badger, sharply. "You've come to borrow something, of course?"

Raetellie looked upon the ground and then round the room in search of inspiration.

It was a very neat room, with a little dresser facing the door, on which stood a row of wooden boxes labelled "Mustard," "Spices," "Coffee," "Sugar," "Flour," &c. There was also a small table made of pine wood, and at this stood Aunt Badger, scouring out some wooden bowls with a new piece of sandpaper.

It was a peculiarity of Aunt Badger's that the more rheumatic she was the harder she worked, and Uncle Badger generally went out for the day when she had what she called "a general house-cleaning."

This was evidently the case now, for a tub of water stood by her side with a large mop in it, and the whole place smelt of soap.

Aunt Badger's tight-fitting black cap hung on a peg on the wall, and she was enveloped in a large homespun apron, which completely covered her.

"Some people I could mention are all borrowing, and no lending," she observed, as she wiped her hands. "Now child, make haste. What do you want?"

By this time Raetellie had recovered his presence of mind, and he gave the invitation and asked for the loan of the coffee beans and pepper as prettily as possible.

Aunt Badger pretended still to be cross, but the idea of a good dinner did not displease her. Besides this, it would save her all the trouble of cooking at home; so she went to her spotless dresser and counted out sixty coffee beans, which she placed in a cabbage leaf, with half an egg-shell full of pepper, and handed to Raetellie.

"My kind compliments to your mother. We shall be pleased to accept," she said in a stately manner. "Do not trouble to return the pepper."

Raetellie started to run back again through the forest, and as he ran he thought to himself, "I do hope the king of the wolves is not wandering about anywhere. I know he lives not very far-off. I had better make haste, for father Fritzlie has often told me how much he hates us." So he hurried on.

At this moment he heard a sound behind him which made his heart stand still with fear—a "tip, tap, tip" upon the fallen pine needles. He looked round apprehensively, and saw a great grey wolf galloping slowly along. He had a small crown on his head, round a green forester's cap, from under which his fierce eyes gleamed threateningly.

"The king-wolf! the king-wolf!" cried poor little Raetellie, and bounded forward, dodging in and out between the trunks of the trees, with his hair almost standing on end with terror.

"Stop! stop! my child," cried the grey wolf, and darted on to Raetellie with one bound of his long body. "Come with me to my house, and I will show you something very nice there."

Raetellie trembled, and looked about for some means of escape, but there was no help near. He therefore determined, like a brave little fox, to appear as cheerful as he could and to follow the king-wolf quietly, trusting that some chance might occur by which he could save himself.

The grey wolf tied a cord round his captive's neck, and walked on in front in silence. Raetellie followed meekly behind.

An idea had entered his head which gave him a ray of hope! He opened the cabbage leaf Aunt Badger had given him, and occasionally threw out a coffee bean and a little pepper as he went along.

"If only father Fritzlie comes by here," he thought, "he will easily be able to find out where the king-wolf is taking me to. He will see the coffee beans and smell the pepper, and perhaps, 'perhaps,' he will rescue me after all!"

Before they had gone very far it began to snow in light, feathery flakes—the first snow of the winter—and Raetellie's heart sank, "for now," he argued, "my beans will be all covered up, and I shall be lost indeed."

It was a long journey to the home of the grey wolf, who lived in the midst of some massive rocks on the summit of one of the barest mountains of the Thüringer Wald. Raetellie shuddered as he saw the lonely spot, looking grimmer and lonelier than ever under its powdering of white snow. A smile of pride lighted up the face of the king-wolf. It had been the residence of his ancestors for uncounted generations, and the caves were hung with many of the skins of the forest animals who had been their victims.

The poor little fox made his way into the great hall behind his captor, who took off his hat, and motioning to Raetellie to follow him, went into an inner cave. Here he opened a cupboard in the wall, and pushing Raetellie in, he put a heavy stone against the door, and went off growling cheerfully.

Fortunately, Raetellie had inherited from his parents the great gifts of courage and presence of mind, and he managed to throw the last of his coffee beans, and the egg-shell of pepper, outside the door as it closed upon him.

While these adventures were happening to Raetellie, father Fritzlie was walking rapidly towards the village of Ruhla, with his sack over his shoulders, and his everyday hat tilted very much on one side. His heart was full of joy and hopefulness, and he whistled merrily as he went along. "It's going to snow," he said to himself, "but that's all the better for me. What a dinner the children will have to-night, and we'll have a dance afterwards. It's wonderful how well Atala begins to do her steps, and even little Lieblie can manage the 'Rheinländer.'"

He soon reached the outskirts of the village. By this time the snow was falling quite thickly, and it was beginning to get dark.

How picturesque the houses looked with their windows lighted up, and the snow settling on their high roofs, showing up the dark wooden beams that were built into their wall in all kinds of curious patterns.

The forester's house was brightly illuminated, and Fritzlie determined to go there first, so he crept under the wall till he got near the hen-house. Then he stood up and listened. Evidently, Finklie was shut up somewhere, for he was nowhere to be seen.

Elsie and Lina were singing together in the living-room. The salon, which was only used on festive occasions, was quite dark and tenantless. "What a mercy it is that the salon windows look-out on to the hen-house," thought Fritzlie, as he cautiously crept on.

He was generally very fortunate in his enterprizes, but that evening, fate seemed to be against him.

No sooner did he attempt to get over the wall, than the branch of a tree, stretching into the yard, knocked his hat off his head, and it fell with a "crash" on to a glass frame just beneath.

At the sound of the broken glass, all the hens awoke, and cackled loudly. The cocks crowed, and there was a tremendous commotion in the hen-house.

The forester's servant had just gone into the dark salon to light the stove, for a message had come from the wife of the chief pipe manufacturer, to say that she would have supper with the Frau Forester that evening, if quite convenient.

As the girl entered the room, she heard the unusual cackling, and threw open one of the windows to listen.

"Yes! it was certainly true—someone was in the hen-house."

She rushed out of the room, calling to the children to follow her, and flew towards the scene of confusion.

Father Fritzlie, who had tumbled into the yard when his hat fell off, attempted to jump over the wall, but on the inside it was too high, and the great gate was latched.

He looked wildly round, but could see no means of escape. The open window into the dark salon seemed his only chance.

Picking up his hat, he gave one wild bound across the low window-sill, and found himself in the forester's best parlour.

What should he do now? He could hear the voices of Gretchen (the maid) and of little Elsie and Lina as they opened the hen-house door and looked in anxiously.

Suddenly his glance fell on the great white China stove which filled up one corner of the room. He ran to it, forced himself in, and managed very cleverly to close the brass door after him.

When the excitement had subsided, he would creep out again and be off.

It was very cramped and uncomfortable in the stove, but he could still hear clearly, through a crack, all that was going on outside.

The chickens were gradually quieted, and Gretchen and the children ran noisily into the house.

There were steps in the room, and then some horrible words, in the voice of the Frau Forester, fell upon Fritzlie's ear.

"Gretchen, make haste and light the stove."

Whatever would happen to him now? He could almost fancy he felt the crackling pine cones and the burning of the blazing logs beneath him! He managed to wriggle round, so that he could put one eye to the crack in the stove door and look-out.

The window was firmly closed. There seemed to be nothing in the room beneath which he could hide himself, except a long oak chest which acted as a kind of window seat.

Seeing that Gretchen had not yet returned with the wood, father Fritzlie whisked out of the stove door, crept towards the chest, lifted the lid anxiously, and looked in.

"What a blessing!" he thought. "Nothing in it but the children's winter cloaks. Ugh! What a smell of camphor!" and he slipped in and noiselessly closed the lid.

He was hardly settled safely before the Frau Forester came in to watch that Gretchen did her work properly, and with her came Elsie, Lina, and Heinrich, on condition that they sat down quietly on the oak chest and did not move or fidget about.

"This is a terrible position!" thought father Fritzlie. "Fancy if they remain here all the evening! I am very cramped, and the pepper in these clothes is beginning really to suffocate me. I shall sneeze in a moment, and that will be the end of me."

"Tish-ish-yu!" It was a loud, unmistakable sneeze, and the fox trembled as he heard it echoing.

The Frau Forester looked at Gretchen reprovingly.

"You should not rush about in the snow without a shawl, silly girl," she said, reprovingly. "You have evidently caught a bad cold." But Gretchen did not hear, for she had her head inside the stove door, and was blowing away as hard as she could at the wood, to make it light quickly.

"Now children, off to bed!" said the Frau Forester; and, to the great relief of father Fritzlie, Elsie, Lina, and Heinrich jumped down from their perch, and ran upstairs to their attic.

"Did you say 'good night' to Finklie?" said Heinrich, as he tucked himself under his warm eider-down quilt.

"Oh yes," replied Lina. "He is to sleep in the big barn, amongst the straw, because of the cold"—and she, too, sunk into her white pillows; and the three children were soon in the land of dreams.

* * * * * *

Poor father Fritzlie! His active brain went over all the possibilities of escape, until he at last fixed on a plan of action. The wife of the pipe manufacturer would soon be coming in to supper, and the Frau Forester and Gretchen would go out to the entrance hall to meet her. He must then creep out behind them, and hide as well as he could until he saw an opportunity to slip through the open door.

As he decided upon this, a loud ring at the bell announced the arrival of the visitor.

Up jumped the Frau Forester and her servant, and ran into the entrance hall, followed by father Fritzlie, who kept as much as possible in the shadow of the chair legs.

Gretchen opened the front door, and a stout lady in furs and flannel-lined galoshes came bustling in, warmly kissing the Frau Forester on both cheeks.

Now was Fritzlie's opportunity! He glided along, and just succeeded in scraping by Gretchen's wooden shoes as she was about to fasten up the door again.

He was safe, and free once more, though he heard a scream from the servant girl as he galloped away—

She had caught sight of something dark gliding past her, and received a severe scolding from the Frau Forester for her "nerves and fancies."

Out in the clear moonlight night—for the snow had ceased some time before—father Fritzlie began to recover, and congratulate himself on his marvellously narrow escape.

"Ugh! How hot it was in that box," he thought. "I never knew camphor was so unpleasant before. I quite understand now why moths dislike it so much!"

Throwing his canvas bag over his shoulder, and keeping well in the shadow of the houses, he went on till he came to a turning, and then darted into the fields at the back of the village.

He was afraid of every sound, for his nerves had been severely tried; and had he not been determined to secure the promised treat for his children he would have liked nothing better than to trot straight home, and go to bed.

The pipe manufacturer's house stood up white and silent against the background of the wooded hills, but Fritzlie heard the barking of Prinz, the watch dog, and hurried on.

"No ducks to-night," he said to himself. "I don't want to get into Prinz's clutches!"

At this moment he heard the sound of voices, and, peeping noiselessly over a wall, he saw the farmer's wife, old Frau Zimmerman, and her little grandson, toiling along the road just beyond the village, in the rear of a little wooden cart, drawn by a couple of strong dogs.

The old Frau was warmly wrapped up in a cloth cloak, and had a bright-coloured handkerchief wound round her head. She had been to the market at Marientahl, and was returning late because of a call she had made upon her daughter-in-law, the young Frau Zimmerman, on her way home.

There were many nice things in the cart, as Fritzlie immediately noticed, especially some loaves of black bread, and a string of sausages—for the Frau was very well off—and, yes! could he believe his good fortune?—a fine large cock in a wicker-work coop, being taken home to the Frau's chicken-yard!

This was good luck indeed! Fritzlie ran into the wood and gathered a long thin stick, and as the cart passed under some apple trees that fringed the road he sprang out, and giving the dogs two blows with the switch, they started off at a furious gallop, leaving Frau Zimmerman and her grandson shouting on the snowy pathway.

Father Fritzlie followed the cart briskly, and easily managed to take out the chicken coop, a loaf of bread, and some sausages, with which he ran off into the forest as fast as his legs could carry him.

This was a find, indeed! He easily opened the coop door, put the cock and the other things into his canvas bag, and set off with long strides for his home.

"What adventures I shall have to tell them," he thought, "but we'll have a good birthday feast, after all!" and he sped on.

As he neared the well-known spot, he saw Atala and Lieblie watching for him at the door of the house, and to his surprise, they greeted him with screams of terror, instead of joy.

"Oh, father Fritzlie Raetellie is lost, and mother is gone to find him. He went to Aunt Badger's to borrow some coffee beans and pepper, and has never returned. Uncle Badger says the king-wolf is roaming about, and may have taken him to one of his castles. What shall we do! What shall we do?"

Father Fritzlie threw his bag on the ground, and sank down quite stunned with the terrible intelligence. His darling Raetellie, who was so clever, and was already learning to be the greatest comfort to him. It was a crushing blow. However, it would never do to sit down and grieve about it. It was still quite early, with a brilliant moonshine; and besides this, the wind had changed, and a rapid thaw had set in. It would be easier to find any tracks left by the king-wolf, if it was indeed he, who had carried away poor Raetellie.

Father Fritzlie turned his coat inside out, put on a pair of snow galoshes, and another hat, and thus, completely disguised, he bade good-bye to his remaining children, cautioning them not to stir from home until he returned, and sallied out, with a lantern in his hand, in the direction of the house of Uncle Badger.

As he walked, he looked most carefully for any marks upon the ground, and the snow having almost disappeared, he soon discovered two of the coffee beans, and presently smelt a strong odour of pepper.

"Hurrah!" he cried. "'What' an intelligent child he is! He has scattered them as he went along," and father Fritzlie followed the clue with renewed hope.

Here and there, it was a very difficult matter to decide which way to proceed, for the snow being only half melted had covered up some of the beans; but Fritzlie's sense of smell was wonderfully acute, and wherever he could not see the beans, he smelt the pepper. So he went on, straight as an arrow, for the castle of the wolf-king.

* * * * * *

Meanwhile, the poor fox mother had also started to search for her lost child; but being in a terrible state of fright and excitement, and also quite unused to going out by herself, she had lost her way, and was now wandering round and round in circles, unable to find either her own home, or any trace of the missing Raetellie.

You can therefore imagine her joy when she saw the gleam of the fox father's lantern, and cautiously making her way towards it, found, to her delight, that it was indeed her husband.

At first, father Fritzlie scarcely recognized his wife, and indeed it was hardly to be wondered at.

Her cloth cloak hung torn and dripping about her, she had lost her hood and one of her snow galoshes; for she had fallen down a deep slope into a snow-drift, and had had some difficulty in scrambling out again.

Altogether, a more pitiable object it was impossible to imagine!

Fritzlie cheered her as well as he could, and explained his discovery of the coffee beans and pepper, and the father and mother set off once more.

As they neared the bleak hill on which stood the castle of the king-wolf, Fritzlie covered his lantern with his hat, and begged the fox mother to remain in the shadow of the rocks and keep perfectly silent.

He crept up to the door of the cave and listened intently.

A loud snoring came from within.

The king-wolf was evidently asleep, and as he lived by himself and had no attendants, Fritzlie knew that if he could only pass him without waking him, it would be comparatively easy to continue his search.

He took off his boots, and crept across the entrance to the room beyond.

A flood of moonlight came in through a rift in the rocks and lighted up the face of the king-wolf as he lay on a heap of skins in the centre of the cave.

His forester's hat with the crown round it lay on a stool close by.

Fritzlie could hear his heart beating loudly as he crawled along. The king-wolf stirred, and turned his head.

"Off with him to the kitchen!" he murmured. "It will be a good stew!"

Evidently he was dreaming of his dinner, and father Fritzlie shuddered as he thought that perhaps his beloved Raetellie was to provide the feast.

Just by the sleeping grey wolf, father Fritzlie discovered some more coffee beans, and outside a cupboard in the wall of the room beyond, he found the egg-shell and a little heap of pepper.

There was no doubt that Raetellie was concealed somewhere close by.

"Are you in the cupboard, my child?" Fritzlie whispered anxiously, through a chink in the door.

"Yes! yes! father Fritzlie," replied Raetellie in a low, terrified voice. "Let me out! let me out at once! It is so dark in here, and I am so frightened."

"All right, my child. Do not move," cried the fox father, and he ran out and called his wife.

Now fortunately, the fox mother always carried her needles and thread in a bag by her side, so that when father Fritzlie had explained what he wanted her to do, she went into the cave with him, and had soon sewn the king-wolf up in the skins he was sleeping on without waking him.

Then father Fritzlie ran to the cupboard, and carried Raetellie out into the open air, where his mother was awaiting him.

The little fox was so enchanted to be free, that he almost danced for joy as he followed his father and mother down the hill, and into the shadow of the forest.

As they galloped along they heard muffled roars of rage from the king-wolf, who had just discovered what had happened.

The fox mother smiled, for she knew her sewing was strong enough to resist all his struggles!

So this was how it happened that the fox children had their birthday feast after all!

And what a feast of delight and rejoicing it was!

Aunt and Uncle Badger came to it; the mother fox presided in a beautiful white apron, and father Fritzlie, in a red necktie, had the chair of state, and carved the roast chicken.

Aunt Badger brought a cabbage leaf full of coffee beans, and a new egg-shell of pepper, as an offering of affection to Raetellie; and the climax of enjoyment was reached when Fritzlie's father appeared upon the scene, on a short visit to his family. He had managed to unlatch the barn door, and slip out without anyone observing him.

"Do stay! do stay! grandfather," cried the children when, the dinner finished, they clustered round the old fox's knee—but Finklie refused all their invitations.

"You can come and see me sometimes when the Herr Forester is away," he said, "but I am too used to my life, and too fond of Elsie, Lina, and little Heinrich, to leave them now," and before it was daylight he returned to his comfortable kennel.

As to the wolf-king; as far as I know he is still sewed up, and so cannot do any more mischief to anyone.

The forester's chickens are safe for the future, for Finklie made father Fritzlie promise that he would never again attempt to steal them.

The Herr Forester is not so severe upon foxes now, as he used to be, for Elsie, Lina, and Heinrich, are always begging him to spare them. This is, perhaps, the reason that father Fritzlie and his wife and children still live on happily in the hollow tree, and look back with a certain proud importance upon their adventures in search of the birthday dinner.

The Story of a Silver Padlock.

A FRAGMENT.

_BY MRS. A. M. GOODHART,_

AUTHOR OF "THE GIANT FISHERS OF HERTZENBERG."

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ONCE, in sweet and sunny Italy, I knew a little lad who fell into evil ways, and learnt to utter rough and shameful words, such as leave an ugly stain upon the minds and lips of those who use them, and his mother was sorely troubled, for she knew that her boy could never grow up among "the pure in heart," if he sinned so grievously with his childish lips.

So she thought long and sorrowfully over the matter, and whilst she was thinking, she fell asleep. And when her long black eyelashes were lying motionless upon her sweet worn cheeks, a tiny cherub angel, one of the baby-messengers of Heaven, stole in at the open window, and tenderly laid a scroll upon her weary eyes. And though she was asleep, she read the words as if in a dream, and they seemed like these: "Go to the jeweller, who lives in the Viâ Stradella, and ask him to make a Silver Padlock for thy Leonardo's lips, lest the ugly words offend again."

The baby-angel had given his message, but before he left, he kissed the tired mother's cheeks, and the caress awoke her; yet though no scroll lay there the words shone still before her eyes.

But she was poor, though of gentle birth, and accustomed in her youth to the golden splendour, and the warm luxuriousness of palaces; that, however, was all in the past, and now she was but a poor widow, working with her child for their daily bread; but though food and money did ofttimes fail them, one blessed thing was "ever theirs," and that was "love," love so deep, and true, and tender, that nought else seemed to matter so long as they two were together.

Nevertheless, the heavenly message troubled her; how could she find money for the Padlock? "Silver in the house there was none; that had gone long ago," she thought, as she looked round the room with a sigh; "but stay, where were all those old silver thimbles, pricked into innumerable holes with many a weary hour's sewing to earn bread for herself and her child? Ah, there they were, a worn-out heap, too old and battered for use, but still pure silver; perhaps old Tomasino, if she begged him, would melt them down for her, and make what she required, at any rate she must obey the heavenly message, and try."

So at nightfall, when the stars alone gave forth their light, she took Leonardo by the hand, and led him to the dark musty shop of the old jeweller. Leonardo asked no questions, he thought that his mother was going to sell the thimbles for a few scudi; but when she tremblingly began to say, "A little angel bade me have a Silver Padlock made, because my child hath learnt to soil his lips with ugly words," Leonardo dared not raise his eyes from the ground.

The old jeweller betrayed no astonishment at her strange request. "It shall be ready to-morrow for the signora," was all he replied, and the mother and son walked away in the darkness, and silence and night fell over the earth.

* * * * * *

The morrow came, but the gentle mother never visited the Viâ Stradella again, and Leonardo, with breaking heart and streaming eyes, dashed in upon the old bewildered jeweller.

"Give me the Padlock," he cried; "the last thing she did for me. It shall never leave me as long as I have life."

Then, all in the whirlwind of his passionate grief, he dashed out again into the quiet street, leaving the old man dazed and trembling.

"I am glad he forgot to pay me," he murmured to himself with faltering lips and tear-dimmed eyes. "It was her last wish, and life had been hard to her, but now she is at peace for evermore."

He was very poor and very old, and had hardly the wherewithal to buy his next meal, but it warmed his lonely heart to know that he had been kind to one who was now amongst the angels of God.

* * * * * *

As for Leonardo, he took the silver trinket and hung it on a faded ribbon that had once been hers, and wore it round his neck, as the years rolled by, in many a fight and many a fray, guarding it ever as his most precious treasure, his most sacred possession, until upon a far-off battle-field he lay at rest one summer evening, with a happy smile upon his quiet face, and his fellow-soldiers, gathering round, saw the little Silver Padlock on the faded string, resting upon his sunburnt breast, and with reverent hearts forebore to touch it, taking it to be a love token, as indeed it had ever been, for what can be a truer love token than that which keeps the heart pure, and the lips unsullied in the midst of an evil world?

* * * * * *

Somewhere far away in the shining fields of Paradise that pair of true lovers, that mother and son, are walking together now. We cannot tell the joy that fills their souls, or shines in their radiant eyes . . . Such joy is not for us to know until we too have passed into the clearer light of the Eternal Day.

Two Church Mice.

FOUNDED ON FACT.

_BY EMMA WOOD._

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