Chapter III: Part 3

These were his words; but Cecilia, in repeating them to herself, forgot to lay that emphasis on the word men, which would have placed it in contradistinction to the word women. She willingly believed that the observation extended equally to both sexes, and flattered herself that she should exceed her brother in merit, if she owned a fault which she thought that it would be so much more difficult to confess.

"Yes, but," said she, stopping herself, "how can I confess it? This very evening, in a few hours, the prize will now decided; Leonora or I shall win it. I have as good a chance as Leonora, perhaps a better; and must I give up all my hopes? All that I have been labouring for this month past! O, I never can;—if it were to-morrow, or yesterday, or any day but this, I would not hesitate, but now I am almost certain of the prize, and if I win it—well, why then I will—I think, I will tell all—yes, I will; I am determined," said Cecilia.

Here a bell summoned them to dinner. Leonora sat opposite to her, and she was not a little surprised to see Cecilia look so gay and unrestrained.

"Surely," said she to herself, "if Cecilia had done this, that I suspect, she would not, she could not look as she does."

But Leonora little knew the cause of her gayety; Cecilia was never in higher spirits, or better pleased with herself; than when she had resolved upon a sacrifice or a confession.

"Must not this evening be given to the most amiable? Whose, then, will it be?"

All eyes glanced first at Cecilia and then at Leonora. Cecilia smiled; Leonora blushed.

"I see that it is not yet decided," said Mrs. Villars.

And immediately they ran up stairs, amidst confused whisperings.

Cecilia's voice could be distinguished far above the rest.

"How can she be so happy?" said Leonora to herself. "O, Cecilia, there was a time when you could not have neglected me so!—When we were always together, the best of friends and companions, our wishes, tastes, and pleasures the same. Surely she did once love me," said Leonora; "but now she is quite changed. She has even sold my keepsake, and would rather win a bracelet of hair from girls whom she did not always think so much superior to Leonora, than have my esteem, my confidence, and my friendship, for her whole life; yes, for her whole life, for I am sure she will be an amiable woman. Oh that this bracelet had never been thought of, or that I was certain of her winning it; for I am certain that I do not wish to win it from her. I would rather, a thousand times rather, that we were as we used to be, than have all the glory in the world. And how pleasing Cecilia can be when she wishes to please! How candid she is! How much she can improve herself!—Let me be just, though she has offended me—she is wonderfully improved within this last month; for one fault, and that against myself, should I forget all her merits?"

As Leonora said these last words, she could but just hear the voices of her companions; they had left her alone in the gallery. She knocked softly at Louisa's door.

"Come in," said Louisa. "I'm not asleep. Oh," said she, starting up with the Flora in her hand, the instant that the door was opened. "I'm so glad you are come, Leonora, for I did so long to hear what you were all making such a noise about—have you forgot that the bracelet—"

"O yes! Is this the evening?"

"Well, here's my white shell for you. I've kept it in my pocket this fortnight; and though Cecilia did give me this Flora, I still love you a great deal better."

"Thank you, Louisa," said Leonora, gratefully "I will take your shell, and I shall value it as long as I live. But here is a red one, and if you wish to show me that you love me, you will give this to Cecilia. I know that she is particularly anxious for your preference, and I am sure that she deserves it."

"Yes, if I could, I would choose both of you; but you know I can only choose which I like the best."

"If you mean, my dear Louisa," said Leonora, "that you like me the best, I am very much obliged to you; for, indeed I wish you to love me; but it is enough for me to know it in private. I should not feel the least more pleasure at hearing it in public, or in having it made known to all my companions, especially at a time when it would give poor Cecilia a great deal of pain."

"But why should it give her pain? I don't like her for being jealous of you."

"Nay, Louisa, surely you don't think Cecilia jealous; she only tries to excel and to please. She is more anxious to succeed than I am, it is true, because she has a great deal more activity, and perhaps more ambition; and it would really mortify her to lose this prize. You know that she proposed it herself; it has been her object for this month past, and I am sure she has taken great pains to obtain it."

"But, dear Leonora, why should you lose it?"

"Indeed, my dear, it would be no loss to me; and, if it were, I would willingly suffer it for Cecilia; for, though we seem not to be such good friends as we used to be, I love her very much, and she will love me again, I'm sure she will; when she no longer fears me as a rival, she will again love me as a friend."

Here Leonora heard a number of her companions running along the gallery. They all knocked hastily at the door, calling, "Leonora! Leonora! Will you never come? Cecilia has been with us this half hour."

Leonora smiled. "Well, Louisa," said she, smiling, "will you promise me?"

"O, I'm sure, by the way they speak to you, that they won't give you the prize!" said the little Louisa; and the tears started into her eyes.

"They love me though, for all that; and as for the prize, you know whom I wish to have it."

"Leonora! Leonora!" called her impatient companions. "Don't you hear us? What are you about?"

"O, she never will take any trouble about any thing," said one of the party; "let's go away."

"O go! Go! Make haste," cried Louisa; "don't stay, they are so angry—I will, I will, indeed!"

"Remember, then, that you have promised me," said Leonora, and she left the room.

During all this time Cecilia had been in the garden with her companions. The ambition which she had felt to win the first prize, the prize of superior talents and superior application, was not to be compared to the absolute anxiety which she now expressed to win this simple testimony of the love and approbation of her equals and rivals.

To employ her exuberant activity, she had been dragging branches of lilacs, and laburnums, roses, and sweet-briar, to ornament the bower in which her fate was to be decided. It was excessively hot, but her mind was engaged, and she was indefatigable. She stood still, at last, to admire her works; her companions all joined in loud applause. They were not a little prejudiced in her favour by the great eagerness which she expressed to win their prize, and by the great importance which she seemed to affix to the preference of each individual.

At last, "Where is Leonora?" cried one of them, and immediately, as we have seen, they ran to call her.

Cecilia was left alone. Overcome with heat and too violent exertion, she had hardly strength to support herself; each moment appeared to her intolerably long; she was in a state of the utmost suspense, and all her courage failed her; even hope forsook her, and hope is a cordial which leaves the mind depressed and enfeebled.

"The time is now come," said Cecilia; "in a few moments it will be decided. In a few moments! Goodness! How much I do hazard! If I should not win the prize, how shall I confess what I have done? How shall I beg Leonora to forgive me? I, who hoped to restore my friendship to her as an honour!—They are gone to seek for her—the moment she appears I shall be forgotten—what shall—what shall I do?" said Cecilia, covering her face with her hands.

Such was her situation, when Leonora, accompanied by her companions, opened the hall door; they most of them ran forward to Cecilia. As Leonora came into the bower, she held out her hand to Cecilia—"We are not rivals, but friends, I hope," said she.

Cecilia clasped her hand, but she was in too great agitation to speak.

The table was now set in the arbour—the vase was now placed in the middle.

"Well!" said Cecilia, eagerly, "who begins?"

Caroline, one of her friends, came forward first, and then all the others successively.

Cecilia's emotion was hardly conceivable.—"Now they are all in. Count them, Caroline!"

"One, two, three, four; the numbers are both equal." There was a dead silence.

"No, they are not," exclaimed Cecilia, pressing forward and putting a shell into the vase—"I have not given mine, and I give it to Leonora." Then snatching the bracelet, "It is yours, Leonora," said she; "take it, and give me back your friendship."

The whole assembly gave a universal clap and shout of applause.

"I cannot be surprised at this from you, Cecilia," said Leonora; "and do you then still love me as you used to do?"

"O Leonora! Stop! Don't praise me; I don't deserve this," said she, turning to her loudly applauding companions; "you will soon despise me—O Leonora, you will never forgive me!—I have deceived you—I have sold—"

At this instant Mrs. Villars appeared—the crowd divided—she had heard all that passed from her window.

"I applaud your generosity, Cecilia," said she, "but I am to tell you that in this instance it is unsuccessful; you have it not in your power to give the prize to Leonora—it is yours—I have another vote to give you—you have forgotten Louisa."

"Louisa! But surely, ma'am, Louisa loves Leonora better than she does me!"

"She commissioned me, however," said Mrs. Villars, "to give you a red shell, and you will find it in this box."

Cecilia started, and turned as pale as death—it was the fatal box.

Mrs. Villars produced another box—she opened it—it contained the Flora—"And Louisa also desired me," said she, "to return you this Flora." She put it into Cecilia's hand—Cecilia trembled so that she could not hold it; Leonora caught it.

"O, madam! O, Leonora!" exclaimed Cecilia. "Now I have no hope left. I intended, I was just going to tell—"

"Dear Cecilia," said Leonora, "you need not tell it me; I know it already, and I forgive you with all my heart."

"Yes, I can prove to you," said Mrs. Villars, "that Leonora has forgiven you: it is she who has given you the prize; it was she who persuaded Louisa to give you her vote. I went to see her a little while ago, and perceiving, by her countenance, that something was the matter, I pressed her to tell me what it was.

"'Why, madam,' said she, 'Leonora has made me promise to give my shell to Cecilia. Now I don't love Cecilia half so well as I do Leonora; besides, I would not have Cecilia think I vote for her because she gave me a Flora.'

"Whilst Louisa was speaking," continued Mrs. Villars, "I saw the silver box lying on the bed; I took it up, and asked if it was not yours, and how she came by it.

"'Indeed, madam,' said Louisa, 'I could have been almost certain that it was Cecilia's; but Leonora gave it me, and she said that she bought it of the pedlar this morning. If any body else had told me so, I could not have believed them, because I remembered the box so well; but I can't help believing Leonora.'

"'But did you not ask Cecilia about it?' said I.

"'No, madam,' replied Louisa, 'for Leonora forbade me.'

"I guessed her reason. 'Well,' said I, 'give me the box, and I will carry your shell in it to Cecilia.'

"'Then, madam,' said she, 'if I must give it her, pray do take the Flora, and return it to her first, that she may not think it is for that I do it.'"

"O, generous Leonora!" exclaimed Cecilia. "But indeed, Louisa, I cannot take your shell."

"Then, dear Cecilia, accept of mine instead of it; you cannot refuse it—I only follow your example. As for the bracelet," added Leonora, taking Cecilia's hand, "I assure you I don't wish for it, and you do, and you deserve it."

"No," said Cecilia, "indeed I do not deserve it; next to you, surely, Louisa deserves it best."

"Louisa! O yes, Louisa," exclaimed every body with one voice.

"Yes," said Mrs. Villars, "and let Cecilia carry the bracelet to her; she deserves that reward. For one fault I cannot forget merits, Cecilia; nor, I am sure, will your companions."

"Then, surely, not your best friend," said Leonora, kissing her.

Every body present was moved—they looked up to Leonora with respectful and affectionate admiration.

"O, Leonora, how I love you! And how I wish to be like you!" exclaimed Cecilia. "To be as good, as generous!"

"Rather wish, Cecilia," interrupted Mrs. Villars, "to be as just; to be as strictly honourable, and as invariably consistent.

"Remember that many of our sex are capable of great efforts, of making what they call great sacrifices to virtue or to friendship; but few treat their friends with habitual gentleness, or uniformly conduct themselves with prudence and good sense."

LAZY LAWRENCE.

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IN the pleasant valley of Ashton, there lived an elderly woman of the name of Preston; she had a small, neat cottage, and there was not a weed to be seen in her garden. It was upon her garden that she chiefly depended for support; it consisted of strawberry-beds, and one small border for flowers. The pinks and roses she tied up in nice nosegays, and sent either to Clifton or Bristol to be sold; as to her strawberries, she did not send them to market, because it was the custom for numbers of people to come from Clifton, in the summer time, to eat strawberries and cream, at the gardens in Ashton.

Now the widow Preston was so obliging, active, and good-humored, that every one who came to see her was pleased. She lived happily in this manner for several years; but, alas! One autumn she fell sick, and during her illness every thing went wrong: her garden was neglected, her cow died, and all the money which she had saved was spent in paying for medicines. The winter passed away, while she was so weak that she could earn but little by her work; and when the summer came, her rent was called for, and the rent was not ready in her little purse, as usual. She begged a few months' delay, and they were granted to her; but at the end of that time there was no resource but to sell her horse, Lightfoot.

Now Lightfoot, though perhaps he had seen has best days, was a very great favourite: in his youth he had always carried the dame to market behind her husband; and it was now her little son Jem's turn to ride him. It was Jem's business to feed Lightfoot, and to take care of him; a charge which he never neglected; for, besides being a very good-natured, he was a very industrious boy.

"It will go near to break my Jem's heart," said Dame Preston to herself, as she sat one evening beside the fire stirring the embers, and considering how she had best open the matter to her son, who stood opposite to her, eating a dry crust of bread, very heartily, for supper.

"Jem," said the old woman, "what, art hungry?"

"That I am, brave and hungry!"

"Aye! No wonder, you've been brave hard at work—eh!"

"Brave hard! I wish it was not so dark, mother, that you might just step out and see the great bed I've dug: I know you'd say it was no bad day's work—and oh, mother! I've good news; farmer Truck will give us the giant strawberries, and I am to go for 'em to-morrow morning; and I'll be back afore breakfast."

"God bless the boy, how he talks! Four miles there, and four miles back again, afore breakfast."

"Aye, upon Lightfoot, you know, mother, very easily; mayn't I?"

"Aye, child."

"Why do you sigh, mother?"

"Finish thy supper, child."

"I've done!" cried Jem, swallowing the last mouthful hastily, as if he thought he had been too long at supper. "And now for the great needle; I must see and mend Lightfoot's bridle afore I go to bed."

To work he set, by the light of the fire, and the dame, having once more stirred it, began again with:

"Jem, dear, does he go lame at all, now?"

"What, Lightfoot? O la, no, not he! Never was so well of his lameness in all his life—he's grown quite young again, I think; and then he's so fat, he can hardly wag."

"God bless him—that's right; we must see, Jem, and keep him fat."

"For what, mother?"

"For Monday fortnight, at the fair; he's to be—sold!"

"Lightfoot!" cried Jem, and let the bridle fall from his hand. "And will mother sell Lightfoot?"

"'Will,' no; but I 'must,' Jem."

"'Must;' who says you 'must?' Why 'must' you, mother?"

"I must, I say, child!—Why, must not I pay my debts honestly—and must not I pay my rent? And was not it called for long and long ago? And have not I had time? And did not I promise to pay it for certain Monday fortnight? And am not I two guineas short?—And where am I to get two guineas! So what signifies talking, child?" said the widow, leaning her head upon her arm. "Lightfoot must go."

Jem was silent for a few minutes—"Two guineas; that's a great, great deal—if I worked, and worked, and worked ever so hard, I could noways earn two guineas afore Monday fortnight; could I, mother?"

"Lord help thee, no; not an' work thyself to death."

"But I could earn something, though, I say," cried Jem, proudly; "and I will earn something—if it be ever so little, it will be something; and I shall do my very best; so I will."

"That I am sure of, my child," said his mother, drawing him towards her and kissing him. "You are always a good, industrious lad, that I will say, afore your face or behind your back; but it won't do now—Lightfoot must go."

Jem turned away, struggling to hide his tears, and went to bed, without saying a word more. But he knew that crying would do no good, so he presently wiped his eyes, and lay awake, considering what he could possibly do to save the horse. "If I get ever so little," he still said to himself, "it will be something; and who knows but landlord might then wait a bit longer? And we might make it all up in time; for a penny a day might come to two guineas, in time."

But how to get the first penny, was the question. Then he recollected, that one day, when he had been sent to Clifton, to sell some flowers, he had seen an old woman, with a board beside her covered with various sparkling stones, which people stopped to look at as they passed, and he remembered that some people bought the stones; one paid two-pence, another three-pence, and another six-pence for them; and Jem heard her say that she got them amongst the neighbouring rocks; so he thought that if he tried, he might find some too, and sell them as she had done.

Early in the morning he awaked, full of this scheme, jumped up, dressed himself, and having given one look at poor Lightfoot in his stable, set off to Clifton, in search of the old woman, to inquire where she found her sparkling stones. But it was too early in the morning—the old woman was not at her seat; so he turned back again, disappointed.

He did not waste his time waiting for her, but saddled and bridled Lightfoot, and went to farmer Truck's for the giant strawberries. A great part of the morning was spent in putting them into the ground.

And as soon as that was finished, he set out again in quest of the old woman, whom to his great joy, he spied sitting at her corner of the street, with her board before her. But this old woman was deaf and cross; and when at last Jem made her hear his questions, he could get no answer from her but that she found the fossils where he would never find any more.

"But can't I look where you looked?"

"Look away, nobody hinders you," replied the old woman; and these were the only words she would say.

Jem was not, however, a boy to be easily discouraged; he went to the rocks and walked slowly along, looking at all the stones as he passed. Presently he came to a place where a number of men were at work loosening some large rocks, and one amongst the workmen was stooping down, looking for something very eagerly; Jem ran up, and asked if he could help him.

"Yes," said the man, "you can. I've just dropped amongst this heap of rubbish a fine piece of crystal that I got to-day."

"What kind of a looking thing is it?" said Jem.

"White, and like glass," said the man, and went on working, whilst Jem looked very carefully over the heap of rubbish for a great while.

"Come," said the man, "it's gone for ever; don't trouble yourself any more, my boy."

"It's no trouble; I'll look a little longer; we will not give it up so soon," said Jem; and after he had looked a little longer, he found the piece of crystal.

"Thank'e," said the man; "you are a fine little industrious fellow."

Jem, encouraged by the tone of voice in which the man spoke this, ventured to ask him the same questions which he had asked the old woman.

"One good turn deserves another," said the man. "We are going to dinner just now, and shall leave off work; wait for me here, and I'll make it worth your while."

Jem waited; and as he was very attentively observing how the workmen went on with their work, he heard somebody near him give a great yawn, and turning round, he saw stretched upon the grass, beside the river, a boy about his own age, whom he knew very well went in the village of Ashton by the name of Lazy Lawrence; a name which he most justly deserved, for he never did any thing from morning to night; he neither worked nor played, but sauntered or lounged about, restless and yawning. His father was an alehouse-keeper, and, being generally drunk, could take no care of his son; so that Lazy Lawrence grew every day worse and worse. However, some of the neighbours said that he was a good-natured, poor fellow enough, and would never do any one harm but himself; whilst others, who were wiser, often shook their heads, and told him that idleness was the root of all evil.

"What, Lawrence!" cried Jem to him, when he saw him lying upon the grass. "What! Are you asleep?"

"Not quite."

"Are you awake?"

"Not quite."

"What are you doing there?"

"Nothing."

"What are you thinking of?"

"Nothing."

"What makes you lie there?"

"I don't know—because I can't find anybody to play with me to-day; will you come and play?"

"No, I can't; I'm busy."

"Busy," cried Lawrence, stretching himself, "you are always busy—I would not be you for the world, to have so much to do, always."

"And I," said Jem, laughing, "would not be you for the world, to have nothing to do."

So they parted, for the workman just then called Jem to follow him. He took him home to his own house, and showed him a parcel of fossils, which he had gathered he said on purpose to sell, but had never had time yet to sort them. He set about it, however, now, and having picked out those which he judged to be the best, he put them into a small basket, and gave them to Jem to sell, upon condition that he should bring him half of what he got. Jem, pleased to be employed, was ready to agree to what the man proposed, provided his mother had no objection to it. When he went home to dinner, he told his mother his scheme, and she smiled and said he might do as he pleased, for she was not afraid of his being from home.

"You are not an idle boy," said she, "so there is little danger of your getting into any mischief."

Accordingly, Jem, that evening, took his stand, with his little basket, upon the bank of the river, just at the place where people land from a ferryboat, and where the walk turns to the wells, where numbers of people perpetually pass to drink the waters. He chose his place well, and waited almost all the evening, offering his fossils with great assiduity to every passenger; but not one person bought any.

"Holla!" cried some sailors, who had just rowed a boat to land. "Bear a hand here, will you, my little fellow! And carry these parcels for us into yonder house."

Jean ran down immediately for the parcels, and did what he was asked to do so quickly, and with so much good will, that the master of the boat took notice of him, and when he was going away stopped to ask him what he had got in his little basket. And when he saw that they were fossils, he immediately told Jem to follow him, for he was going to carry some shells he had brought from abroad to a lady in the neighbourhood, who was making a grotto.

"She will very likely buy your stones into the bargain. Come along, my lad; we can but try."

The lady lived but a very little way off, so that they were soon at her house. She was alone in her parlour, and was sorting a bundle of feathers of different colours. They lay on a sheet of pasteboard upon a window-seat, and it happened that as the sailor was bustling round the table to show off his shells, he knocked down the sheet of pasteboard, and scattered all the feathers. The lady looked very sorry, which Jem observing, he took the opportunity, whilst she was busy looking over the sailor's bag of shells, to gather together all the feathers, and sort them according to their different colours, as he had seen thorn sorted when he came first into the room.

"Where is the little boy you brought with you? I thought I saw him here just now."

"And here I am, ma'am," cried Jem, creeping from under the table with some few remaining feathers which he had picked from the carpet. "I thought," added he, pointing to the others, "I had better be doing something than standing idle, ma'am."

She smiled, and pleased with his activity and simplicity, began to ask him several questions; such as who he was, where he lived, and what employment he had, and how much a day he earned by gathering fossils.

"This is the first day I ever tried," said Jem. "I never sold any yet, and, if you don't buy 'em new, ma'am, I'm afraid nobody else will, for I have asked everybody else."

"Come then," said the lady, laughing, "if that is the case, I think I had better buy them all."

So emptying all the fossils out of his basket, she put half-a-crown into it. Jew's eyes sparkled with joy.

"Oh! Thank you, ma'am," said he; "I will be sure and bring you as many more to-morrow."

"Yes, but I don't promise you," said she, "to give half-a-crown to-morrow."

"But perhaps, though you don't promise it, you will."

"No," said the lady, "do not deceive yourself; I assure you that I will not. That, instead of encouraging you to be industrious, would teach you to be idle."

Jem did not quite understand what she meant by this, but answered, "I'm sure I don't wish to be idle. If you knew all, you'd know I did not."

"How do you mean, if I knew all?"

"Why, I mean, if you knew about Lightfoot."

"Who is Lightfoot?"

"Why, mammy's horse," added Jem, looking out of the window. "I must make haste home and feed him, afore it get dark; he'll wonder what's gone with me."

"Let him wonder a few minutes longer," said the lady, "and tell me the rest of your story."

"I've no story, ma'am, to tell, but as how mammy says he must go to the fair, Monday fortnight, to be sold, if she can't get the two guineas for her rent; and I should be main sorry to part with him, for I love him, and he loves me; so I'll work for him, I will, all I can. To be sure, as mammy says, I have no chance, such a little fellow as I am, of earning two guineas afore Monday fortnight."

"But are you in earnest willing to work?" said the lady. "You know there is a great deal of difference between picking up a few stones, and working steadily every day and all day long."

"But," said Jem, "I would work every day and all day long."

"Then," said the lady, "I will give you work. Come here to-morrow morning, and my gardener will set you to weed the shrubberies, and I will pay you six-pence a day. Remember, you must be at the gates by six o'clock."

Jem bowed, thanked her, and went away.

It was late in the evening, and he was impatient to get home to feed Lightfoot, yet he recollected that he had promised the man who had trusted him to sell the fossils, that he would bring him half of what he got for them. So he thought that he had better go to him directly; and away he went, running along by the water-side about a quarter of a mile, till he came to the man's house.

He was just come home from work, and was surprised when Jem showed him the half-crown, saying, "Look what I got for the stones; you are to have half you know."

"No," said the man, when he had heard his story, "I shall not take half of that; it was given to you. I expected but a shilling at the most, and the half of that is but six-pence; and that I'll take. Wife, give the lad two shillings, and take this half-crown."

So the wife opened an old glove, and took out two shillings—and the man, as she opened the glove, put in his fingers and took out a little silver penny. "There, he shall have that into the bargain, for his honesty. Honesty is the best policy. There's a lucky penny for you, that I've kept ever since I can remember."

"Don't you ever go to part with it, do you hear?" cried the woman.

"Let him do what he will with it, wife," said the man.

"But," argued the wife, "another penny would do just as well to buy gingerbread; and that's what it will go for."

"No, that it shall not, I promise you," said Jem.

And so he ran away home, fed Lightfoot, stroked him, went to bed, jumped up at five o'clock in the morning, and went singing to work, as gay as a lark.

Four days he worked "every day and all day long," and the lady, every evening, when she came out to walk in her gardens, looked at his work.

At last she said to her gardener, "This little boy works very hard."

"Never had so good a little boy about the grounds," said the gardener; "he's always at his work, let me come by when I will, and he has got twice as much done as another would do; yes, twice as much, ma'am; for look here—he began at this here rose-bush, and now he's got to where you stand, ma'am; and here is the day's work that t'other boy, and he's three years older too, did to-day—I say measure Jem's fairly, and it's twice as much, I'm sure."

"Well," said the lady to her gardener, "show me how much is a fair good day's work for a boy of his age."

"Come at six o'clock, and go at six? About this much, ma'am," said the gardener, marking off a piece of the border with his spade.

"Then, little boy," said the lady, "so much shall be your task every day; the gardener will mark it off for you; and, when you've done, the rest of the day you may do what you please."

Jem was extremely glad of this; and the next day he had finished his task by four o'clock; so he had all the rest of the evening to himself.

Jem was as fond of play as any little boy could be, and when he was at it, played with all the eagerness and gaiety imaginable; so, as soon as he had finished his task, fed Lightfoot, and put by the six-pence he had earned that day, he ran to the play-ground in the village, where he found a party of boys playing, and among them Lazy Lawrence, who indeed was not playing, but lounging upon a gate with his thumb in his mouth.

The rest were playing at cricket. Jem joined them, and was the merriest and most active amongst them; till at last, when quite out of breath with running, he was obliged to give up to rest himself, and sat down upon the stile, close to the gate on which Lazy Lawrence was swinging.

"And why don't you play, Lawrence?" said he.

"I'm tired," said Lawrence.

"Tired of what?"

"I don't know well what tires me; grandmother says I'm ill, and I must take something—I don't know what ails me."

"Oh, puh! Take a good race, one, two, three, and away, and you'll find yourself as well as ever. Come, run—one, two, three, and away."

"Ah, no, I can't run indeed," said he, hanging back heavily; "you know I can play all day long if I like it, so I don't mind play as you do, who have only one hour for it."

"So much the worse for you. Come now, I'm quite fresh again; will you have one game at ball? Do."

"No, I tell you, I can't; I am tired as if I had been working all day long as hard as a horse."

"Ten times more," said Jem; "for I have been working all day long as hard as a horse, and yet you see I'm not a bit tired; only a little out of breath just now."

"That's very odd," said Lawrence, and yawned, for want of some better answer; then taking out a handful of half-pence—"See what I got from father to-day, because I asked him just at the right time, when he had drunk a glass or two; then I can get anything I want of him. See, a penny, two-pence, three-pence, four-pence—there's eight-pence in all; would you not be happy if you had eight-pence?"

"Why, I don't know," said Jem, laughing, "for you don't seem happy, and you have eight-pence."

"That does not signify, though I'm sure you only say that because you envy me—you don't know what it is to have eight-pence—you never had more than two-pence and three-pence at a time in all your life."

Jem smiled; "Oh, as to that," said he, "you are mistaken, for I have at this very time more than two-pence, three-pence, or eight-pence either I have—let me see: stones, two shillings; then five days' work, that's five six-pences, that's two shillings and six-pence, in all makes four shillings and six-pence, and my silver penny is four and seven-pence."

"Four and seven-pence—you have not," said Lawrence, roused so as absolutely to stand upright; "four and seven-pence! have you? Show it me, and then I'll believe you."

"Follow me, then," cried Jem, "and I'll soon make you believe me; come."

"Is it far?" said Lawrence, following, half running, half hobbling, till he came to the stable, where Jem showed him his treasure.

"And how did you come by it? Honestly?"

"Honestly; to be sure I did; I earned it all.

"Lord bless me, earned it! Well, I've a great mind to work; but then it is such hot weather; besides, grandmother says I'm not strong enough yet for hard work; and besides, I know how to coax daddy out of money when I want it, so I need not work. But four and seven-pence—let's see, what will you do with it all?"

"That's a secret," said Jem, looking great.

"I can guess; I know what I'd do with it if it was mine. First, I'd buy my pockets full of gingerbread; then I'd buy never so many apples and nuts; don't you love nuts? I'd buy nuts enough to last me from this time to Christmas, and I'd make little Newton crack 'em for me, for that's the worst of nuts, there's the trouble of cracking 'em."

"Well, you never deserve to have a nut."

"But you'll give me some of yours?" said Lawrence, in a fawning tone, for he thought it easier to coax than to work. "You'll give me some of your good things, won't you?"

"I shall not have any of these good things."

"Then what will you do with all your money?"

"Oh, I know very well what to do with it; but, as I told you, that's a secret, and I shan't tell it anybody. Come now, let's go back and play—their game's up, I dare say."

Lawrence went back with him, full of curiosity, and out of humour with himself and his eight-pence. "If I had four and seven-pence," said he to himself, "I certainly should be happy!"

The next day, as usual, Jem jumped up before six o'clock and went to his work, whilst Lazy Lawrence sauntered about without knowing what to do with himself. In the course of two days, he laid out six-pence of his money in apples and gingerbread, and as long as these lasted, he found himself well received by his companions; but at length the third day he spent his last half-penny, and when it was gone, unfortunately some nuts tempted him very much, but he had no money to pay for them; so he ran home to coax his father, as he called it.

When he got home, he heard his father talking very loud, and at first he thought he was drunk; but when he opened the kitchen door, he saw he was not drunk, but angry.

"You lazy dog!" cried he, turning suddenly upon Lawrence, and gave him such a violent box on the ear as made the light flash from his eyes. "You lazy dog! See what you have done for me,—look!—Look, look, I say!" Lawrence looked as soon as he came to the use of his senses, and with fear, amazement and remorse, beheld at least a dozen bottles burst, and the fine Worcestershire cider streaming over the floor. "Now did not I order you three days ago to carry these bottles to the cellar; and did not I charge you to wire the corks? Answer me, you lazy rascal; did not I?"

"Yes," said Lawrence, scratching his head.

"And why was it not done? I ask you," cried his father with renewed anger, as another bottle burst at the moment. "What do you stand there for, you lazy brat? Why don't you move? I say—No, no," catching hold of him, "I believe you can't move; but I'll make you," and he shook him, till Lawrence was so giddy, he could not stand. "What had you to think of? What had you to do all day long, that you could not carry my cider, my Worcestershire cider, to the cellar, when I bade you? But go, you'll never be good for anything, you are such a lazy rascal; get out of my sight!" So saying, he pushed him out of the house-door, and Lawrence sneaked off, seeing that this was no time to make his petition for half-pence.

The next day he saw the nuts again, and wishing for them more than ever, went home in hopes that his father, as he said to himself, would be in a better humour. But the cider was still fresh in his recollection, and the moment Lawrence began to whisper the word half-penny in his ear, his father swore with a loud oath,—

"I will not give you a half-penny, no not a farthing, for a month to come; if you want money, go work for it; I've had enough of your laziness—go work!"

At these terrible words, Lawrence burst into tears, and going to the side of a ditch, sat down and cried for an hour. And, when he had cried till he could cry no more, he exerted himself so far as to empty his pockets, to see whether there might not be one half-penny left; and, to his great joy, in the farthest corner of his pocket one half-penny was found.

With this he proceeded to the fruit woman's stall. She was busy weighing out some plums, so he was obliged to wait; and whilst he was waiting, he heard some people near him talking and laughing very loud. The fruit woman's stall was at the gate of an inn-yard; and, peeping through the gate into this yard, Lawrence saw a postillion and stable-boy about his own size, playing at pitch-farthing. He stood by watching them for a few minutes.

"I began with but one half-penny," cried the stable-boy with an oath, "and now I have got two-pence!" added he, jingling the half-pence in his waistcoat pocket.

Lawrence was moved at the sound, and said to himself, "If I begin with one half-penny, I may end like him with having two-pence; and it is easier to play at pitch-farthing than to work."

So he stepped forward, presenting his half-penny, offering to toss up with the stable-boy, who, after looking him full in the face, accepted the proposal, and threw his half-penny into the air—"Head or tail?" cried he.

"Head," replied Lawrence, and it came up head.

He seized the penny, surprised at his own success, and would have gone instantly to have laid it out in nuts, but the stable-boy stopped him and tempted him to throw again. This time he lost; he threw again and won; and so he went on, sometimes losing, but most frequently winning, till half the morning was gone. At last, however, he chanced to win twice running, and finding himself master of three half-pence, said he would play no more.

The stable-boy, grumbling, swore he would have his revenge another time, and Lawrence went and bought the nuts.

"It is a good thing," said he to himself, "to play at pitch-farthing; the next time I want a half-penny, I'll not ask my father for it, nor go to work neither."

Satisfied with this resolution, he sat down to crack his nuts at his leisure, upon the horse-block, in the inn-yard. Here, whilst he ate, he overheard the conversation of the stable-boys and postillions. At first their shocking oaths and loud wranglings frightened and shocked him; for Lawrence, though a lazy, had not yet learned to be a wicked boy.

But, by degrees, he was accustomed to their swearing and quarrelling, and took a delight and interest in their disputes and battles. As this was an amusement which he could enjoy without any sort of exertion on his part, he soon grew so fond of it, that every day he returned to the stable-yard, and the horse-block became his constant seat. Here he found some relief from the insupportable fatigue of doing nothing, and here hour after hour, with his elbows on his knees, and his head on his hands, he sat, the spectator of wickedness. Gaming, cheating, and lying soon became familiar to him; and to complete his ruin, he formed a sudden and close intimacy with the stable-boy, with whom he at first began to game—a very bad boy. The consequences of this intimacy we shall presently see.

But it is now time to inquire what little Jem has been doing all this while.

One day after he had finished his task, the gardener asked him to stay a little while, to help him to carry some geranium pots into the hall. Jem, always active and obliging, readily stayed from play, and was carrying in a heavy flower-pot, when his mistress crossed the hall.

"What a terrible litter," said she, "you are making here!—Why don't you wipe your shoes upon the mat?"

Jem turned round to look for the mat, but he saw none.

"O," said the lady, recollecting herself, "I can't blame you, for there is no mat."

"No, ma'am," said the gardener, "nor I don't know when, if ever, the man will bring home those mats you bespoke, ma'am."

"I am very sorry to hear that," said the lady; "I wish we could find somebody who would do them, if he can't—I should not care what sort of mats they were, so that one could wipe one's feet on them."

Jem, as he was sweeping away the litter, when he heard these last words, said to himself, "Perhaps I could make a mat."

And all the way home, as he trudged along whistling, he was thinking over a scheme for making mats, which, however bold it may appear, he did not despair of executing with patience and industry. Many were the difficulties which his "prophetic eye" foresaw; but he felt within himself that spirit which spurs men on to great enterprises, and makes them "trample on impossibilities."

He recollected in the first place, that he had seen Lazy Lawrence, whilst he lounged upon the gate, twist a bit of heath into different shapes, and he thought, that if he could find some way of plaiting heath firmly together, it would make a very pretty green, soft mat, which would do very well for one to wipe one's shoes on. About a mile from his mother's house, on the common winch Jem rode over when he went to farmer Truck's for the giant strawberries, he remembered to have seen a great quantity of this heath; and, as it was now only six o'clock in the evening, he knew that he should have time to feed Lightfoot, stroke him, go to the common, return, and make one trial of his skill before he went to bed.

Lightfoot carried him swiftly to the common, and there Jem gathered as much of the heath as he thought he should want. But what toil! What time! What pains did it cost him, before he could make any thing like a mat! Twenty times he was ready to throw aside the heath, and give up his project, from impatience of repeated disappointments. But still he persevered. Nothing truly great can be accomplished without toil and time. Two hours he worked before he went to bed.

All his play hours the next day he spent at his mat; which in all, made five hours of fruitless attempts. The sixth, however, repaid him for the labours of the other five; he conquered his grand difficulty of fastening the heath substantially together; and at length completely finished a mat, which far surpassed his most sanguine expectations. He was extremely happy—sung—danced round it—whistled—looked at it again and again, and could hardly leave off looking at it when it was time to go to bed. He laid it by his bed-side, that he might see it the moment he awoke in the morning.

And now came the grand pleasure of carrying it to his mistress. She looked full as much surprised as he expected, when she saw it, and when she heard who made it. After having duly admired it, she asked him how much he expected for his mat.

"Expect!—Nothing, ma'am," said Jem. "I meant to give it you if you'd have it; I did not mean to sell it. I made it at my play hours, and I was very happy making it; and I'm very glad too that you like it; and if you please to keep it, Ma'am—that's all."

"But that's not all," said the lady. "Spend your time no more in weeding my garden; you can employ yourself much better; you shall have the reward of your ingenuity as well as of your industry. Make as many more such mats as you can, and I will take care and dispose of them for you."

"Thank'e, ma'am," said Jem, making his best bow, for he thought by the lady's looks that she meant to do him a favour, though he repeated to himself, "Dispose of them! What does that mean?"

The next day he went to work to make more mats, and he soon learned to make them so well and quickly, that he was surprised at his own success. In every one he made, he found less difficulty, so that, instead of making two, he could soon make four, in a day. In a fortnight, he made eighteen. It was Saturday night when he finished, and he carried, at three journeys, his eighteen mats to his mistress's house, piled them all up in the hall, and stood with his hat off, with a look of proud humility, beside the pile, waiting for his mistress's appearance. Presently a folding door, at one end of the hall, opened, and he saw his mistress, with a great many gentlemen and ladies, rising from several tables.

"O! There is my little boy and his mats," cried the lady.

And, followed by all the rest of the company, she came into the hall.

Jem modestly retired whilst they looked at his mats; but in a minute or two his mistress beckoned to him, and when he came into the middle of the circle, he saw that his pile of mats had disappeared.

"Well," said the lady, smiling, "what do you see that makes you look so surprised?"

"That all my mats are gone," said Jem; "but you are very welcome."

"Are we!" said the lady. "Well, take up your hat and go home then, for you see it is getting late, and you know Lightfoot will wonder what's become of you."

Jem turned round to take up his hat, which he had left on the floor.

But how his countenance changed! The hat was heavy with shillings. Every one who had taken a mat had put in two shillings; so that for the eighteen mats, he had got thirty-six shillings.

"Thirty-six shillings!" said the lady. "Five and seven-pence I think you told me you had earned already—how much does that make? I must add, I believe, one other six-pence to make out your two guineas."

"Two guineas!" exclaimed Jem, now quite conquering his bashfulness, for at the moment he forgot where he was, and saw nobody that was by.

"Two guineas!" cried he, clapping his hands together—"O Lightfoot! O mother!"

Then recollecting himself; he saw his mistress, whom he now looked up to quite as a friend.

"Will you thank them all," said he, scarcely daring to glance his eye round upon the company, "will you thank 'em? For you know I don't know how to thank 'em rightly."

Every body thought, however, that they had been thanked rightly.

"Now we won't keep you any longer—only," said his mistress, "I have one thing to ask you, that I may be by when you show your treasure to your mother."

"Come, then," said Jem, "come with me now."

"Not now," said the lady laughing, "but I will come to Ashton to-morrow evening; perhaps your mother can find me a few strawberries."

"That she will," said Jem; "I'll search the garden myself."

He now went home, it, a great restraint to wait till to-morrow evening before he told his mother.

To console himself, he flew to the stable. "Lightfoot, you're not to be sold to-morrow! Poor fellow!" said he, patting him, and then could not refrain from counting out his money Whilst he was intent upon this, Jem was startled by a noise at the door; somebody was trying to pull up the latch. It opened, and there came in Lazy Lawrence, with a boy in a red jacket, who had a cock under his arm. They started when they got into the middle of the stable, and when they saw Jem, who had been at first hidden behind the horse.

"We—we—we—came—" stammered Lazy Lawrence—"I mean, I came to—to—to—"