Kitabı oku: «Home Scenes and Home Influence; a series of tales and sketches», sayfa 7

"Oh, we'll do that, of course," replied Mary, getting up and leaving the room.

It was nearly eleven o'clock before Mary thought of helping Ellen any, and then two or three young ladies came in to pay a visit of condolence, and prevented her. Tears were shed at first; and then gradually a more cheerful tone of feeling succeeded, and so much interested were the young ladies in each other's company, that the moments passed rapidly away, and advanced the time near on to the dinner hour. It was full three o'clock before Mary and Jane sat themselves down to help Ellen. The afternoon seemed almost to fly away, and when it was nightfall, the dress was not half finished.

"Will it be possible to get it done to-night?" asked Mrs. Condy.

"It will be hard work, madam," said Ellen, whose heart was with her sister.

"Oh, it can be finished," said Mary, "if we all work hard for two or three hours. The fact is, it must be done. I wouldn't miss having it for the world."

With a sigh, Ellen turned again to her work; though feeble nature was wellnigh sinking under the task forced upon her. It was past eleven o'clock when the dress was finished, and Ellen prepared to go home to her sister.

"But you are not going home to-night?" said Mr. Condy, who was now present.

"O yes, sir. I haven't seen sister since morning, and she's very ill."

"What is the matter with your sister?" asked Mr. Condy, in a kind tone.

"I'm afraid she's got the consump—" It vas the first time Ellen had attempted to utter the word, and the sound, even though the whole of it remained unspoken, broke down her feelings, and she burst into tears.

Instinctively, Mr. Condy reached for his hat and cane, and as he saw Ellen recover, by a strong effort, her self-possession, he said—

"It is too late for you to go home alone, Ellen, and as we cannot ask you, under the circumstances, to stay all night, I will go with you."

Ellen looked her gratitude, for she was really afraid to go into the street alone at that late hour. As they walked along, Mr. Condy, by many questions, ascertained that Ellen had been almost compelled to work day and night to make up mourning garments for his family, and to absent herself from her sick sister, while she needed her most careful attention. Arrived at her humble dwelling, his benevolent feelings prompted him to ascertain truly the condition of Margaret, for his heart misgave him that her end was very nigh.

On entering the chamber, they found Mrs. Ryland, the neighbour who lived below, supporting Margaret in the bed, who was gasping for breath as if every moment in fear of suffocation. Ellen sprung forward with a sudden exclamation, and, taking Mrs. Ryland's place, let the head of her sister fall gently upon her bosom. Mr. Condy looked on for a moment, and then hastily retired. As soon as he reached home, he despatched a servant for the family physician, with a special request to have him visit Ellen's sister immediately. He then went into his wife's chamber, where the daughters, with their mother, were engaged in looking over their new morning apparel.

"I'm afraid," said he, "that you have unintentionally been guilty of a great wrong."

"How?" asked Mrs. Condy, looking up with sudden surprise.

"In keeping Ellen here so late from her sister, who is, I fear, at this moment dying."

"Is it possible!" exclaimed the mother and daughters with looks of alarm.

"It is, I fear, too true. But now, all that can be done is to try and make some return. I want you, Mary, and your mother, to put on your bonnets and shawls and go with me. Something may yet be done for poor Margaret. I have already sent for the doctor."

On the instant Mrs. Condy and Mary prepared themselves, and the former put into a small basket some sugar and a bottle of wine, and handed it to her husband, who accompanied them, at that late hour, to the dwelling of the two sisters. On entering the chamber, they found no one present but Ellen and Margaret. The latter still reclined with her head on her sister's bosom, and seemed to have fallen into a gentle slumber, so quiet did she lay. Ellen looked up on the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Condy, with Mary; and they saw that her eyes were filled with tears, and that two large drops stood upon her cheeks. She made a motion for them to be seated, but did not rise from her place on the bed, nor stir by the least movement of her body the still sleeper who leaned upon her breast. For nearly fifteen minutes, the most profound silence reigned throughout the chamber. The visitors understood the whole scene, and almost held their breaths, lest even the respiration, that to them seemed audible, should disturb the repose of the invalid. At the end of this time the physician entered, and broke the oppressive stillness. But neither his voice nor his step, nor the answers and explanations which necessarily took place, restored Margaret to apparent consciousness. After feeling her pulse for some time, he said—

"It will not be necessary to disturb her while she sleeps; but if she becomes restless, a little wine may be given. In the morning I will see her early," and he made a movement to go.

"Doctor," said Ellen, looking him eagerly in the face, "tell me truly—is she not dying?"

For a moment the physician looked upon the earnest, tearful girl, and read in her countenance that hope and fear held there a painful struggle.

"While there is life, there is hope," he replied briefly.

"Tell me the truth, doctor, I can bear it," she urged appealingly. "If my sister is going to die, I wish to know it."

"I have seen many recover who appeared nearer to death than she is," he replied, evasively. "As I have just said, where there is life, there is hope."

Ellen turned from him, evidently disappointed at the answer, and the doctor went down-stairs, accompanied by Mr. Condy. The two remained some minutes in conversation below, and when the latter returned he found his wife and daughter standing by the bedside, and Margaret exhibiting many signs of restlessness. She kept rolling her head upon the pillow, and throwing her hands about uneasily. In a few minutes she began to moan and mutter incoherently. After a little while her eyes flew suddenly open, and she pronounced the name of Ellen quickly.

"I am here, Margaret," replied the sister, bending over her.

"Oh, Ellen, why did you stay away so long?" she said, looking up into her face half reproachfully, and seeming not to observe the presence of others. "I was so lonesome all day; and then at night I waited and waited, and you didn't come home! You won't go away any more—will you, Ellen?"

"No—no, sister, I won't leave you again," said Ellen, soothingly, her tears starting afresh.

The words of Margaret smote upon the heart of Mary, whose great eagerness to get the mourning dress done, so that she could go out on Sunday, had been the cause of Ellen's long detention from her sick sister. She hastily turned away from the bed, and seated herself by the window, As she sat there, the image of her baby-brother came up vividly before her mind, and with it the feeling of desolation which the loss of a dear one always occasions. And with this painful emotion of grief, there arose in her mind a distinct consciousness that, since her thoughts had become interested in the getting and making up of her mourning dress, she had felt but little of the keen sorrow that had at first overwhelmed her, and that now came back upon her mind like a flood. As she sat thus in silent communion with herself, she was enabled to perceive that, in her own mind, there had been much less of a desire to commemorate the death of her brother, in putting on mourning, than to appear before others to be deeply affected with grief. She saw that the black garments were not to remind herself of the dear departed one, but to show to others that the babe was still remembered and still mourned. In her present state of keen perception of interior and true motives, she felt deeply humbled, and inwardly resolved that, on the morrow, she would not go out for the too vain purpose of displaying her mourning apparel. Just as this resolution became fixed in her mind, a sudden movement at the bedside arrested her attention, and she again joined the group there.

Her heart throbbed with a sudden and quicker pulsation, as her eye fell upon the face of Margaret. A great change had passed upon it; death had placed his sign there, and no eye could misunderstand its import. Rapidly now did the work of dissolution go on, and just as the day dawned, Margaret sank quietly away into that deep sleep that knows no earthly waking.

After rendering all such offices as were required, Mrs. Condy and Mary went home, the latter promising Ellen that she would return and remain with her through the day. At the breakfast table, Mr. Condy so directed the conversation as to give the solemn event they had been called to witness its true impression upon the minds of his family. Before the meal closed, it was resolved that Jane and Mary should go to the humble dwelling of Ellen, and remain with her through the day; and that after the funeral, the expense of which Mr. Condy said he would bear, Ellen should be offered a permanent home.

The funeral took place on Monday, and was attended by Mr. Condy's family. On the next day Mrs. Condy called on Ellen, and invited her to come home with her, and to remain there. The offer was thankfully accepted.

During the day, and while Ellen, assisted by Jane and Mary, was at work on black dresses for the younger children, Mr. and Mrs. Condy came into the room: the latter had a piece of bombazine in her hand.

"Here is a dress for you, Ellen," she said, handing her the piece of bombazine.

Ellen looked up with a sudden expression of surprise; her face flushed an instant, and then grew pale.

"You will want a black dress, Ellen," resumed Mrs. Condy, "and I have bought you one."

"I do not wish to put on black," said she, with a slightly embarrassed look and an effort to smile, while her voice trembled and was hardly audible.

"And why not, Ellen?" urged Mrs. Condy.

"I never liked black," she replied evasively. "And, anyhow, it would do no good," she added somewhat mournfully, as if the former reason struck her on the instant as being an insufficient one.

"No, child, it wouldn't do any good," said Mr. Condy, tenderly and with emotion. "And if you don't care about having it, don't take it."

Mrs. Condy laid the proffered dress aside, and Ellen again bent silently over her work. The hearts of all present were touched by her simple and true remark, "that it would do no good," and each one respected her the more, that she shunned all exterior manifestation of the real sorrow that they knew oppressed her spirits. And never did they array themselves in their sombre weeds, that the thought of Ellen's unobtrusive grief did not come up and chide them.

IF THAT WERE MY CHILD!

"AH, good evening, Mr. Pelby! Good evening, Mr. Manly! I am glad to see you! Mrs. Little and I were just saying that we wished some friends would step in."

"Well, how do you do this evening, Mrs. Little?" said Mr. Pelby, after they were all seated. "You look remarkably well. And how is your little family?"

"We are all bright and hearty," Mrs. Little replied, smiling. "Little Tommy has just gone off to bed. If you had come in a few minutes sooner, you would have seen the dear little fellow. He's as lively and playful as a cricket."

"How old is he now?" asked Mr. Manly.

"He will be two years and six months old the twenty-third of next month."

"Just the age of my Edward. How much I should like to see him!"

"I don't think he has gone to sleep yet," said the fond mother of an only child, rising and going off to her chamber.

"You bachelors don't sympathize much with us fathers of families," said Mr. Little, laughing, to Mr. Pelby.

"How should we?"

"True enough! But then you can envy us; and no doubt do."

"It's well enough for you to think so, Little. But, after all, I expect we are the better off."

"Don't flatter yourself in any such way, Mr. Pelby. I've been"—

"Here's the darling!" exclaimed Mrs. Little, bounding gayly in the room at the moment, with Tommy, who was laughing and tossing his arms about in delight at being taken up from his bed, into which he had gone reluctantly.

"Come to pa, Tommy," said Mr. Little, reaching out his hands. "Now ain't that a fine little fellow?" he continued, looking from face to face of his two friends, and showing off Tommy to the best possible advantage that his night-gown would permit. And he was a sweet child; with rosy cheeks, bright blue eyes, and clustering golden ringlets.

"Indeed he is a lovely child," Mr. Manly said earnestly.

"A very fine child," Mr. Pelby remarked, mechanically.

"We'll match him with the town!" broke in Mrs. Little, unable to keep down the upswelling, delighted affection of her heart.

By this time, Tommy's bewildered senses were restored, and he began to look about him with lively interest. His keen eyes soon detected Mr. Pelby's bright gold chain and swivel, and well knowing that it betokened a watch, he slid quickly down from his father's lap, and stood beside the knee of the nice bachelor visitor.

"He's not afraid of strangers," said Mrs. Little, her eyes sparkling with pleasure, as they followed every movement of her child.

"Tee watch," said Tommy.

"It'll bite," said Mr. Pelby.

"Tee watch!" reiterated the child, grasping the chain.

With not the best grace in the world, Mr. Pelby drew out his beautiful gold lever, and submitted it to the rude grasp, as he thought, of Tommy.

"Oh, ma! ma! Tee watch! tee watch!" cried the child, almost wild with delight—at the same time advancing towards her as far as the chain would permit, and then tugging at it as hard as he could, to the no small discomfort of the visitor, who, seeing no movement of relief on the part of either parent, was forced to slip the chain over his head, and trust Tommy to carry his favourite time-keeper to his mother.

"Tommy'll be a watch-maker, I expect. Nothing pleases him so much as a watch," remarked the father.

Mr. Pelby did not reply. He dared not, for he felt that, were he to trust himself to speak, he should betray feelings that politeness required him to conceal.

"There!" suddenly exclaimed the mother, catching eagerly at the watch, which Tommy had dropped, and recovering it just in time to save it from injury.

"Gim me! gim me! gim me!" cried Tommy, seizing her hands, and endeavouring to get possession again of the valuable timepiece, which had escaped so narrowly.

"There, now," said Mrs. Little, yielding to the child's eager importunity, and permitting him again to take possession of the watch. "But you must hold it tighter."

Mr. Pelby was on nettles; but he dared not interfere.

"Open it," said Tommy, endeavouring to loose the hinge of the case with his tiny thumb-nail.

"Oh, no; you mustn't open it, Tommy."

"Open it!" resumed Tommy, in a higher and more positive tone.

"I can't open it," said the mother, pretending to make an earnest effort to loose the case.

"O-pen—it!" screamed the child, in a loud angry tone.

"Here, take it to Mr. Pelby, he will open it for you." And the watch was again intrusted to Tommy's care, who bore it, and, as fortune would have it, safely too, to its owner.

Of course, Mr. Pelby could do no better, and so he displayed the jewels and internal arrangement of his skeleton lever to the curious gaze of the child. At first, Tommy was well pleased to look alone: but soon the ends of his fingers itched to touch, and touch he did, quite promptly; and, of course, Mr. Pelby very naturally drew back the hand that held the watch; and just as naturally did Tommy suddenly extend his and grasp the receding prize. With some difficulty, Mr. Pelby succeeded in disengaging the fingers of the child, and then hastily closing the watch, he slipped it into his pocket.

"There, it's gone!" said he.

"Tee de watch!" replied Tommy.

"It's gone clear off."

"Tee de watch!" said Tommy more emphatically.

"Here, come see mine," said the father.

"No," replied the child, angrily.

Mr. Pelby, to quiet Tommy, now took him upon his lap, and called his attention to a large cameo breast-pin. This pleased him at once, and he amused himself with pulling at it, and sadly rumpling the visitor's snow-white bosom. Next he began to dive into his pockets, revealing pen-knife, tooth-pick, etc. etc. This was worse than to let him have the watch; and so, as a lesser evil, the gold lever was again drawn from its hiding-place. The little fellow was once more wild with delight.

But Pelby was so evidently annoyed, that Mr. Little could not help observing it; and he at length said to his wife—

"Hadn't you better take Tommy up-stairs, my dear? He is too troublesome."

Mr. Pelby had it on his tongue's end to say, "Oh, no, he don't trouble me at all!" But he was afraid—not to tell a falsehood—but that the child would be suffered to remain; so he said nothing.

"Come, Tommy," said Mrs. Little, holding out her hands.

"No!" replied the child emphatically.

"Come."

"No!" still louder and more emphatic.

"Yes, come, dear."

"No, I won't!"

"Yes, but you must!" Mrs. Little said, taking hold of him.

At this, Tommy clung around the neck of Mr. Pelby, struggling and kicking with all his might against the effort of his mother to disengage him; who finally succeeded, and bore him, screaming at the top of his voice, from the room.

"If that were my child," said Mr. Pelby, after they had left the house, "I'd half kill him but what I'd make a better boy of him! I never saw such an ill-behaved, graceless little rascal in my life!"

"Children are children, Mr. Pelby," quietly remarked his auditor, Mr. Manly, who had half a dozen "little responsibilities" himself.

"Hard bargains at the best, I know. But then I have seen good-behaved children; and, if parents would only take proper pains with them, all might be trained to good behaviour and obedience. If I had a child, it would act different, I know, from what that one did this evening."

"Old bachelors' children, you know," Mr. Manly said, with a smile.

"O yes, I know. But silly adages don't excuse neglectful parents," replied Mr. Pelby, a little touched at the allusion.

"That is true, Mr. Pelby. But what I meant you to understand by the remark was, that those who have no children of their own are too often wanting in a due consideration and forbearance towards those of other people. I have quite a house full and I know that I take great pains with them, and that the true management of them costs me much serious consideration; and yet I have known some of mine to act much worse than Tommy Little did this evening."

"Well, all I have to say in the matter, friend Manly, is this:—If I had a child that acted as rudely as that young one did to-night, I would, teach him a lesson that he would not forget for the next twelve months."

"You don't know what you would do, if you had a child, Pelby. An active, restless child requires patience and continued forbearance; and, if it should be your lot to have such a one, I am sure your natural affection and good sense would combine to prevent your playing the unreasonable tyrant over it."

"Perhaps it would. But I am sure I should not think my natural affection and good sense pledged to let my child do as he pleased, and annoy every one that came to the house."

"You were exceedingly annoyed, then, to-night?"

"Annoyed! Why, I could hardly sit in my chair towards the last. And when the young imp came pawing me and climbing over me, I could hardly help tossing him off of my lap upon the floor."

"You did not seem so much worried. I really thought you were pleased with the little fellow."

"Now, that is too bad, Manly! I'd as lief had a monkey screwing and twisting about in my lap. It was as much as I could do to be civil to either his father or mother for suffering their brat to tease me as he did. First, I must be kissed by his bread and butter mouth; and then he made me suffer a kind of martyrdom in fear of my elegant lever. A watch is not the thing for a child to play with, and I am astonished at Little for suffering his young one to annoy a visitor in that way."

"Blame them as much as you please, but don't feel unkindly towards the child," said Manly. "He knows no better. Your watch delighted him, and of course he wanted it, and any attempt to deprive him of it was very naturally resisted. His parents are fond of him—and well they may be—and pet him a great deal; thus he has learned to expect every visitor to notice him, and also expects to notice and make free with every visitor. This is all very natural."

"Natural enough, and so is it to steal; but that don't make it right. Children should be taught, from the first, to be reserved in the presence of strangers, and never to come near them unless invited. If I had one, I'll be bound he wouldn't disgrace me as Little's child did him to-night."

"We'll see, one of these days, perhaps," was Manly's quiet remark; and the friends parted company.

Ten years often make a great difference in a man's condition, habits, and feelings. Ten years passed away, and Mr. Pelby was a husband, and the father of three interesting children,—indulged, of course, and "pretty considerably" spoiled, yet interesting withal, and, in the eyes of their father, not to be compared for beauty, good manners, etc. with any other children inhabiting the same city. William, the oldest boy, had not quite completed his sixth year. Emma, a rosy-cheeked, chubby little thing, when asked her age, could say—

"Four years old last June."

And Henry was just the age that Tommy Little was when he so terribly annoyed Mr. Pelby. Now, as to Henry's accomplishments, they were many and various. He could be a good boy when he felt in a pleasant humour, and could storm, and fret, and pout in a way so well understood by all parents, that it would be a work of supererogation to describe it here. But strange mutation of disposition!—Mr. Pelby could bear these fits of perverseness with a philosophy that would have astonished even himself, could he have for a moment realized his former state of mind. When Henry became ill-tempered from any cause, he had, from loving him, learned that to get into an ill-humour also would be only adding fuel to flame; and so, on such occasions, he sought affectionately to calm and soothe his ruffled feelings. If Henry, or Emma, or William, from any exuberance of happy feelings, were noisy or boisterous, he did not think it right to check them suddenly, because he was a little annoyed. He tried, rather, to feel glad with them—to partake of their joy. In short, Mr. Pelby had grown into a domestic philosopher. A wife and two or three children do wonders sometimes!

Now it so happened about this time, that Mr. and Mrs. Manly and Mr. and Mrs. Little were spending an evening with Mr. and Mrs. Pelby. William and Emma had their suppers prepared for them in the kitchen, and then, as usual, were put to bed; but "dear little Henry" was so interesting to his parents, and they naturally thought must be so interesting to their company, that he was allowed to sit up and come to the tea-table. As Mrs. Pelby had no dining-room, the back parlour was used for this purpose, and so all the progressive arrangements of the tea-table were visible.

"Oh, dinne weddy! dinne weddy!" cried little Henry, sliding down from the lap of Mrs. Little—whose collar he had been rumpling so that it was hardly fit to be seen—as soon as he saw the cloth laid; and, running for a chair, he was soon perched up in it, calling lustily for "meat."

"Oh, no, no, Henry! dinner not ready yet!" said Mrs. Pelby, starting forward, and endeavouring to remove the child from his seat; but Henry screamed and resisted.

"Oh, let him sit, mother!" interfered Mr. Pelby. "The little dear don't understand waiting as we do."

"Yes, but, father, it is time that he had learned. Tea isn't near ready yet; and if he is allowed to sit here, he will pull and haul every thing about," responded Mrs. Pelby.

"Oh, never mind, mother! Give him some meat, and he'll be quiet enough. I never like to see little folks made to wait for grown people; they cannot understand nor appreciate the reason of it."

And so little Henry was permitted to remain at the table, picking first at one thing and then at another, much to the discomfort and mortification of his mother, who could not see in this indulgence any thing very interesting. Mrs. Little was relieved, although her collar was disfigured for the evening past hope.

After a while tea was announced, and the company sat down.

"Me toffee! me toffee!" cried Henry, stretching out his hands impatiently. "Me toffee, ma! me toffee, ma!" as soon as Mrs. Pelby was seated before the tea-tray, and had commenced supplying the cups with cream and sugar.

"Yes—yes—Henry shall have coffee. H-u-s-h—there—be quiet—that's a good boy," she said, soothingly. But—

"Me toffee, ma! me toffee, ma! me toffee, ma!" was continued without a moment's cessation. "Ma! ma! ma! me toffee! me toffee!"

"Yes, yes, yes! you shall have coffee in a moment; only be patient, child!" Mrs. Pelby now said, evidently worried; for Henry was crying at the top of his voice, and impatiently shaking his hands and vibrating his whole body.

But he ceased not a moment until his mother, before any of the company had been served, prepared him a cup of milk and warm water, sweetened. Placing his lips to the edge of the cup, Henry drank the whole of it off before the table was more than half served.

"Me more toffee, ma!"

Mrs. Pelby paused, and looked him in the face with an expression of half despair and half astonishment.

"Me more toffee, ma!" continued Henry.

"Yes, wait a moment, and I'll give you more," she said.

"More toffee, ma!" in a louder voice.

"Yes, in a moment."

"More toffee, ma!" This time louder and more impatiently.

To keep the peace, a second cup of milk and water had to be prepared, and then Mrs. Pelby finished waiting on her company. But it soon appeared that the second cup had not really been wanted, for now that he had it, the child could not swallow more than two or three draughts. His amusement now consisted in playing in his saucer with a spoon, which being perceived by his mother, she said to him—

"There now, Henry, you didn't want that, after all. Come, let me pour your tea back into the cup, and set the cup on the waiter, or you will spill it;" at the same time making a motion to do what she had proposed. But—

"No! no! no!" cried the child, clinging to the saucer, and attempting to remove it out of his mother's reach. This he did so suddenly, that the entire contents were thrown into Mrs. Little's lap.

"Bless me, Mrs. Little!" exclaimed Mrs. Pelby, really distressed; "that is too bad! Come, Henry, you must go away from the table;" at the same time attempting to remove him. But he cried—

"No! no! no!" so loud, that she was constrained to desist.

"There, let him sit; he won't do so any more," said Mr. Pelby. "That was very naughty, Henry. Come, now, if you want your tea, drink it, or let me put it away."

Henry already knew enough of his father to be convinced that when he spoke in a certain low, emphatic tone, he was in earnest; and so he very quietly put his mouth down to his saucer and pretended to drink, though it would have been as strange as pouring water into a full cup without overflowing it, as for him to have let any more go down his throat, without spilling a portion already there out at the top.

Tea was at last over, and Mrs. Little, on rising from the table, had opportunity and leisure to examine her beautiful silk, now worn for the second time. Fortunately, it was of a colour that tea would not injure, although it was by no means pleasant to have a whole front breadth completely saturated. Mrs. Pelby made many apologies, but Mr. Pelby called it a "family accident," and one of a kind that married people were so familiar with, as scarcely to be annoyed by them.

"Come here, Henry," said he. "Just see what you have done! Now go kiss the lady, and say, 'I'm sorry.'"

The little fellow's eye brightened, and going up to Mrs. Little, he pouted out his cherry lips, and, as she kissed him, he said, with a suddenly-assumed demure, penitent look—"I torry."

"What's Henry sorry for?" asked Mrs. Little, instantly softening towards the child, and taking him on her knee.

"I torry," he repeated, but in a much livelier tone, at the same time that he clambered up and stood in her lap, with his little hands again crushing her beautiful French collar.

"Come here, Henry," said Mr. Manly, who saw that Mrs. Little was annoyed at this; but Henry would not move. He had espied a comb in Mrs. Little's head, and had just laid violent hands upon it, threatening every moment to flood that lady's neck and shoulders with her own dishevelled tresses.

"Come and see my watch," said Mr. Manly.

This was enough. Henry slid from Mrs. Little's lap instantly, and in the next minute was seated on Mr. Manly's knee, examining that gentleman's time-keeper. Between opening and shutting the watch, holding it first to his own and then to Mr. Manly's ear, Henry spent full a quarter of an hour. Even that considerate, kind-hearted gentleman's patience began to be impaired, and he could not help thinking that his friend, Mr. Pelby, ought to be thoughtful enough to relieve him. Once or twice he made a movement to replace the watch in his pocket, but this was instantly perceived and as promptly resisted. The little fellow had an instinctive perception that Mr. Manly did not wish him to have the watch, and for that very reason retained possession of it long beyond the time that he would have done if it had been fully relinquished to him.

At last he tired of the glittering toy, and returned to annoy Mrs. Little; but she was saved by the appearance of a servant with fruit and cakes.

"Dim me cake! dim me cake!" cried Henry, seizing hold of the servant's clothes, and pulling her so suddenly as almost to cause her to let fall the tray that was in her hands.