to be troubled. "I have only gone back fora time," she said, "and they cannot hold me, Connemara. I shall haveconquered after all. You will never see me again here. I am soon goingto a country very far away. I shall never come back to my littlecottage, but still we may meet again and you must not grieve for me."
So Con's mind was at peace about his old friend. Of course she nevercame back, and before long her cottage was pulled down. No one couldsay to whom it belonged, but no one objected to its destruction. Shehad been a witch they said, and it was best to do away with herdwelling.
What Con's mother really came in the end to think about his story, Icannot say; nor do I know if she ever told his father. I fancy Conseldom, if ever, spoke about it again. But as all who knew him when hegrew up to be a man could testify, his taste of the land of "all playand no work," never did him any harm.
CHAPTER FIVE.
MARY ANN JOLLY.
"But I lost my poor little doll, dears, As I played in the heath one day; And I cried for her more than a week, dears--"
They say that the world--and of course that means the people in it--haschanged very much in the last half century or so. I daresay in someways this is true, but it is not in all. There are some ways in which Ihope and think people will never change much. Hearts will never change,I hope--good, kind hearts who love and trust each other I mean; andlittle children, they surely will always be found the same,--simple andfaithful, happy and honest; why, the very word _childlike_ would ceaseto have any meaning were the natures it describes to alter.
Looking back over more than fifty years to a child life then, far awayfrom here, flowing peacefully on, I recognise the same nature, the sameinnocent, unsuspicious enjoyment, the same quaint, so-called"old-fashioned" ways that now-a-days I find in the children growing upabout me. The little ones of to-day enjoy a _shorter_ childhood, thereis more haste to hurry them forward in the race--we would almost seem tobegrudge them their playtime--but that I think is the only realdifference. My darlings are children after all; they love the sunshineand the flowers, mud-pies and mischief, dolls and story-books, asfervently as ever. And long may they do so!
My child of fifty years ago was in all essentials a real child. Yetagain, in some particulars, she was exceptional, and exceptionallyplaced. She had never travelled fifty miles from her home, and thathome was far away in the country, in Scotland. And a Scottish countryhome in those days was far removed from the bustle and turmoil andexcitement of the great haunts of men. Am I getting beyond you,children, dear? Am I using words and thinking thoughts you can scarcelyfollow? Well, I won't forget again. I will tell you my simple story insimple words.
This long-ago little girl was named Janet. She was the youngest ofseveral brothers and sisters, some of whom, when she was born even, werealready out in the world. They were, on the whole, a happy, unitedfamily; they had their troubles, and disagreements perhaps too,sometimes, but in one thing they all joined, and that was in loving andpetting little Janet. How well she remembers even now, all across thelong half century, how the big brothers would dispute as to which ofthem should carry her in her flowered chintz dressing-gown, perched likea tiny queen on their shoulders, to father's and mother's room to saygood-morning; how on Hallowe'en the rosiest apples and finest nuts werefor "wee Janet;" how the big sisters would work for hours at her dolls'clothes; how, dearest memory of all, the kind, often careworn, studiousfather would read aloud to her, hour after hour, as she lay on thehearth-rug, coiled up at his feet.
For little Janet could not read much to herself. She was not blind, buther sight was imperfect, and unless the greatest care had been taken shemight, by the time she grew up, have lost it altogether. To look at heryou would not have known there was anything wrong with her blue eyes;the injury was the result of an accident in her infancy, by which one ofthe delicate sight nerves had been hurt, though not so as to prevent thehope of cure. But for several years she was hardly allowed to use hereyes at all. She used to wear a shade whenever she was in a brightlight, and she was forbidden to read, or to sew, or to do anything whichcalled for much seeing. How she learnt to read I do not know--I do notthink she could have told you herself--but still it is certain that shedid learn; perhaps her kind father taught her this, and many more thingsthan either he or she suspected in the long hours she used to lie by hisstudy fire, sometimes talking to him in the intervals of his writing,sometimes listening with intense eagerness to the legends and balladshis heart delighted in, sometimes only making stories to herself as shesat on the hearth-rug playing with her dolls.
There are many quaint little stories of this long-ago maiden that youwould like to hear, I think. One comes back to my mind as I write. Itis about a mysterious holly bush in the garden of Janet's home, whichone year took it into its head to grow all on one side, in the queerestway you ever saw. This holly bush stood in a rather conspicuousposition, just outside the breakfast-room window, and Janet's father wasstruck by the peculiar crookedness which afflicted it, and one morninghe went out to examine it more closely. He soon found the reason--themain branch had been stunted by half an orange skin, which had beenfitted upon it most neatly and closely, like a cap, just where it wassprouting most vigorously. Janet's father was greatly surprised. "Dearme, dear me," he exclaimed as he came in; "what a curious thing. Howcould this ever have got on to the holly bush? An old orange skin, yousee," he went on, holding it up to the assembled family party. LittleJanet was there, in her usual place by her father's chair.
"Was it on the robin's bush, father?" she asked.
"The robin's bush, Janet? What do you mean?"
"The bush the wee robin perches on when he comes to sing in themorning," she answered readily. "A long, long time ago, I tied anorange skin on, to make a soft place for the dear robin's feet. Thebush was _so_ prickly, I could not bear to see him stand upon it."
And to this day the crooked holly bush tells of the little child'stenderness.
Then there is another old story of Janet, how, once being sorelytroubled with toothache, and anxious to bear it uncomplainingly "like awoman," she was found, after being searched for everywhere fast asleepin the "byre," her little cheek pillowed on the soft skin of a few days'old calf. "Its breath was so sweet, and it felt so soft and warm, itseemed to take the ache away," she said.
And another old memory of little Janet on a visit at an uncle's, put tosleep in a room alone, and feeling frightened by a sudden gale of windthat rose in the night, howling among the trees and sweeping down thehills. Poor little Janet! It seemed to her she was far, far away fromeverybody, and the wind, as it were, took mortal form and voice, andthreatened her, till she could bear it no longer. Up she got, all inthe dark, and wandered away down the stairs and passages of the ramblingold house, till at last a faint glimmer of light led her to a modestlittle room in the neighbourhood of the kitchen, where old Jamie, thefaithful serving-man, who had seen pass away more than one generation ofthe family he was devoted to, was sitting up reading his Bible beforegoing to bed. How well Janet remembers it even now! The old man'sstart of surprise at the unexpected apparition of wee missy, how he tookher on his knee and turned over the pages of "the Book," to read to herwords of gentle comfort, even for a little child's alarm; how Jesushushed the winds and waves, and bade them be still; how not a hair ofthe head of even tiny Janet could be injured without the Father'sknowledge; how she had indeed no reason to fear; till, soothed andreassured, the child let the good old man lead her back to bed again,where she slept soundly till morning.
But all this time I am very long of introducing to you, children, thereal heroine of this story--not Janet, but who then? Janet's dearestand most tenderly prized doll--"Mary Ann Jolly."
She was one of several, but the best beloved of all, though why it wouldhave been difficult to say. She was certainly not pretty; indeed, totell the truth, I fear I must own that she was decidedly ugly And anugly doll in those days _was_ an ugly doll, my dears. For whetherlittle girls have al
tered much or not since the days of Janet'schildhood, there can be no two opinions about dolls; _they_ have alteredtremendously, and undoubtedly for the better. There were what people_thought_ very pretty dolls then, and Janet possessed two or three ofthese. There was "Lady Lucy Manners," an elegant blonde, with flaxenringlets and pink kid hands and arms; there was "Master Ronald," agallant sailor laddie, with crisp black curls and goggle bead eyes;there were two or three others--Arabellas or Clarissas, I cannot tellyou their exact names; on the whole, for that time, Janet had a goodlyarray of dolls. But still, dearest of all was Mary Ann Jolly. I thinkher faithfulness, her thorough reliableness, must have been her charm;she never melted, wept tears of wax--that is to say, to the detriment ofher