CHAPTER XIII.
A CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE.--PART II.
"And as for poor old Rover, I'm sure he meant no harm."
OLD DOGGIE.
"Molly is too sharp by half," said aunty, the following evening, whenshe was preparing to go on with her story. "We _had_ to stay there allnight--that was the result of Mary's conversation with the driver, thedetails of which I may spare you. Let me see, where was I? 'The driverscratched his head,'--no,--ah, here it is! 'He was waiting downstairs tospeak to us; 'and the result of the speaking I have told you, so I'll goon from here----
"It was so cold downstairs in the fireless, deserted house, that Mary andI were glad to come upstairs again to the little room where we had beensitting, which already seemed to have a sort of home-like feeling aboutit. But once arrived there we looked at each other in dismay.
"'Isn't it dreadful, Mary?' I said.
"'And we shall miss the morning train from East Hornham--the only one bywhich we can get through the same day--that is the worst of all,' shesaid.
"'Can't we be in time? It is only two or three miles from here to EastHornham,' I said.
"'Yes, but you forget I _must_ see Mr. Turner again. If I fix to takethis house, and it seems very likely, I must not go away without all theparticulars for father. There are ever so many things to ask. I have alist of father's, as long as my arm, of questions and inquiries.'
"'Ah, yes,' I agreed; 'and then we have to get our bag at the hotel, andto pay our bill there.'
"'And to choose rooms there to come to at first,' said Mary. 'Oh yes, ourgetting away by that train is impossible. And then the Christmas trainsare like Sunday. Even by travelling all night we cannot get home, I fear.I must telegraph to mother as soon as we get back to East Hornham.'
"The young woman had not returned. We were wondering what had become ofher when she made her appearance laden with everything she could thinkof for our comfort. The bed, she assured us, could not be damp, as it hadbeen 'to the fire' all the previous day, and she insisted on putting on apair of her own sheets, coarse but beautifully white, and fetching fromanother room additional blankets, which in their turn had to be subjectedto 'airing,' or 'firing' rather. To the best of her ability she providedus with toilet requisites, apologising, poor thing, for the absence ofwhat we 'of course, must be used to,'--as she expressed it, in the shapeof fine towels, perfumed soap, and so on. And she ended by cooking us arasher of bacon and poached eggs for supper, all the materials for whichrefection she had brought from her own cottage. She was so kind that Ishrank from suggesting to Mary the objection to the proposed arrangement,which was all this time looming darkly before me. But when our friend wasabout to take her leave for the night I could keep it back no longer.
"'Mary,' I whispered, surprised and somewhat annoyed at my sister'scalmness, 'are you going to let her go away? You and I _can't_ stay hereall night alone.'
"'Do you mean that you are frightened, Laura dear?' she said kindly, inthe same tone. 'I don't see that there is anything to be frightened of;and if there were, what good would another girl--for this young woman isvery little older than I--do us?'
"'She knows the house, any way, and it wouldn't seem so bad,' I replied,adding aloud, 'Oh, Mrs. Atkins'--for I had heard the driver mention hername--'can't you stay in the house with us? We shall feel so dreadfullystrange.'
"'I would have done so most gladly, Miss,' the young woman began, butMary interrupted her.
"'I know you can't,' she said; 'your husband is ill. Laura, it would bevery wrong of us to propose such a thing.'
"'That's just how it is,' said Mrs. Atkins. 'My husband has such badnights he can't be left, and there's no one I could get to sit with him.Besides, it's such a dreadful night to seek for any one.'
"'Then the driver,' I said; 'couldn't he stay somewhere downstairs? Hemight have a fire in one of the rooms.'
"Mrs. Atkins wished it had been thought of before. 'Giles,'--which itappeared was the man's name--would have done it in a minute, she wassure, but it was too late. He had already set off to seek a night'slodging and some supper, no doubt, at a little inn half a mile down theroad.
"'An inn?' I cried. 'I wish we had gone there too. It would have been farbetter than staying here.'
"'Oh, it's a very poor place--'The Drover's Rest,' they call it. It wouldnever do for you, Miss,' said Mrs. Atkins, looking distressed that allher efforts for our comfort appeared to have been in vain. 'Giles mightha' thought of it himself,' she added, 'but then you see it would neverstrike him but what here--in the Grange--you'd be as safe as safe. It'snot a place for burglaries and such like, hereabouts.'
"'And of course we shall be quite safe,' said Mary. 'Laura dear, what hasmade you so nervous all of a sudden?'
"I did not answer, for I was ashamed to speak of Mrs. Atkins' story ofthe strange noises she had heard the previous night, which evidently Maryhad forgotten, but I followed the young woman with great eagerness, tosee that we were at least thoroughly well defended by locks and bolts inour solitude. The tapestry room and that in which we were to sleep couldbe locked off from the rest of the empty house, as a door stood at thehead of the little stair leading up to them--so far, so well. But Mrs.Atkins proceeded to explain that the door at the _outside_ end of theother passage, leading into the garden, could not be locked except fromthe outside.
"'I can lock you in, if you like, Miss,' she said, 'and come round firstthing in the morning;' but this suggestion did not please us at all.
"'No, thank you,' said Mary, 'for if it is fine in the morning I mean toget up very early and walk round the gardens.'
"'No, thank you,' said I, adding mentally, 'Supposing we _were_frightened it would be too dreadful not to be able to get out.'--'But wecan lock the door from the tapestry room into the passage, from our side,can't we?' I said, and Mrs. Atkins replied 'Oh yes, of course you can,Miss,' turning the key in the lock of the door as she spoke. 'Masternever let the young gentlemen lock the doors when they were boys,' sheadded, 'for they were always breaking the locks. So you see, Miss,there's a hook and staple to this door, as well as the lock.'
"'Thank you, Mrs. Atkins,' said Mary, 'that will do nicely, I am sure.And now we must really not keep you any longer from your husband.Good-night, and thank you very much.'
"'Good-night,' I repeated, and we both stood at the door of the passageas she made her way out into the darkness. The snow was still fallingvery heavily, and the blast of cold wind that made its way in waspiercing.
"'Oh, Mary, come back to the fire,' I cried. 'Isn't it _awfully_ cold?Oh, Mary dear,' I added, when we had both crouched down beside thewelcome warmth for a moment, 'won't it be _delicious_ to be back withmother again? We never thought we'd have such adventures, did we? Can youfancy this house ever feeling _home-y_, Mary? It seems so dreary now.'
"'Yes, but you've no idea how different it will seem even to-morrowmorning, if it's a bright day,' said Mary. 'Let's plan the rooms, Laura.Don't you think the one to the south with the crimson curtains will bebest for father?'
"So she talked cheerfully, more, I am sure--though I did not see it atthe time--to encourage me than to amuse herself. And after awhile, whenshe saw that I was getting sleepy, she took a candle into the outer room,saying she would lock the door and make all snug for the night. I heardher, as I thought, lock the door, then she came back into our room andalso locked the door leading from it into the tapestry room.
"'You needn't lock that too,' I said sleepily; 'if the tapestry door islocked, we're all right!'
"'I think it's better,' said Mary quietly, and then we undressed, so faras we could manage to do so in the extremely limited state of our toiletarrangements, and went to bed.
"I fell asleep at once. Mary, she afterwards told me, lay awake for anhour or two, so that when she did fall asleep her slumber was unusuallyprofound. I think it must have been about midnight when I woke suddenly,with the feeling--the indescribable feeling--that something had awakenedme. I listened, first of all
with _only_ the ear that happened to beuppermost--then, as my courage gradually returned again, I ventured tomove slightly, so that both ears were uncovered. No, nothing was to beheard. I was trying to compose myself to sleep again, persuading myselfthat I had been dreaming, when again--yes most distinctly--there _was_ asound. A sort of shuffling, scraping noise, which seemed to come fromthe direction of the passage leading from the tapestry room to thegarden. Fear made me selfish. I pushed Mary, then shook her gently, thenmore vigorously.
"'Mary,' I whispered. 'Oh, Mary, _do_ wake up. I hear such a queernoise.'
"Mary, poor Mary awoke, but she had been very tired. It was a moment ortwo before she collected her faculties.
"'Where are we? What is it?' she said. Then she remembered. 'Oh yes--whatis the matter, Laura?'
"'Listen,' I said, and Mary, calmly self-controlled as usual, sat up inbed and listened. The sound was quite distinct, even louder than I hadheard it.
"'Oh, Mary!' I cried. 'Somebody's trying to get in. Oh, Mary, what_shall_ we do? Oh, I am so frightened. I shall die with fright. Oh, Iwish I had never come!'
"I was on the verge of hysterics, or something of the kind.
"Mary, herself a little frightened, as she afterwards confessed--in thecircumstances what young girl could have helped being so?--turned to mequietly. Something in the very tone of her voice seemed to soothe me.
"'Laura dear,' she said gravely, 'did you say your prayers last night?'
"'Oh yes, oh yes, indeed I did. But I'll say them again now if you like,'I exclaimed.
"Even then, Mary could hardly help smiling.
"'That isn't what I meant,' she said. 'I mean, what is the _good_ ofsaying your prayers if you don't believe what you say?'
"'But I do, I do,' I sobbed.
"'Then why are you so terrified? You asked God to take care of you. Whenyou said it you believed He would. Why not believe it now? _Now_, whenyou are tried, is the time to show if you do mean what you say. I am sureGod _will_ take care of us. Now try, dear, to be reasonable, and I willget up and see what it is.'
"'But don't leave me, and I will try to be good,' I exclaimed, jumpingout of bed at the same moment that she did, and clinging to her as shemoved. 'Oh, Mary, don't you think perhaps we'd better go back to bed andput our fingers in our ears, and by morning it wouldn't seem anything.'
"'And fancy ever after that there had been something mysterious, whenperhaps it is something quite simple,' said Mary. 'No, I shouldn't likethat at all. Of course I won't do anything rash, but I would like to findout.'
"'The fire, fortunately, was not yet quite out. Mary lighted one of thecandles with a bit of paper from a spark which she managed to coax into aflame. The noise had, in the meantime, subsided, but just as we had gotthe candle lighted, it began again.
"'Now,' said Mary, 'you stay here, Laura, and I'll go into the next roomand listen at the passage door.' She spoke so decidedly that I obeyed intrembling. Mary armed herself with the poker, and, unlocking our door,went into the tapestry room, first lighting the second candle, which sheleft with me. She crossed the room to the door as she had said. _I_thought it was to listen; in reality her object was to endeavour to turnthe key in the lock of the tapestry room door, which she had _not_ beenable to do the night before, for once the door was shut the key would notmove, and she had been obliged to content herself with the insecure holdof the hook and staple. Now it had struck her that by inserting the pokerin the handle of the key she might succeed in turning it, and thusprovide ourselves with a double defence. For if the intruder--dog, cat,whatever it was--burst the outer door and got into the tapestry room, myfears, she told me afterwards, would, she felt sure, have becomeuncontrollable. It was a brave thing to do--was it not? She deserved tosucceed, and she did. With the poker's help she managed to turn the key,and then with a sigh of relief she stood still for a moment listening.The sounds continued--whatever it was it was evidently what Mrs. Atkinshad heard the night before--a shuffling, rushing-about sound, then a sortof impatient breathing. Mary came back to me somewhat reassured.
"'Laura,' she said, 'I keep to my first opinion. It is a dog, or a cat,or some animal.'
"'But suppose it is a _mad_ dog?' I said, somewhat unwilling to own thatmy terrors had been exaggerated.
"'It is possible, but not probable,' she replied. 'Any way it can't getin here. Now, Laura, it is two o'clock by my watch. There is candleenough to last an hour or two, and I will make up the fire again. Getinto bed and _try_ to go to sleep, for honestly I do not think there isany cause for alarm.'
"'But Mary, I _can't_ go to sleep unless you come to bed too, and if youdon't, I can't believe you think it's nothing,' I said. So, to soothe me,she gave up her intention of remaining on guard by the fire, and came tobed, and, wonderful to relate, we both went to sleep, and slept soundlytill--what o'clock do you think?
"It was _nine_ o'clock when I awoke; Mary was standing by me fullydressed, a bright frosty sun shining into the room, and a tray with a cupof tea and some toast and bacon keeping hot by the fire.
"'Oh, Mary!' I cried, sitting up and rubbing my eyes.
"'Are you rested?' she said. 'I have been up since daylight--not so veryearly _that_, at this season--Mrs. Atkins came and brought me somebreakfast, but we hadn't the heart to waken you, you poor child.'
"'And oh, Mary, what about the noise? Did she hear it?'
"'She wasn't sure. She half fancied she did, and then she thought shemight have been imagining it from the night before. But get up, dear. Itis hopeless to try for the early train; we can't leave till to-night, orto-morrow morning; but I am anxious to get back to East Hornham and seeMr. Turner. And before we go I'd like to run round the gardens.'
"'But, Mary,' I said, pausing in my occupation of putting on mystockings, 'are you still thinking of taking this house?'
"'Still!' said Mary. 'Why not?'
"'Because of the noises. If we can't find out what it is, it would bevery uncomfortable. And with father being so delicate too, and oftenawake at night!'
"Mary did not reply, but my words were not without effect. We ran roundthe gardens as she had proposed--they were lovely even then--took acordial farewell of Mrs. Atkins, and set off on our return drive to EastHornham. I must not forget to tell you that we well examined that part ofthe garden into which the tapestry room passage led, but there were notraces of footsteps, the explanation of which we afterwards found to bethat the snow had continued to fall till much later in the night than thetime of our fright.
"Mr. Turner was waiting for us in considerable anxiety. We had done, heassured us, the most sensible thing possible in the circumstances. He hadnot known of our non-arrival till late in the evening, and, but for hisconfidence in Giles, would have set off even then. As it was, he had senta messenger to Hunter's Hall, and was himself starting for the Grange.
"Mary sent me out of the room while she spoke to him, at which I was notover well pleased. She told him all about the fright we had had, andthat, unless its cause were explained, it would certainly leave anuncomfortable feeling in her mind, and that, considering our father'sinvalid state, till she had talked it over with our mother she could notcome to the decision she had hoped.
"'It may end in our taking Hunter's Hall,' she said, 'though the Grangeis far more suitable.'
"Mr. Turner was concerned and perplexed. But Mary talked too sensibly toincline him to make light of it.
"'It is very unfortunate,' he said; 'and I promised an answer to theother party by post this evening. And you say, Miss Berkeley, that Mrs.Atkins heard it too. You are _sure_, Miss, you were not dreaming?'
"'_Quite_ sure. It was my sister that heard it, and woke me,' shereplied; 'and then we both heard it.'
"Mr. Turner walked off, metaphorically speaking, scratching his head, ashonest Giles had done literally in his perplexity the night before. Hepromised to call back in an hour or two, when he had been to the stationand found out about the trains for us.
"We packed our little bag and paid t
he bill, so that we might be quiteready, in case Mr. Turner found out any earlier train by which we mightget on, for we had telegraphed to mother that we should do our best to beback the next day. I was still so sleepy and tired that Mary persuaded meto lie down on the bed, in preparation for the possibility of a night'sjourney. I was _nearly_ asleep when a tap came to the door, and a servantinformed Mary that a gentleman was waiting to speak to her.
"'Mr. Turner,' said she carelessly, as she passed into the sitting-room.
"But it was not Mr. Turner. In his place she found herself face to facewith a very different person--a young man, of seven or eight and twenty,perhaps, tall and dark--dark-haired and dark-eyed that is to say--graveand quiet in appearance, but with a twinkle in his eyes that told of nolack of humour.
"'I must apologise for calling in this way, Miss Berkeley,' he said atonce, 'but I could not help coming myself to tell how _very_ sorry I amabout the fright my dog gave you last night at the Grange. I have justheard of it from Mr. Turner.'
"'Your dog?' repeated Mary, raising her pretty blue eyes to his face inbewilderment.
"'Yes,' he said, 'he ran off to the Grange--his old home, you know--oh, Ibeg your pardon! I am forgetting to tell you that I am Walter H----,--inthe night, and must have tried to find his way into my room in the way heused to do. I always left the door unlatched for him.'
"Instead of replying, Mary turned round and flew straight off into theroom where I was.
"'Oh, Laura,' she exclaimed, 'it _was_ a dog; Mr. Walter H---- has justcome to tell us. Are you not delighted? Now we can fix for the Grange atonce, and it will all be right. Come quick, and hear about it.'
"I jumped up, and, without even waiting to smooth my hair, hurried backinto the sitting-room with Mary. Our visitor, very much amused at ourexcitement, explained the whole, and sent downstairs for 'Captain,' amagnificent retriever, who, on being told to beg our pardon, looked upwith his dear pathetic brown eyes in Mary's face in a way that won herheart at once. His master, it appeared, had been staying at East Hornhamthe last two nights with an old friend, the clergyman there. Both nights,on going to bed late, he had missed 'Captain,' whose usual habit was tosleep on a mat at his door. The first night he was afraid the dog waslost, but to his relief he reappeared again early the next morning; thesecond night, also, his master happening to be out late at Mr. Turner's,with whom he had a good deal of business to settle, the dog had set offagain on his own account to his former quarters, with probably some mistyidea in his doggy brain that it was the proper thing to do.
"'But how did you find out where he had been?' said I.
"'I went out early this morning, feeling rather anxious about 'Captain,''said our visitor; 'and I met him coming along the road leading from theGrange. Where he had spent the night after failing to get into his oldhome I cannot tell; he must have sheltered somewhere to get out of thesnow and the cold. Later this morning I walked on to the Grange, and,hearing from Ruth Atkins of your fright and her own, I put 'two and twotogether,' and I think the result quite explains the noises you heard.'
"'Quite,' we both said; 'and we thank you so much for coming to tell us.'
"'It was certainly the very least I could do,' he said; 'and I thank youvery much for forgiving poor old Captain.'
"So we left East Hornham with lightened hearts, and, as our new friendwas travelling some distance in our direction, he helped us to accomplishour journey much better than we could have managed it alone. And afterall we _did_ get back to our parents on Christmas day, though not onChristmas eve."
Aunty stopped.
"Then you did take the Grange, aunty?" said the children.
Aunty nodded her head.
"And you never heard any more noises?"
"Never," said aunty. "It was the pleasantest of old houses; and oh, wewere sorry to leave it, weren't we, mother?"
"Why did you leave it, grandmother dear?" said Molly.
"When your grandfather's health obliged him to spend the winters abroad;then we came here," said grandmother.
"Oh yes," said Molly, adding after a little pause, "I _would_ like to seethat house."
Aunty smiled. "Few things are more probable than that you will do so,"she said, "provided you can make up your mind to cross the sea again."
"Why? how do you mean, aunty?" said Molly, astonished, and Ralph andSylvia listened with eagerness to aunty's reply.
"Because," said aunty,--then she looked across to grandmother. "Won't youexplain to them, mother?" she said.
"Because, my darlings, that dear old house will be your home--your happyhome, I trust, some day," said grandmother.
"Is my father thinking of buying it?" asked Ralph, pricking up his ears.
"No, my boy, but some day it will be his. It is your uncle's now, but heis _much_ older than your father, and has no children, so you see it willcome to your father some day--sooner than we have thought, perhaps, foryour uncle is too delicate to live in England, and talks of giving it upto your father."
"But _still_ I don't understand," said Ralph, looking puzzled. "Did my_uncle_ buy it?"
"No, no. Did you never hear of old Alderwood Grange?"
"Alderwood," said Ralph. "Of _course_, but we never speak of it as 'TheGrange,' you know, and I have never seen it. It has always been let sinceI can remember. I never even heard it described. Papa does not seem tocare to speak of it."
"No, dear," said aunty. "The happiest part of his life began there, andyou know how all the light seemed to go out of his life when your motherdied. It was there he--Captain's master--got to know her, the 'Mary' ofmy little adventure. You understand it all now? He was a great deal inthe neighbourhood--at the little town I called East Hornham--the summerwe first came to Alderwood. And there they were married; and there, inthe peaceful old church-yard, your dear mother is buried."
The children listened with sobered little faces. "Poor papa!" they said.
"But some day," said grandmother, "some day I hope, when you three areolder, that Alderwood will again be a happy home for your father. It iswhat your mother would have wished, I know."
"Well then, you and aunty must come to live with us there. You must.Promise now, grandmother dear," said Molly.
Grandmother smiled, but shook her head gently.
"Grandmother will be a _very_ old woman by then, my darling," she said,"and perhaps----"
Molly pressed her little fat hand over grandmother's mouth.
"I know what you're going to say, but you're _not_ to say it," she said."And _every_ night, grandmother dear, I ask in my prayers for you to liveto be a hundred."
Grandmother smiled again.
"Do you, my darling?" she said. "But remember, whatever we _ask_, Godknows best what to _answer_."
CHAPTER XIV.
HOW THIS BOOK CAME TO BE WRITTEN.
"Ring out ye merry, merry bells, Your loudest, sweetest chime; Tell all the world, both rich and poor, 'Tis happy Christmas time."
"Grandmother," said Ralph, at breakfast on what Molly called "the morningof Christmas Eve," "I was going to ask you, only the story last night putit out of my head, if I might ask Prosper to spend to-morrow with us. Hisuncle and aunt are going away somewhere, and he will be quite alone.Besides he and I have made a plan about taking the shawl to the old womanquite early in the morning. You don't know _how_ pleased he was when Itold him you had got it for her, grandmother--just as pleased as if hehad bought it for her with his own money."
"Then he is a really unselfish boy," said grandmother. "Certainly you mayask him. I had thought of it too, but somehow it went out of my head.And, as well as the shawl, I shall have something to send to Prosper'sold friend. She must have a good dinner for once."
"That'll be awfully jolly," said Ralph. Sylvia and Molly listened withapproval, for of course they had heard all about the mystery of Ralph'swood-carrying long ago.
"At Christmas time we're to try to make other people happy," said Molly,meditatively. "_I_ thought of something that
would make a great lot ofpeople happy, if you and aunty would do it, grandmother dear?"
"I don't think you did _all_ the thinking about it, Molly," said Sylvia,with a slight tone of reproach. "I do think I did some."
"Well, I daresay you did. We did it together. It couldn't be for _this_Christmas, but for another."
"But what is it?" asked grandmother.
"It is that you and aunty should make a book out of the stories you'vetold us, and then you see lots and lots of other children would bepleased as well as us," said Molly. "Of course you'd have to put moreto it, to make it enough. I don't _mind_ if you put some in about me,grandmother dear, if you would _like_ to very much."
"No," said Sylvia, "that would be very stupid. Grandmother couldn't makea book about _us_. We're not uncommon enough. We couldn't be _heroines_,Molly."
"But children don't care about heroines," said Molly. "Children like tohear about other children, just really what they do. Now, don't they,grandmother dear? And _isn't_ my plan a good one?"
* * * * *
Will _you_ answer little Molly's question, children dear? For dear youall are, whoever and wherever you be. Boys and girls, big and little,dark and fair, brown-eyed and blue-eyed, merry and quiet--all of you,dear unknown friends whose faces I may never see, yet all of whom I love.I shall be so glad--so very glad, if this little simple story-book ofmine helps to make this Christmas Day a happy and merry one for you all.
THE END.
* * * * *
_Macmillan's Prize Library_
A Carefully Selected Series of Illustrated Books suitable forPresentation.
_Baker, Sir Samuel W._ Cast up by the Sea.
_Besant, Sir Walter._ Life of Captain Cook.
_Bradley, A. G._ Life of Wolfe.
_Buckland, Frank._ Curiosities of Natural History. Vols. I.-III.
_Buckley, A. B._ Through Magic Glasses.
_Butler, Sir William._ General Gordon.
_Cooper, J. Fenimore._ The Last of the Mohicans. The Deerslayer. The Pathfinder. The Pioneers.
_Corbett, Sir Julian._ For God and Gold. Sir Francis Drake.
_Creasy, Sir E._ The Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World.
_Dickens, Charles._ Oliver Twist. The Old Curiosity Shop. Christmas Books. Barnaby Rudge.
_Edgeworth, Maria._ Lazy Lawrence and other Stories.
_Eliot, George._ Scenes of Clerical Life.
_Finny, Violet Geraldine._ Revolt of the Young MacCormacks.
_Fowler, W. Warde._ A Year with the Birds. Tales of the Birds. More Tales of the Birds.
_Fraser, Edward._ Famous Fighters of the Fleet.
_Gilmore, Rev. John._ Storm Warriors; or Life-Boat Work on the Goodwin Sands.
_Grimm, The Bros._ Household Stories.
_Henley, W. E._ Lyra Heroica. A Book of Verse for Boys.
_Hooper, G._ Life of Wellington.
_Hughes, T._ Tom Brown's School Days. Alfred the Great.
_Keary, A. and E._ Heroes of Asgard.
_Kingsley, Charles._ Hereward the Wake. Westward Ho! The Heroes. The Water-Babies. Madam How and Lady Why. Glaucus.
_Kipling, Rudyard._ Selected Stories.
_Laughton, Sir J. K._ Life of Nelson.
_Marryat, Captain._ Newton Forster. The Pirate and the Three Cutters. Peter Simple. Japhet in Search of a Father. Mr. Midshipman Easy. Masterman Ready. The Phantom Ship.
_Metelerkamp, Sanni._ Outa Karel's Stories.
_Mitchell, S. Weir._ The Adventures of Francois.
_Molesworth, Mrs._ Carrots. Tell Me a Story. The Tapestry Room. The Cuckoo Clock. Grandmother Dear. Herr Baby. Us. The Rectory Children. Two Little Waifs. Four Winds Farm. The Ruby Ring. Mary. Nurse Heatherdale's Story. The Woodpigeons and Mary. The Story of a Year. Edmee. A Tale of the French Revolution.
_Morier, James._ The Adventures of Hajji Baba.
_Norton, H. E._ A Book of Courtesy.
_Oman, Sir C. W._ Warwick the Kingmaker.
_Perry, W. C._ The Boy's Iliad. The Boy's Odyssey.
_Scott, Sir Walter._ Kenilworth. Count Robert of Paris.
_Sharp, Evelyn._ Micky. The Children Who Ran Away. The Other Boy. The Youngest Girl in the School.
_Thackeray, W. M._ Henry Esmond.
_Yonge, Charlotte M._ Little Duke. The Prince and the Page. Unknown to History. The Dove in the Eagle's Nest. The Chaplet of Pearls.
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