don’t quite know myself. How can I tell you?”
He looked more puzzled than ever, and she observed it and went on:
"I will try to tell you, but you must not be cross like Pigott when she cannot understand me. Sometimes I feel ever so much alone, as though I was looking for something and could not find it, and then I come and stand here and look at my mother’s grave, and I get company and am not lonely any more. That is all I know; I cannot tell you any more. Do you think me silly? Pigott does.”
"I think you are a very strange child. Are you not afraid to come here alone at night?”
"Afraid—oh, no! Nobody comes here; the people in the village dare not come here after dark, because they say that the ruins are full of spirits. Jakes told me that. But I must be stupid; I cannot see them, and I want so very much to see them. I hope it is not wrong, but I told my father so the other day, and he turned white and was angry with Pigott for giving me such ideas; but you know Pigott did not give them to me at all. I am not afraid to come; I like it, it is so quiet, and, if one listens enough in the quiet, I always think one may hear something that other people do not hear.”
"Do you hear anything, then?”
"Yes, I hear things, but I cannot understand them. Listen to the wind in the branches of that tree, the chestnut, off which the leaf is falling now. It says something, if only I could catch it.”
"Yes, child, yes, you are right in a way; all Nature tells the same eternal tale, if our ears were not stopped to its voices,” he answered, with a sigh; indeed, the child’s talk had struck a vein of thought familiar to his own mind, and, what is more, it deeply interested him; there was a quaint, far-off wisdom in it.
"It is pleasant to-night, is it not, Mr. Fraser?” said the little maid, "though everything is dying. The things die softly without any pain this year; last year they were all killed in the rain and wind. Look at that cloud floating across the moon, is it not beautiful? I wonder what it is the shadow of; I think all the clouds are shadows of something up in heaven.”
"And when there are no clouds?”
"Oh! then heaven is quite still and happy.”
"But heaven is always happy.”
"Is it? I don’t understand how it can be always happy if we go there. There must be so many to be sorry for.”
Mr. Fraser mused a little; that last remark was difficult to answer. He looked at the fleecy cloud, and, falling into her humour, said—
"I think your cloud is the shadow of an eagle carrying a lamb to its little ones.”
"And I think,” she answered confidently, "that it is the shadow of an angel carrying a baby home.”
Again he was silenced; the idea was infinitely more poetical than his own.
"This,” he reflected, "is a child of a curious mental calibre.”
Before he could pursue the thought further, she broke in upon it in quite a different strain.
"Have you seen Jack and Jill? They are jolly.”
"Who are Jack and Jill?”
"Why, my ravens, of course. I got them out of the old tree with a hole in it at the end of the lake.”
"The tree at the end of the lake! Why, the hole where the ravens nest is fifty feet up. Who got them for you?”
"I got them myself. Sam—you know Sam—was afraid to go up. He said he should fall, and that the old birds would peck his eyes. So I went by myself one morning quite early, with a bag tied round my neck, and got up. It was hard work, and I nearly tumbled once; but I got on the bough beneath the hole at last. It shook very much; it is so rotten, you have no idea. There were three little ones in the nest, all with great mouths. I took two, and left one for the old birds. When I was nearly down again, the old birds found me out, and flew at me, and beat my head with their wings, and pecked—oh, they did peck! Look here,” and she showed him a scar on her hand; "that’s where they pecked. But I stuck to my bag, and got down at last, and I’m glad I did, for we are great friends now; and I am sure the cross old birds would be quite pleased if they knew how nicely I am educating their young ones, and how their manners have improved. But I say, Mr. Fraser, don’t tell Pigott; she cannot climb trees, and does not like to see me do it. She does not know I went after them myself.”
Mr. Fraser laughed.
"I won’t tell her, Angela, my dear; but you must be careful—you might tumble and kill yourself.”
"I don’t think I shall, Mr. Fraser, unless I am meant to. God looks after me as much when I am up a tree as when I am upon the ground.”
Once more he had nothing to say; he could not venture to disturb her faith.
"I will walk home with you, my dear. Tell me. Angela, would you like to learn?”
"Learn!—learn what?”
"Books, and the languages that other nations, nations that have passed away, used to talk, and how to calculate numbers and distances.”
"Yes, I should like to learn very much; but who will teach me? I have learnt all Pigott knows two years ago, and since then I have been trying to learn about the trees and flowers and stars; but I look and watch, and can’t understand.”
"Ah! my dear, contact with Nature is the highest education; but the mind that would appreciate her wonders must have a foundation of knowledge to work upon. The uneducated man is rarely sensitive to the thousand beauties and marvels of the fields around him, and the skies above him. But, if you like, I will teach you, Angela. I am practically an idle man, and it will give me great pleasure; but you must promise to work and do what I tell you.”
"Oh, how good you are! Of course I will work. When am I to begin?”
"I don’t know—to-morrow, if you like; but I must speak to your father first.”
Her face fell a little at the mention of her father’s name, but presently she said, quietly—
"My father, he will not care if I learn or not. I hardly ever see my father; he does not like me. I see nobody but Pigott and you and old Jakes, and Sam sometimes. You need not ask my father; he will never miss me whilst I am learning. Ask Pigott.”
At that moment Pigott herself hove into view, in a great flurry.
"Oh, here you are, Miss Angela! Where have you been to, you naughty girl? At some of your star-gazing tricks again, I’ll be bound, frightening the life out of a body. It’s just too bad of you, Miss Angela.”
The little girl looked at her with a peculiarly winning smile, and took her very solid hand between her own tiny palms.
"Don’t be cross, Pigott, dear,” she said. "I didn’t mean to frighten you. I couldn’t help going—I couldn’t indeed; and then I stopped talking to Mr. Fraser.”
"There, there, I should just like to know who can be cross with you when you put on those ways. Are your feet wet? Ah! I thought so. Run on in and take them off.”
"Won’t that be just a little difficult?” and she was gone with a merry laugh.
"There, sir, that’s just like her, catching a body up like and twisting what she says, till you don’t know which is head and which is heels. I’ll be bound you found her down yonder;” and she nodded towards the churchyard.
"Yes.”
Pigott drew a little nearer, and spoke in a low voice.
"‘Tis my belief, sir, that that child sees things; she is just the oddest child I ever saw. There’s nothing she likes better than to slip out of a night, and to go to that there beastly churchyard, saving your presence, for ‘company,’ as she calls it—nice sort of company, indeed. And it is just the same way with storms. You remember that dreadful gale a month ago, the one that took down the North Grove and blew the spire off Rewtham Church. Well, just when it was at its worst, and I was a-sitting and praying that the roof might keep over our heads, I look round for Angela, and can’t see her. ‘Some of