became busy in rescuing the remains—in the midst of which there was a smash of glass.
“Jock again!” quoth Janet.
“Oh, mother!” called out Jock. “It’s so long! I thought I’d get the feather-brush to sweep it up with, and the other end of it has been and gone through this stupid lamp.”
“Things are not unapt to be and go through, where you are concerned, Mr. Jock, I suspect,” said Mr. Ogilvie. “Suppose you were to come with me, and your brothers too, and be introduced to the swans on the lake at Belforest.”
The boys brightened up, the mother said, “Thank you most heartily, if they will not be a trouble,” and Babie put her hand entreatingly into the schoolmaster’s, and said, “Me too?”
“What, Venus herself! I thought she had disappeared in the cloud! Let her come, pray, Mrs. Brownlow.”
“I thought the children would have been with their cousins,” observed the aunt.
“So we were,” returned Armine; “but Johnnie and Joe ran away when they saw Mr. Ogilvie coming.”
Babie having by this time had a little black hat tied on, and as much arrowroot as possible brushed out of her frock; Carey warned the schoolmaster not to let himself be chattered to death, and he walked off with the three younger ones.
Caroline would have kept her friend, but Mary, seeing that little good could be gained by staying with her at present, replied that she would take the walk now, and return to her friend in a couple of hours’ time; and Carey was fain to consent, though with a very wistful look in her eyes.
At the end of that time, or more, Janet met the party at the garden gate. “You are to go down to my uncle’s, children,” she said; “mother has one of her very bad headaches.”
There was an outcry that they must take her the flowers, of which their hands and arms were full; but Janet was resolute, though Babie was very near tears.
“To-morrow—to-morrow,” she said. “She must lie still now, or she won’t be able to do anything. Run away, Babie, they’ll be waiting tea for you. Allen’s there. He’ll take care of you.”
“I want to give Mother Carey those dear white flowers,” still entreated Babie.
“I’ll give them, my dear. They want you down there—Ellie and Esther.”
“I don’t want to play with Ellie and Essie,” sturdily declared Barbara. “They say it is telling falsehoods when one wants to play at anything.”
“They don’t understand pretending,” said Armine. “Do let us stay, Janet, we’ll not make one smallest little atom of noise, if Jock doesn’t stay.”
“You can’t,” said Janet, “for there’s nothing for you to eat, and nurse and Susan are as savage as Carribee islanders.”
This last argument was convincing. The children threw their flowers into Janet’s arms, gave their hands to Miss Ogilvie, and Babie between her two brothers, scampered off, while Miss Ogilvie uttered her griefs and regrets.
“My mother would like to see you,” said Janet; “indeed, I think it will do her good. She told me to bring you in.”
“Such a day of fatigue,” began Mary.
“That and all the rest of it,” said Janet moodily.
“Is she subject to headaches?”
“No, she never had one, till—” Janet broke off, for they had reached her mother’s door.
“Bring her in,” said a weary voice, and Mary found herself beside a low iron bed, where Carey, shaking off the handkerchief steeped in vinegar and water on her brow, and showing a tear-stained, swollen-eyed face, threw herself into her friend’s arms.
But she did not cry now, her tears all came when she was alone, and when Mary said something of being so sorry for her headache, she said, “Oh! it’s only with knocking one’s head against a mattress like mad people,” in such a matter-of-fact voice, that Mary for a moment wondered whether she had really knocked her head.
Mary doubted what to say, and wetted the kerchief afresh with the vinegar and water.
“Oh, Mary, I wish you were going to stay here.”
“I wish! I wish I could, my dear!”
“I think I could be good if you were here!” she sighed. “Oh, Mary, why do they say that troubles make one good?”
“They ought,” said Mary.
“They don’t,” said Carey. “They make me wicked!” and she hid her face in the pillow with a great gasp.
“My poor Carey!” said the gentle voice.
“Oh! I want to tell you all about it. Oh! Mary, we have been so happy!” and what a wail there was in the tone. “But I can’t talk,” she added faintly, “it makes me sick, and that’s all her doing too.”
“Don’t try,” said Mary tenderly. “We know where to find each other now, and you can write to me.”
“I will,” said Caroline; “I can write much better than tell. And you will come back, Mary?”
“As soon as I can get a holiday, my dear, indeed I will.”
Carey was too much worn out not to repose on the promise, and though she was unwilling to let her friend go, she said very little more.
Mary longed to give her a cup of strong coffee, and suggested it to Janet; but headaches were so new in the family, that domestic remedies had not become well-known. Janet instantly rushed down to order it, but in the state of the house at that moment, it was nearly as easy to get a draught of pearls.
“But she shall have it, Miss Ogilvie,” said Janet, putting on her hat. “Where’s the nearest grocer?”
“Oh, never mind, my dear,” sighed the patient. “It will go off of itself, when I can get to sleep.”
“You shall have it,” returned Janet.
And Mary having taken as tender a farewell as Caroline was able to bear, they walked off together; but the girl did not respond to the kindness of Miss Ogilvie.
She was too miserable not to be glum, too reserved to be open to a stranger. Mary guessed a little of the feeling, though she feared that an uncomfortable daughter might be one of poor Carey’s troubles, and she could not guess the girl’s sense of banishment from all that she had enjoyed, society, classes, everything, or her feeling that the Magnum Bonum itself was imperilled by exile into the land of dulness, which of course the poor child exaggerated in her imagination. Her only consolation was to feel herself the Masterman Ready of the shipwreck.
CHAPTER VI. – ENCHANTED GROUND
And sometimes a merry train Comes upon us from the lane All through April, May, or June, Every gleaming afternoon; All through April, May, and June, Boys and maidens, birds and bees, Airy whisperings from all trees.
The headache had been carried off by a good night’s rest; a droll, scrambling breakfast had been eaten, German fashion, with its headquarters on the kitchen table; and everybody running about communicating their discoveries. Bobus and Jock had set off to school, and poor little Armine, who firmly believed that his rejection was in consequence of his confusion between os, ossis, and os, oris, and was very sore about it, had gone with Allen and Barbara to see them on their way, and Mother Carey and Janet had agreed to get some real work done and were actually getting through business, when in rushed, rosy and eager, Allen, Armine, and Babie, with arms stretched and in breathless