watched in the outskirts of the camp, and caused Tom to return nearly as fast as the poor little white marauder.
Meta 'very immorally,' as Norman told her, comforted Nipen with a large share of her sandwiches. Harry armed himself with a stick and Mary with a stone, and marched off to the attack, but saw no signs of the enemy, and had begun to believe him a figment of Tom's imagination, when Mary spied him under a bush, lying at the feet of a boy, with whom he was sharing the spoil.
Harry called out rather roughly, 'Hallo! what are you doing there?'
The boy jumped up, the dog growled, Mary shrank behind her brother, and begged him not to be cross to the poor boy, but to come away. Harry repeated his question.
'Please, sir, Toby brought it to me.'
'What, is Toby your dog?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Are you so hungry as to eat dog's meat?'
'I have not had nothing before to-day, sir.'
'Why, where do you live? hereabouts?'
'Oh, no, sir; I lived with grandmother up in Cheshire, but she is dead now, and father is just come home from sea, and he wrote down I was to be sent to him at Portsmouth, to go to sea with him.'
'How do you live? do you beg your way?'
'No, sir; father sent up a pound in a letter, only Nanny Brooks said I owed some to her for my victuals, and I have not much of it left, and bread comes dear, so when Toby brought me this bit of meat I was glad of it, sir, but I would not have taken it--'
The boy was desired to wait while the brother and sister, in breathless excitement, rushed back with their story.
Mrs. Wilmot was at first inclined to fear that the naval part of it had been inspired by Harry's uniform, but the examination of Jem Jennings put it beyond a doubt that he spoke nothing but the truth; and the choicest delight of the feast was the establishing him and Toby behind the barrow, and feeding them with such viands as they had probably never seen before.
The boy could not read writing, but he had his father's letter in his pocket, and Mary capered at the delightful coincidence, on finding that Jem Jennings was actually a quarter-master on board the Alcestis. It gave a sort of property in the boy, and she almost grudged Meta the having been first to say that she would pay for the rest of his journey, instead of doing it by subscription.
However, Mary had a consolation, she would offer to take charge of Toby, who, as Harry observed, would otherwise have been drowned--he could not be taken on board. To be sure, he was a particularly ugly animal, rough, grisly, short-legged, long-backed, and with an apology for a tail--but he had a redeeming pair of eyes, and he and Jem lived on terms of such close friendship, that he would have been miserable in leaving him to the mercy of Nanny Brooks.
So, after their meal, Jem and Toby were bidden to wait for Dr. May's coming, and fell asleep together on the green bank, while the rest either sketched, or wandered, or botanised. Flora acted the grown-up lady with Mrs. Wilmot, and Meta found herself sitting by Ethel, asking her a great many questions about Margaret, and her home, and what it could be like to be one of such a numerous family. Flora had always turned aside from personal matters, as uninteresting to her companion, and, in spite of Meta's admiration, and the mutual wish to be intimate, confidence did not spring up spontaneously, as it had done with the doctor, and, in that single hour, with Margaret. Blunt as Ethel was, her heartiness of manner gave a sense of real progress in friendship. Their Confirmation vows seemed to make a link, and Meta's unfeigned enthusiasm for the doctor was the sure road to Ethel's heart. She was soon telling how glad Margaret was that he had been drawn into taking pleasure in to-day's scheme, since, not only were his spirits tried by the approach of Harry's departure, but he had, within the last few days, been made very sad by reading and answering Aunt Flora's first letter on the news of last October's misfortune.
'My aunt in New Zealand,' explained Ethel.
'Have you an aunt in New Zealand?' cried Meta. 'I never heard of her!'
'Did not you? Oh! she does write such charming long letters!'
'Is she Dr. May's sister?'
'No; he was an only child. She is dear mamma's sister. I don't remember her, for she went out when I was a baby, but Richard and Margaret were so fond of her. They say she used to play with them, and tell them stories, and sing Scotch songs to them. Margaret says the first sorrow of her life was Aunt Flora's going away.'
'Did she live with them?'
'Yes; after grandpapa died, she came to live with them, but then Mr. Arnott came about. I ought not to speak evil of him, for he is my godfather, but we do wish he had not carried off Aunt Flora! That letter of hers showed me what a comfort it would be to papa to have her here.'
'Perhaps she will come.'
'No; Uncle Arnott has too much to do. It was a pretty story altogether. He was an officer at Edinburgh, and fell in love with Aunt Flora, but my grandfather Mackenzie thought him too poor to marry her, and it was all broken off, and they tried to think no more of it. But grandpapa died, and she came to live here, and somehow Mr. Arnott turned up again, quartered at Whitford, and papa talked over my Uncle Mackenzie, and helped them--and Mr. Arnott thought the best way would be to go out to the colonies. They went when New Zealand was very new, and a very funny life they had! Once they had their house burned in Heki's rebellion--and Aunt Flora saw a Maori walking about in her best Sunday bonnet; but, in general, everything has gone on very well, and he has a great farm, besides an office under government.'
'Oh, so he went out as a settler! I was in hopes it was as a missionary.'
'I fancy Aunt Flora has done a good deal that may be called missionary work,' said Ethel, 'teaching the Maori women and girls. They call her mother, and she has quite a doctor's shop for them, and tries hard to teach them to take proper care of their poor little children when they are ill; and she cuts out clothes for the whole pah, that is, the village.'
'And are they Christians?'
'Oh! to be sure they are now! They meet in the pah for prayers every morning and evening--they used to have a hoe struck against a bit of metal for a signal, and when papa heard of it, he gave them a bell, and they were so delighted. Now there comes a clergyman every fourth Sunday, and, on the others, Uncle Arnott reads part of the service to the English near, and the Maori teacher to his people.'
Meta asked ravenously for more details, and when she had pretty well exhausted Ethel's stock, she said, 'How nice it must be! Ethel, did you ever read the 'Faithful Little Girl?''
'Yes; it was one of Margaret's old Sunday books. I often recollected it before I was allowed to begin Cocksmoor.'
'I'm afraid I am very like Lucilla!' said Meta.
'What? In wishing to be a boy, that you might be a missionary?' said Ethel. 'Not in being quite so cross at home?' she added, laughing.
'I am not cross, because I have no opportunity,' said Meta.
'No opportunity. Oh, Meta, if people wish to be cross, it is easy enough to find grounds for it. There is always the moon to cry for.'
'Really and truly,' said Meta thoughtfully, 'I never do meet with any reasonable trial of temper, and I am often afraid it cannot be right or safe to live so entirely at ease, and without contradictions.'
'Well, but,' said Ethel, 'it is the state of life in which you are placed.'
'Yes; but are we meant never to have vexations?'
'I thought you had them,' said Ethel. 'Margaret told me about your maid. That would have worried some people, and made them horridly cross.'
'Oh, no rational person,' cried Meta. 'It was so nice to think of her being with the poor mother, and I was quite interested in managing for myself; besides, you know, it was just a proof how one learns to be selfish, that it had never occurred to me that I ought to spare her.'
'And your school children--you were in some trouble about them?'
'Oh, that is pleasure.'
'I thought you had a class you did not like?'
