mother and skating in and out on little scaffolds of pattens, inspire the highest hopes for the future, but some anxiety for the present. The same causes lead to confusion of tongues, a clattering of crockery, a rattling of tin mugs, a whisking of brooms, and an expenditure of water, all in excess, while the saturation of the young ladies themselves is almost too moving a spectacle for Mrs. Bagnet to look upon with the calmness proper to her position. At last the various cleansing processes are triumphantly completed; Quebec and Malta appear in fresh attire, smiling and dry; pipes, tobacco, and something to drink are placed upon the table; and the old girl enjoys the first peace of mind she ever knows on the day of this delightful entertainment.
When Mr. Bagnet takes his usual seat, the hands of the clock are very near to half-past four; as they mark it accurately, Mr. Bagnet announces, 'George! Military time.'
It is George, and he has hearty congratulations for the old girl (whom he kisses on the great occasion), and for the children, and for Mr. Bagnet. 'Happy returns to all!' says Mr. George.
'But, George, old man!' cries Mrs. Bagnet, looking at him curiously. 'What's come to you?'
'Come to me?'
'Ah! You are so white, George-for you-and look so shocked. Now don't he, Lignum?'
'George,' says Mr. Bagnet, 'tell the old girl. What's the matter.'
'I didn't know I looked white,' says the trooper, passing his hand over his brow, 'and I didn't know I looked shocked, and I'm sorry I do. But the truth is, that boy who was taken in at my place died yesterday afternoon, and it has rather knocked me over.'
'Poor creetur!' says Mrs. Bagnet with a mother's pity. 'Is he gone? Dear, dear!'
'I didn't mean to say anything about it, for it's not birthday talk, but you have got it out of me, you see, before I sit down. I should have roused up in a minute,' says the trooper, making himself speak more gaily, 'but you're so quick, Mrs. Bagnet.'
'You're right. The old girl,' says Mr. Bagnet. 'Is as quick. As powder.'
'And what's more, she's the subject of the day, and we'll stick to her,' cries Mr. George. 'See here, I have brought a little brooch along with me. It's a poor thing, you know, but it's a keepsake.
That's all the good it is, Mrs. Bagnet.'
Mr. George produces his present, which is greeted with admiring leapings and clappings by the young family, and with a species of reverential admiration by Mr. Bagnet. 'Old girl,' says Mr. Bagnet.
'Tell him my opinion of it.'
'Why, it's a wonder, George!' Mrs. Bagnet exclaims. 'It's the beautifullest thing that ever was seen!'
'Good!' says Mr. Bagnet. 'My opinion.'
'It's so pretty, George,' cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning it on all sides and holding it out at arm's length, 'that it seems too choice for me.'
'Bad!' says Mr. Bagnet. 'Not my opinion.'
'But whatever it is, a hundred thousand thanks, old fellow,' says Mrs. Bagnet, her eyes sparkling with pleasure and her hand stretched out to him; 'and though I have been a crossgrained soldier's wife to you sometimes, George, we are as strong friends, I am sure, in reality, as ever can be. Now you shall fasten it on yourself, for good luck, if you will, George.'
The children close up to see it done, and Mr. Bagnet looks over young Woolwich's head to see it done with an interest so maturely wooden, yet pleasantly childish, that Mrs. Bagnet cannot help laughing in her airy way and saying, 'Oh, Lignum, Lignum, what a precious old chap you are!' But the trooper fails to fasten the brooch. His hand shakes, he is nervous, and it falls off. 'Would any one believe this?' says he, catching it as it drops and looking round. 'I am so out of sorts that I bungle at an easy job like this!'
Mrs. Bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no remedy like a pipe, and fastening the brooch herself in a twinkling, causes the trooper to be inducted into his usual snug place and the pipes to be got into action. 'If that don't bring you round, George,' says she, 'just throw your eye across here at your present now and then, and the two together MUST do it.'
'You ought to do it of yourself,' George answers; 'I know that very well, Mrs. Bagnet. I'll tell you how, one way and another, the blues have got to be too many for me. Here was this poor lad.
'Twas dull work to see him dying as he did, and not be able to help him.'
'What do you mean, George? You did help him. You took him under your roof.'
'I helped him so far, but that's little. I mean, Mrs. Bagnet, there he was, dying without ever having been taught much more than to know his right hand from his left. And he was too far gone to be helped out of that.'
'Ah, poor creetur!' says Mrs. Bagnet.
'Then,' says the trooper, not yet lighting his pipe, and passing his heavy hand over his hair, 'that brought up Gridley in a man's mind. His was a bad case too, in a different way. Then the two got mixed up in a man's mind with a flinty old rascal who had to do with both. And to think of that rusty carbine, stock and barrel, standing up on end in his corner, hard, indifferent, taking everything so evenly-it made flesh and blood tingle, I do assure you.'
'My advice to you,' returns Mrs. Bagnet, 'is to light your pipe and tingle that way. It's wholesomer and comfortabler, and better for the health altogether.'
'You're right,' says the trooper, 'and I'll do it.'
So he does it, though still with an indignant gravity that impresses the young Bagnets, and even causes Mr. Bagnet to defer the ceremony of drinking Mrs. Bagnet's health, always given by himself on these occasions in a speech of exemplary terseness. But the young ladies having composed what Mr. Bagnet is in the habit of calling 'the mixtur,' and George's pipe being now in a glow, Mr.
Bagnet considers it his duty to proceed to the toast of the evening. He addresses the assembled company in the following terms.
'George. Woolwich. Quebec. Malta. This is her birthday. Take a day's march. And you won't find such another. Here's towards her!'
The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Mrs. Bagnet returns thanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity. This model composition is limited to the three words 'And wishing yours!' which the old girl follows up with a nod at everybody in succession and a well-regulated swig of the mixture. This she again follows up, on the present occasion, by the wholly unexpected exclamation,
'Here's a man!'
Here IS a man, much to the astonishment of the little company, looking in at the parlour-door. He is a sharp-eyed man-a quick keen man-and he takes in everybody's look at him, all at once, individually and collectively, in a manner that stamps him a remarkable man.
'George,' says the man, nodding, 'how do you find yourself?'
'Why, it's Bucket!' cries Mr. George.
'Yes,' says the man, coming in and closing the door. 'I was going down the street here when I happened to stop and look in at the musical instruments in the shop-window-a friend of mine is in want of a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone-and I saw a party enjoying themselves, and I thought it was you in the corner; I thought I couldn't be mistaken. How goes the world with you, George, at the present moment? Pretty smooth? And with you, ma'am? And with you, governor? And Lord,' says Mr. Bucket, opening his arms, 'here's children too! You may do anything with me if you only show me children. Give us a kiss, my pets. No occasion to inquire who YOUR father and mother is. Never saw such a likeness in my life!'
Mr. Bucket, not unwelcome, has sat himself down next to Mr. George and taken Quebec and Malta on his knees. 'You pretty dears,' says Mr. Bucket, 'give us another kiss; it's the only thing I'm greedy in. Lord bless you, how healthy you look! And what may be the ages of these two, ma'am? I should put 'em down at the figures of about eight and ten.'
'You're very near, sir,' says Mrs. Bagnet.
'I generally am near,' returns Mr. Bucket, 'being so fond of children. A friend of mine has had nineteen of 'em, ma'am, all by one mother, and she's still as fresh and rosy as the morning. Not so much so as yourself, but, upon my soul, she comes near you! And what do you call these, my darling?' pursues Mr. Bucket, pinching Malta's cheeks. 'These are peaches, these are. Bless your heart!
And what do you think about father? Do you think father could recommend a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone for Mr.
Bucket's friend, my dear? My name's Bucket. Ain't that a funny name?'
