boy.
Miss Jane saw he looked very sad, and hoped to cheer him by opening her basket. ‘I’ve brought you a new book, Alfred. It is “The Cherry-stones.” Have you finished the last?’
‘No, Ma’am.’
‘Did you like it?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
But it was a very matter-of-course sort of Yes, and disappointed Miss Jane, who thought he would have been charmed with the ‘Swiss Family Robinson.’
Ellen spoke: ‘Oh yes, Alfred, you know you did like it. I heard you laughing to yourself at Ernest and the shell of soup. And Harold reads that; and ’tis so seldom he will look at a book.’
Jane did not like this quite as well as if Alfred had spoken up more; but she dived into her basket again, and brought out a neat little packet of green leaves, with some strawberries done up in it, and giving a little smile, she made sure that it would be acceptable.
Ellen thanked vehemently, and Alfred gave feeble thanks; but, unluckily, he had so set his mind upon raspberries, that he could not enjoy the thought of anything else. It was a sickly distaste for everything, and Miss Selby saw that he was not as much pleased as she meant him to be; she looked at him wistfully, and, half grieved, half impatient, she longed to know what he would really like, or if he were positively ungrateful. She was very young, and did not know whether it was by his fault or her mistake that she had failed to satisfy him.
Puck had raced up after her, and had come poking and snuffling round Alfred. She would have called him away lest he should be too much for one so weak, but she saw Alfred really did enjoy this: his hand was in the long rough coat, and he was whispering, ‘Poor Puck,’ and ‘Good little doggie;’ and the little hairy rummaging creature, with the bright black beads of eyes gleaming out from under his shaggy hair, was doing him more good than her sense and kindness, or Ellen’s either.
She turned to the window, and said to Ellen, ‘What a wild-looking lad that is on the bridge!’
‘Yes, Miss Jane,’ said Ellen; ‘I was quite afraid he would frighten you.’
‘Well, I was surprised,’ said Jane; ‘I was afraid he might speak to me; but then I knew I was too near friends for harm to come to me;’ and she laughed at her own fears. ‘How ragged and wretched he looks! Has he been begging?’
‘No, Miss Jane; he came into the shop, and bought some bread. He paid for it honestly; but I never did see any one so dirty. And there’s Alfred wishing to be like him. I knew you would tell him it is quite wicked, Miss Jane.’
It is not right, I suppose, to wish to be anything but what we are,’ said Jane, rather puzzled by the appeal; ‘and perhaps that poor beggar-boy would only like to have a nice room, and kind mother and sister, like you, Alfred.’
‘I don’t say anything against them!’ cried the boy vehemently; ‘but—but—I’d give anything—anything in the world—to be able to run about again in the hay-field! No, don’t talk to me, Ellen, I say—I hate them all when I see them there, and I forced to lie here! I wish the sun would never shine!’
He hid his eyes and ears in the pillow, as if he never wished to see the light again, and would hear nothing. The two girls both stood trembling. Ellen looked at Miss Selby, and she felt that she must say something. But what could she say?
With tears in her eyes she laid hold of Alfred’s thin hand and tried to speak, choked by tears. ‘Dear Alfred, don’t say such dreadful things. You know we are all so sorry for you; but God sent it.’
Alfred gave a groan of utter distress, as if it were no consolation.
‘And—and things come to do us good,’ continued Miss Jane, the tears starting to her cheeks.
‘I don’t know what good it can do me to lie here!’ cried Alfred.
‘Oh, but, Alfred, it must.’
‘I tell you,’ exclaimed the poor boy, forgetting his manners, so that Ellen stood dismayed, ‘it does not do me good! I didn’t use to hate Harold, nor to hate everybody.’
‘To hate Harold!’ said Jane faintly.
‘Ay,’ said Alfred, ‘when I hear him whooping about like mad, and jumping and leaping, and going on like I used to do, and never shall again.’
The tears came thick and fast, and perhaps they did him good.
‘But, Alfred,’ said Jane, trying to puzzle into the right thing, ‘sometimes things are sent to punish us, and then we ought to submit quietly.’
‘I don’t know what I’ve done, then,’ he cried angrily. ‘There have been many worse than I any day, that are well enough now.’
‘Oh, Alfred, it is not who is worse, but what one is oneself,’ said Jane.
Alfred grunted.
‘I wish I knew how to help you,’ she said earnestly; ‘it is so very sad and hard; and I dare say I should be just as bad myself if I were as ill; but do, pray, Alfred, try to think that nobody sent it but God, and that He must know best.’
Alfred did not seem to take in much comfort, and Jane did not believe she was putting it rightly; but it was time for her to go home, so she said anxiously, ‘Good-bye, Alfred; I hope you’ll be better next time—and—and—’ She bent down and spoke in a very frightened whisper, ‘You know when we go to church, we pray you may have patience under your sufferings.’
Then she sprang away, as if ashamed of the sound of her own words; but as she was taking up her basket and wishing Ellen good-bye, she saw that the strange lad had moved nearer the house, and timid little thing as she was, she took out a sixpence, and said, ‘Do give him that, and ask him to go away.’
Ellen had no very great fancy for facing the enemy herself, but she made no objection; and looking down-stairs, she saw her brother Harold waiting while his mother stamped the letters, and she called to him, and sent him out to the boy.
He came back in a few moments so much amazed, that she could see the whites all round his eyes.
‘He won’t have it! He’s a rum one that! He says he’s no beggar, and that if the young lady would give him work, he’d thank her; but he wants none of her money, and he’ll stand where he chooses!’
‘Why didn’t you lick him?’ hallooed out Alfred’s voice from his bed. ‘Oh! if I—’
‘Nonsense, Alfred!’ cried Miss Jane, frightened into spirit; ‘stand still, Harold! I don’t mind him.’
And she put up her parasol, and walked straight out at the house door as bold as a little lioness, going on without looking to the right or left.
‘If—’ began Harold, clenching his fists—and Alfred raised himself upon his bed with flashing eyes to watch, as the boy had moved nearer, and looked for a moment as if he were going to grin, or say something impudent; but the quiet childish form stepping on so simply and steadily seemed to disarm him, and he shrunk back, left her to trip across the road unmolested, and stood leaning over the rail of the bridge, gazing after her as she crossed the hay-field.
Harold rode off with the
