not even herself. She wore an old-fashioned, high-crowned cap, and a gown of bed-curtain chintz, with flowers on it the size of a saucer. It was a curious gown, and very cheap, for Mrs Grumbit was poor. No one knew the extent of her poverty, any more than they did her age; but she herself knew it, and felt it deeply,—never so deeply, perhaps, as when her orphan nephew Martin grew old enough to be put to school, and she had not wherewithal to send him. But love is quick-witted and resolute. A residence of six years in Germany had taught her to knit stockings at a rate that cannot be described, neither conceived unless seen. She knitted two dozen pairs. The vicar took one dozen, the doctor took the other. The fact soon became known. Shops were not numerous in the village in those days; and the wares they supplied were only second rate. Orders came pouring in, Mrs Grumbit’s knitting wires clicked, and her little old hands wagged with incomprehensible rapidity and unflagging regularity,—and Martin Rattler was sent to school.
While occupied with her knitting, she sat in a high-backed chair in a very small deep window, through which the sun streamed nearly the whole day; and out of which there was the most charming imaginable view of the gardens and orchards of the villagers, with a little dancing brook in the midst, and the green fields of the farmers beyond, studded with sheep and cattle and knolls of woodland, and bounded in the far distance by the bright blue sea. It was a lovely scene, such an one as causes the eye to brighten and the heart to melt as we gaze upon it, and think, perchance, of its Creator.
Yes, it was a scene worth looking at; but Mrs Grumbit never looked at it, for the simple reason that she could not have seen it if she had. Half way across her own little parlour was the extent of her natural vision. By the aid of spectacles and a steady concentrated effort, she could see the fire-place at the other end of the room; and the portrait of her deceased husband, who had been a sea-captain; and the white kitten that usually sat on the rug before the fire. To be sure, she saw them very indistinctly. The picture was a hazy blue patch, which was the captain’s coat; with a white patch down the middle of it, which was his waistcoat; and a yellow ball on the top of it, which was his head. It was rather an indistinct and generalised view, no doubt; but she saw it, and that was a great comfort.
CHAPTER TWO.
In Disgrace.
Fire was the cause of Martin’s getting into disgrace at school for the first time; and this is how it happened.
“Go and poke the fire, Martin Rattler,” said the schoolmaster, “and put on a bit of coal, and see that you don’t send the sparks flying about the floor.”
Martin sprang with alacrity to obey; for he was standing up with the class at the time, and was glad of the temporary relaxation. He stirred the fire with great care, and put on several pieces of coal very slowly, and rearranged them two or three times; after which he stirred the fire a little more, and examined it carefully to see that it was all right; but he did not seem quite satisfied, and was proceeding to re-adjust the coals when Bob Croaker, one of the big boys, who was a bullying, ill-tempered fellow, and had a spite against Martin, called out—
“Please, sir, Rattler’s playin’ at the fire.”
“Come back to your place, sir!” cried the master, sternly.
Martin returned in haste, and resumed his position in the class. As he did so he observed that his fore-finger was covered with soot. Immediately a smile of glee overspread his features; and, while the master was busy with one of the boys, he drew his black finger gently down the forehead and nose of the boy next to him.
“What part of the earth was peopled by the descendants of Adam?” cried the master, pointing to the dux.
“Shem!” shrieked a small boy near the foot of the class.
“Silence!” thundered the master, with a frown that caused the small boy to quake down to the points of his toes.
“Asia!” answered dux.
“Next?”
“Turkey!”
“Next, next, next? Hallo! John Ward,” cried the master, starting up in anger from his seat, “what do you mean by that, sir?”
“What, sir?” said John Ward, tremulously, while a suppressed titter ran round the class.
“Your face, sir! Who blacked your face, eh?”
“I—I—don’t know,” said the boy, drawing his sleeve across his face, which had the effect of covering it with sooty streaks.
An uncontrollable shout of laughter burst from the whole school, which was instantly followed by a silence so awful and profound that a pin might have been heard to fall.
“Martin Rattler, you did that! I know you did,—I see the marks on your fingers. Come here, sir! Now tell me; did you do it?”
Martin Rattler never told falsehoods. His old aunt had laboured to impress upon him from infancy that to lie was to commit a sin which is abhorred by God and scorned by man; and her teaching had not been in vain. The child would have suffered any punishment rather than have told a deliberate lie. He looked straight in the master’s face and said, “Yes, sir, I did it.”
“Very well, go to your seat, and remain in school during the play-hour.”
With a heavy heart Martin obeyed; and soon after the school was dismissed.
“I say, Rattler,” whispered Bob Croaker as he passed, “I’m going to teach your white kitten to swim just now. Won’t you come and see it?”
The malicious laugh with which the boy accompanied this remark convinced Martin that he intended to put his threat in execution. For a moment he thought of rushing out after him to protect his pet kitten; but a glance at the stern brow of the master, as he sat at his desk reading, restrained him; so, crushing down his feelings of mingled fear and anger, he endeavoured to while away the time by watching the boys as they played in the fields before the windows of the school.
CHAPTER THREE.
The Great Fight.
“Martin!” said the schoolmaster, in a severe tone, looking up from the book with which he was engaged, “don’t look out at the window, sir; turn your back to it.”
“Please, sir, I can’t help it,” replied the boy, trembling with eagerness as he stared across the fields.
“Turn your back on it, I say!” reiterated the master in a loud tone, at the same time striking the desk violently with his cane.
“Oh, sir, let me out! There’s Bob Croaker with my kitten. He’s going to drown it. I know he is; he said he would; and if he does aunty will die, for she loves it next to me; and I must save it, and—and, if you don’t let me out—you’ll be a murderer!”
At this concluding burst, Martin sprang forward and stood before his master with clenched fists and a face blazing with excitement. The schoolmaster’s gaze of astonishment
