Then the invalid clergyman stood up and prayed, and read a chapter of God’s Word, after which he preached—ay, preached in a way that drew tears from some, and hearty exclamations of thankfulness from others. It was not the power of rhetoric or of eloquence though he possessed both, so much as that mighty power which consists in being thoroughly and intensely earnest in what one says, and in using a natural, conversational tone.
There were more signings of the temperance pledge after the service, and one or two whose minds had been wavering before, now came forward and offered to purchase Bethel-flags. Others wanted to purchase Testaments, prayer-books, and gospel compasses—the latter being the invention of an ingenious Christian. It consisted of a mariner’s compass drawn on card-board, with appropriate texts of God’s Word printed on the various “points.” The same ingenious gentleman has more recently constructed a spiritual chart so to speak, on which are presented to the eye the various shoals, and quicksands, and rocks of sin, and danger, and temptation, that beset the Christian pilgrim, as well as the streams, rivers, and channels, that conduct him from the regions of Darkness into the realms of Light.
All this took up so much time that it was getting dark when our fishermen began to go over the side, and proceed to their several vessels.
Soon after that the aspect of nature entirely changed. The sultry calm gave place to a fast increasing breeze, which raised white crests on the darkening waves.
“A dirty night we’re going to have of it,” remarked David Bright to Singing Peter, as he got into his tossing boat with some difficulty.
“It’s all in the Master’s hands,” replied Peter, looking up with a glad expression on his weatherworn face. With these words he left the mission smack and returned to his own vessel.
The fishermen of the North Sea had cause to remember that night, for one of the worst gales of the season burst upon them. Fishing was impossible. It was all that they could do to weather the gale. Sails were split and torn, rigging was damaged, and spars were sprung or carried away. The wind howled as if millions of wicked spirits were yelling in the blast. The sea rose in wild commotion, tossing the little smacks as if they had been corks, and causing the straining timbers to groan and creak. Many a deck was washed that night from stem to stern, and when grey morning broke cold and dreary over the foaming sea, not a few flags, half-mast high, told that some souls had gone to their account. Disaster had also befallen many of the smacks. While some were greatly damaged, a few were lost entirely with all their crews.
Singing Peter’s vessel was among the lost. The brightening day revealed the fact that the well-known craft had disappeared. It had sunk with all hands, and the genial fisherman’s strong and tuneful voice had ceased for ever to reverberate over the North Sea in order that it might for ever raise a louder and still more tuneful strain of deep-toned happiness among the harmonies of heaven.
Chapter Nineteen.
Ruth finds that everything seems to go against her
Anxiously did Ruth Dotropy await the return of Captain Bream to Yarmouth, and patiently did she refrain, in the meantime, from questioning Mrs Bright as to her history before marriage, for that good woman’s objection to be so questioned was quite sufficient to check her sensitive spirit. But poor Ruth’s enthusiastic hopes were doomed to disappointment at that time, for, only a few days after the captain’s departure, she received a letter from him, part of which ran as follows:—
“Dear Miss Ruth,—I am exceedingly sorry and almost ashamed, to be obliged to say that I am unable to return to Yarmouth for some weeks at least. The fact is that I have for a long time been engaged in a piece of business—a sort of search—which has caused me much anxiety and frequent disappointment. My lawyer, however, now thinks he has hit on the right clue, so that I have good hope of being successful. In the meantime will you do your best to comfort the Miss Seawards in my absence, and explain to them that nothing but necessity could make me leave them in the lurch in this fashion,” etcetera.
“How very provoking!” exclaimed Ruth, with a pretty little frown on her innocent face after reading the letter to her stately mother.
“Why provoking, dear?” asked Mrs Dotropy. “Surely we can enjoy the fine air of Yarmouth without Captain Bream, and although the dear Miss Seawards are very fond of him, they will not pine or lose their health because of his absence for a short time. Besides, have they not that wonderful theological library to divert them?”
“Yes, mother—it’s not that, but I was so anxious to find out—”
She stopped short.
“Find out what, child?”
“Well now, mother, I can not keep it from you any longer. I will tell you my little secret if you promise not to reveal it to any living soul.”
“How absurd you are, Ruth! Do you suppose that I shall go about the streets proclaiming your secret, whatever it is, to Tom, Dick, and Harry, even if it were worth telling, much less when it is probably not worth remembering? Of course I might let it slip, you know, by accident and when a thing slips there is no possibility of recovery, as I said once to your dear father that time when he slipped off the end of the pier into the water and had to be fished up by the waist-band of his trousers with grappling-irons, I think they called them—at all events they were very dangerous-looking things, and I’ve often argued with him—though I hate argument—that they might have gone into his body and killed him, yet he would insist that, being blunt, the thing was out of the question, though, as I carefully explained to him, the question had nothing to do with it—but it is useless arguing with you, Ruth—I mean, it was useless arguing with your father, dear man, for although he was as good as gold, he had a very confused mind, you know. What was it we were talking about?—oh yes!—your secret. Well, what is it?”
With a flushed face and eager look, Ruth said, “Mother, I cannot help being convinced that Mrs Bright the fisherman’s wife, is no other than Captain Bream’s lost sister!”
“If you cannot help being convinced, child, it is of no use my attempting to reason with you. But why think of such nonsense? If she is what you suppose, she must have been a Miss Bream before marriage.”
“So she was!” exclaimed Ruth, with a look of triumph. I have found that out—only I fear that is not proof positive, because, you know, although not a common name, Bream is by no means singular.
“Well, but she would have been a lady—or—or would have had different manners if she had been Captain Bream’s sister,” objected Mrs Dotropy.
“That does not follow,” said Ruth, quickly. “The captain may have risen from the ranks; we cannot tell; besides, Mrs Bright is very refined, both in manner and speech, compared with those around her. I was on the point one day of asking if she had a brother, when she seemed to draw up and cut the matter short; so I have had to fall back on my original plan of trying to bring the two face to face, which would at once settle the question, for of course they’d know each other.”
“Dear child, why make such a mystery about it?” said Mrs Dotropy; “why not tell the captain of your suspicion, and ask him to go and see the woman?”
“Because it would be so cruel to raise his expectations, mother, and then perhaps find that I was wrong. It would disappoint him so terribly. But this reference to a ‘search’ in his letter makes me feel almost sure he is searching for this lost sister.”
“Foolish child! It is a wild fancy of your romantic brain. Who ever heard,” said the mother, “of a lawyer being employed to search for a sister? Depend upon it, this captain is in search of some deed,—a lost will, or a—an old parchment or a document of some sort, perhaps referring to a mismanaged property, or estate, or fortune, for things of that kind are often seen in the newspapers; though how the newspapers come to find out about them all is more than I can understand. I’ve often wondered at it. Ah! your dear father used to say in his facetious way that he was “lost in the Times,” when he wanted to be let alone. I don’t mean advertised for as lost, of course, though he might have been, for I have seen him lose his head frequently; indeed I have been almost forced to the conclusion more than once that the Times had a good deal to do with your father’s mental confusion; it told such awful lies sometimes, and then a month or two afterwards would flatly contradict them all by telling the truth—at least it was probably the truth since it was the opposite of the lies; but it’s of no use talking, I always find that. What were you saying, child?”
“Well, mother, I was going to say,” answered Ruth, with a sigh, “that I must just have patience and be content to wait.”
“Now you talk like the dear, good, sensible little thing that you are,” said Mrs Dotropy, rising; “run, put on your hat and I’ll walk with you by the sea, or go visit the fisher-folk if you like—or the Miss Seawards.”
In this amiable frame of mind the mother and daughter set off to the shore.
Ruth’s patience was indeed tried more severely than she had anticipated, for, whatever the search was in which Captain Bream had engaged, it compelled him to remain in town much longer than he had intended.
Meanwhile the Evening Star returned to port, and David Bright, with Billy, Joe, and the rest of the crew, went to enjoy themselves in their various ways during their brief holiday.
Mrs Bright chanced to be spending the afternoon with Mrs Joe Davidson and her wonderful “babby” when the skipper and mate walked in upon them. There were two little shrieks of joy; then the two wives were enfolded, and for a few seconds lost to view, in the stupendous embrace of the two fishermen, while the babby was, for the moment, absolutely forgotten! But she took care not to be forgotten long. On recovering from her first surprise she gave utterance to a howl worthy of a seaman’s daughter. Joe immediately seized her in his arms, and half smothered her in a fond embrace, to which, apparently, she did not object.
Meanwhile little Billy stood looking on approvingly, with his hands in his pockets and his booted legs wide apart.
“I wonder when somebody’s a-goin’ to pay some sort of attention to me,” he said after a minute or two.
“Why, Billy, I didn’t see ye,” cried Mrs Joe, holding out her hand; “how are ye, puss in boots?”
“If it was any other female but yourself, Maggie, as said that, I’d scorn to notice you,” returned Billy, half indignant.
“My darling boy!” cried Mrs Bright, turning to her son and enfolding him in her arms.
“Ah! that’s the way to do it,” responded Billy, submitting to the embrace. “You’re the old ooman as knows how to give a feller a good hearty squeeze. But don’t come it too strong, mother, else you’ll put me all out o’ shape. See, daddy’s a-goin’ to show his-self off.”
This last remark had reference to a small bundle which David Bright was hastily untying.
“See here, Nell,” he said, with a strange mixture of eagerness and modesty, “I’ve joined ’em at last old girl. Look at that.”
He unrolled a M.D.S.F. flag, which he had purchased from the skipper of the mission smack.
“An’ I’ve signed the pledge too, lass.”
“Oh! David,” she exclaimed, grasping her husband’s right hand in both of hers. But her heart was too full for more.
“Yes, Nell, I’ve had grace given me to hoist the Lord’s colours in the Short Blue, an’ it was your little book as done it. I’d ha’ bin lost by now, if it hadn’t bin for the blessed Word of God.”
Again Nell essayed to speak, but the words refused to come. She laid her head on her husband’s shoulder and wept for joy.
We have said that David Bright was not by nature given to the melting mood, but his eyes grew dim and his voice faltered at this point and it is not improbable that there would have been a regular break-down, if Joe’s blessed babby had not suddenly come to the rescue in the nick of time with one of her unexpected howls. As temporary neglect was the cause of her complaint it was of course easily cured. When quiet had been restored Mrs Bright turned to her son—“Now, Billy, my boy, I must send you off immediately.”
“But what if I won’t go off—like a bad sky-rocket?” said the boy with a doubtful expression on his face.
“But you’ll have to go—and you’ll be willing enough, too, when I tell you that it’s to see Miss Ruth Dotropy you are going.”
“What!—the angel?”
“Yes, she’s here just now, and wants to see you very much, and made me promise to send you to her the moment you came home. So, off you go! She lives with her mother in the old place, you know.”
“All right, I know. Farewell, mother.”
In a few minutes Billy was out of sight and hearing—which last implies a considerable distance, for Billy’s whistle was peculiarly loud and shrill. He fortunately had not to undergo the operation of being “cleaned” for this visit, having already subjected himself to that process just before getting into port. The only portions of costume which he might have changed with propriety on reaching shore were his long boots, but he was so fond of these that he meant to stick to them, he said, through thick and thin, and had cleaned them up for the occasion.
At the moment he turned into the street where his friends and admirers dwelt, Ruth chanced to be at the window, while the Miss Seawards, then on a visit to her mother, were seated in the room.
“Oh! the darling!” exclaimed Ruth, with something almost like a little shriek of delight.
“Which darling—you’ve got so many?” asked her mother.
“Oh! Billy Bright, the sweet innocent—look at him; quick!”
Thus adjured the sisters ran laughing to the window, but the stately mother sat still.
“D’you mean the boy with the boots on?” asked Jessie, who was short-sighted.
“Yes, yes, that’s him!”
“If you had said the boots with the boy in them, Jessie,” observed Kate, “you would have been nearer the mark!”
In a few minutes, Billy, fully alive to his importance in the ladies’ eyes, sat gravely in the midst of them answering rapid questions.
“You’ve not had tea, Billy, I hope,” said Ruth, rising and ringing the bell.
“No, miss, I haven’t, an’ if I had, I’m always game for two teas.”
Soon Billy was engaged with bread, butter, cakes, and jam, besides other luxuries, some of which he had never even dreamed of before.
“What an excellent appetite you have!” said Jessie Seaward, scarcely able to restrain her admiration.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Billy, accepting another bun with much satisfaction, “we usually does pretty well in the Short Blue in that way, though we don’t have sich grub as this to tickle our gums with. You see, we has a lot o’ fresh air out on the North Sea, an’ it’s pretty strong air too—specially when it blows ’ard. W’y, I’ve seed it blow that ’ard that it was fit to tear the masts out of us; an’ once it throw’d us right over on our beam-ends.”
“On what ends, boy?” asked Mrs Dotropy, who was beginning to feel interested in the self-sufficient little fisherman.
“Our beam-ends, ma’am. The beams as lie across under the deck, so that w’en we gits upon their ends, you know, we’re pretty well flat on the water.”
“How dreadful!” exclaimed Jessie; “but when that happens how can you walk the deck?”
“We can’t walk the deck, ma’am. We has to scramble along the best way we can, holdin’ on by hands and teeth and eyelids. Thank ’ee, miss, but I really do think I’d better not try to eat any more. I feels chock-full already, an’ it might be dangerous. There’s severe laws now against overloadin’, you know.”
“No such laws in this house, Billy,” said Ruth, with a laugh. “But now, if you have quite done, I should like to put a few questions to you.”
“Fire away, then, Miss,” said the boy, looking exceedingly grave and wise.
“Well, Billy,” began Ruth, with an eager look, “I want to know something about your dear mother.”
She hesitated at this point as if uncertain how to begin, and the boy sought to encourage her with—“Wery good, Miss, I knows all about her. What d’ee want to ax me?”
“I want to ask,” said Ruth, slowly, “if you know what your mother’s name was before she was married?”
Ruth did not as the reader knows, require to ask this question, but she put it as a sort of feeler to ascertain how far Billy might be inclined to assist her.
“Well, now, that is a stumper!” exclaimed the boy, smiting his little thigh. “I didn’t know as she had a name afore she was married. Leastwise I never thought of it or heerd on it, not havin’ bin acquainted with her at that time.”
With a short laugh Ruth said, “Well, never mind; but perhaps you can tell me, Billy, if your mother ever had a brother connected with the sea—a sailor, I mean.”
“Stumped again!” exclaimed the boy; “who’d have thought I was so ignorant about my own mother? If she ever had sich a brother, he must have bin drownded, for I never heerd tell of ’im.”
“Then you never heard either your father or mother mention any other name than Bright—I mean in connection with yourselves?” said Ruth in a disappointed tone.
“Never, Miss, as I can reck’lect on. I would willin’ly say yes, to please you, but I’d raither not tell no lies.”
“That’s right my good boy,” said Mrs Dotropy, with a stately but approving nod, “for you know where all liars go to.”
“Yes, ma’am, an’ I knows where liars don’t go to,” returned Billy, looking up with pious resignation, whereat the Miss Seawards and Ruth burst into a laugh.
It must not be supposed that Billy meant to be profane, but he had taken a dislike to Mrs Dotropy, and did not choose to be patronised by her.
As poor Ruth found that it was useless to pursue her investigations in this direction further, she changed the subject to the North Sea fishery, with the details of which her little friend was of course quite conversant. Then she proposed to accompany Billy home.
“I want to make the acquaintance of your father,” she said.
“Ah! he’s a true blue now, he is,” said Billy.
“Was your father not always a true blue?” asked Ruth, as they went along the street together.
“Well, it ain’t right for me to say ought agin my father—but—he’s true blue now, anyhow.”
And Ruth found that the reformed drunkard was indeed “true blue,” and very glad to see her; nevertheless she obtained no information from him on the subject she was so anxious about—not because he was uncommunicative, but because Ruth, being very timid, had not courage to open her lips upon it.
The shades of evening were beginning to descend when she rose to leave. Both father and son offered to escort her home, but she declined the offer with many thanks, and went off alone.
Chapter Twenty.
Details Two Robberies and an Awful Situation
The attainment of Felicity is said to be the aim of all mankind. In order to this end, men in all ages have voluntarily submitted themselves to prolonged infelicity. They have toiled in daily pain and sorrow throughout a long life to attain at last, if possible, to the coveted condition. Some have pursued it in eager intensity, dancing and singing as they went. Others have rushed after it in mad determination, cursing and grumbling as they ran. Many have sought it in rapt contemplation of the Sublime and Beautiful. Thousands have grubbed and grovelled for it in the gratification or the drowning of the senses, while not a few have sought and found it in simple, loving submission to their Maker’s will, as made known by Conscience and Revelation.
Of all the varied methods, John Gunter, the fisherman, preferred the grub-and-grovelling method, and the favourite scene of his grovelling was a low grog-shop in one of the lower parts of Yarmouth.
It must be said, at this point, that Gunter was not considered by his mates as a regular out-and-out fisherman. He had never served his apprenticeship, but, being a powerful and sufficiently active seaman, was tolerated among them.
It is said that adversity makes strange bed-fellows. It is not less true that strong drink makes strange companions. Gunter’s shipmates having had more than enough of him on the sea were only too glad to get clear of him when on land. He therefore found himself obliged to look out for new companionships, for it is certain that man yearns after sympathy of some sort, and is not, under ordinary circumstances, content to be alone.
The new friends he sought were not difficult to find. In one of the darkest corners of the public-house referred to he found them—an accidental, group—consisting of an ex-clerk, an ex-parson, and a burglar, not “ex” as yet! They had met for the first time, yet, though widely separated as regards their training in life, they had found the sympathetic level of drink in that dingy corner. Of course, it need hardly be said that the first two had swung far out of their proper orbits before coming into harmonious contact with the last. Of course, also, no one of the three desired that his antecedents should be known. There was not much chance, indeed, that the former occupations of the clerk or the parson would be guessed at, for every scrap of respectability had long ago been washed out of them by drink, and their greasy coats, battered hats, dirty and ragged linen, were, if possible, lower in the scale of disreputability than the rough garments of the burglar.
The subject of their conversation was suitable to all ages and countries, to all kinds and conditions of men, for it was politics! A fine, healthy, flexible subject, so utterly incomprehensible to fuddled brains that it could be distended, contracted, inflated, elongated, and twisted to suit any circumstances or states of mind. And such grand scope too, for difference, or agreement of opinion.
Oh! it was pitiful to see the idiotic expressions of these fallen men as they sat bound together by a mutual thirst which each abhorred, yet loved, and which none could shake off. And there was something outrageously absurd too—yes, it is of no use attempting to shirk the fact—something intolerably funny in some of the gestures and tones with which they discussed the affairs of the nation.
“Hail fellow well met,” was the generous tendency of Gunter’s soul when ashore. Accosting the three in gruff off-hand tones with some such sentiment, he sat down beside them.
“Same to you, pal,” said the burglar, with a sinister glance at the new-comer from under his heavy brows.
“How do? ol’ salt!” exclaimed the clerk, who was by far the most tipsy of the three. “Come ’ere. We’ll make you r’free—umpire—to shettle zish d’shpute. Queshn is, whether it’s the dooty of the poor to help the rish—no, zhat’s not it. W–w’ether it’s dooty of rish to help the poor—what’s it—by sharin’ all they have with ’em or—”
“That’s not the question at all,” cried Gunter, gruffly—“the question is, what’ll you have to drink!”
“Bravo!” exclaimed the parson, “that is the question!”
“You’re a trump!” said the burglar.
“Well,” exclaimed the clerk, with a tremendous assumption of winking-dignity, “ishn’t zhat zactly what I was goin’ to shay, if you’d on’y listen. ‘What’ll you ’ave to drink!’ jus’ so. Now, if you want to argue it out properly, you’ll—”
He was checked and almost floored by a tremendous though facetious slap on the back from Gunter, who said that they wouldn’t argue it out; that they would drink it out first and argue it out afterwards.
In pursuance of this plan he called the landlord, and, ordering spirits and water, treated the assembled company all round—including a few bloated and wretched women, some of whom carried children in their arms.
Whatever of the ludicrous might have struck an observer of the scene, while listening to the above conversation, it would have been all put to flight by the sight of these poor women, and perchance by the thought that they had been brought up to that life; had never known better, and would never have a chance of knowing better, unless some exceptional rays of heavenly light should penetrate the dark region in which they lived. Praise be to God! such rays do visit such haunts at times, and brands are often plucked from the fire, but with these we have nothing to do at present. Our object just now is to trace the course of John Gunter.
You may be sure that one who spent his money so freely, and at the same time drank heavily, was not likely to escape the special attention of his new friend, the burglar. That worthy, besides being an expert in the heavier branches of his art, was not unacquainted with its lighter work. He watched the fisherman narrowly, observed in which pocket he kept his money, waited until he was sufficiently drunk for his purpose, and then picked his pockets at an engrossing moment, when the clerk was unfolding a perfect scheme of national reform to the parson, who, with eyes shut, and supposed to be listening intently, was in reality fast asleep.
His object accomplished, the burglar said he would go out, and have a look at the weather, which he did, and having quietly hidden his spoils he returned to report the weather “all right,” and to make quite sure that he had left nothing whatever in any of Gunter’s pockets. Having satisfied himself on this point he was about to retire to take a final look at the weather when Gunter said—“Hold on, mate; ’ave another glass.”
He felt in his pocket for the wherewith to pay for the drink, and missed his money. He was by no means as drunk as he appeared to be, and at once suspected his comrade.
“You’ve stole my blunt!” he shouted, without a moment’s hesitation.
“You’re a liar,” returned the burglar, promptly. Gunter was fierce by nature. He made no rejoinder, but struck a blow at the other which would have felled him had it taken effect. The burglar, however, was a pugilist. He evaded the blow, and returned it with such force that the fisherman staggered, but recovered himself, and grappled with his adversary.
In a moment all was uproar and confusion; benches were upset, spittoons kicked about, and pipes smashed, as the two powerful men swayed about, and tried fiercely to strangle each other. The women rushed screaming from the place; the landlord and his assistants interfered, but it was not until the police were called in that the combatants were separated. Then there occurred a violent scene of explanation, allegation, recrimination, and retort, during which the guardians of the peace attempted to throw oil on the troubled waters, for it is always their aim, we believe, to quiet down drunken uproars when possible rather than to take up the rioters.
As the burglar, with an injured, innocent look, denied the charge made against him, and turned all his pockets inside out in proof of his veracity, Gunter was fain to content himself with the supposition that he had lost his money in some incomprehensible manner.
In a very sulky mood he flung out of the public-house and sauntered away. He knew not where to go, for he had no friends in Yarmouth—at least none who would have welcomed him—and he had not wherewith to pay for a bed, even in the poorest lodging.
As he walked along, conscience began to smite him, but he was in no mood to listen to conscience. He silenced it, and at the same time called himself, with an oath, a big fool. There is no question that he was right, yet he would have denied the fact and fought any one else who should have ventured so to address him.
The evening was beginning to grow dark as he turned down one of the narrow and lonely rows.
Now, it so happened that this was one of the rows through which Ruth Dotropy had to pass on her way home.
Ruth was not naturally timid, but when she suddenly beheld a half-drunken man coming towards her, and observed that no one else was near, something like a flutter of anxiety agitated her breast. At the same moment something like a sledge-hammer blow smote the concave side of John Gunter’s bosom.
“She’s got more than she needs,” he growled between his teeth, “an’ I’ve got nothin’!”
As his conscience had been silenced this was a sufficient argument for John.
“I’ll thank you for a shillin’, Miss,” he said, confronting the now frightened girl after a hasty glance round.
“Oh! yes, yes—willingly,” gasped poor Ruth, fumbling in her pocket for her purse. The purse, however, chanced to have been left at home. “Oh, how provoking! I have not my purse with me, but if these few pence will—”
“Never mind the pence, Miss,” said Gunter,—accepting the pence; however, as he spoke—“that nice little watch will do jist as well.”
He snatched the watch which hung at Ruth’s waist-belt, snapped the slender guard that held it, and made off.
When sufficiently out of danger of pursuit, he paused under a lamp to examine his prize. To his intense disgust he found that the little watch, instead of being a gold one, as he had expected, was only a silver one, of comparatively little value.
“Well, your first haul in this line ain’t worth much,” he grumbled. “Hows’ever, I’ve got coppers enough for a night’s lodgin’ an’ grub.”
Saying which he pocketed the watch, and went on his way.
Meanwhile Ruth, having given vent to a sob of relief when the man left her, ran towards home as fast as she could, never pausing till she reached the Miss Seawards’ door, which chanced to be a little nearer than her own. Against this she plunged with wonderful violence for one so gentle and tender, and then hammered it with her knuckles in a way that would have done credit to a lightweight prize-fighter.
The door was opened hastily by Liffie Lee, who, being a much lighter weight than her assailant, went down before her rush.
“Lawk! Miss Ruth,” she exclaimed, on recovering her feet, “w’at’s a-’appened?”
But she asked the question of the empty air, for Ruth was already half sobbing, half laughing on the sofa, with a highly agitated sister on either side trying to calm her.
“Oh! what a little donkey I am,” she exclaimed, flinging off her bonnet and attempting to laugh.
“What has happened?” gasped Jessie.
“Do tell us, dear,” cried Kate.