By the Rev. P. B. Power, M.A., Author of "The Oiled Feather," Etc.

The place had been well kept up, because old Lord Wilmerton, the grandfather of the little lady of whom I am going to tell you, was a proud man; and he would not have it said that any of his properties were allowed to go to ruin, or even to run wild. But the old Lord himself never went there nor did his son, the father of the present little Lady Wilmerton. The place was too dull for them; they liked the gaieties of London and the Continent, and the country had no charms for them.

Little Lady Wilmerton's father and grandfather were now both dead. Her father died first, and her grandfather soon followed him to the grave. And now our little lady was a Countess, for in her family the title did not die out with the males, but, when there were no sons, passed on to the daughters, if there were any. And as with the title went most of the estates, the little Countess, who was only twelve years old, became the mistress of Hopedale Castle, and the village and, indeed, the country for, I might almost say, many miles round.

The last thing that anyone in Hopedale would have ever thought of was her little ladyship's coming to live at the Castle. Great, therefore, was the astonishment of everyone when they heard that she was to live there for a large part of the year—and, moreover, that she was coming almost at once.

At first the report was treated as an idle rumour, but when a carriage arrived one day at the Castle with an elderly gentleman and a much younger man, and a second carriage with a lady and her maid, there could be no doubt that something was about to take place. Moreover, the agent had been summoned to meet this old gentleman, and he and the new arrivals were known to have gone all over the Castle. This gentleman was the little Countess's guardian, and the younger man was his solicitor; and the lady was a distant relative of the little Countess, and was to be her caretaker—for her mother had been dead now three years.

Such a possibility as the Castle being inhabited could not take place without causing much talk in the village. Old and young had their say about it—some of the old, I am sorry to say, at the "Green Dragon," the village ale-house; and some at their cottage doors, or when they met in the street.

The children too had their ideas and speculations—very different, of course, from the older people's, but very decided, nevertheless.

As to the folk at the "Green Dragon," some were for the lady's coming and some were not, and each party were positive.

"I tell you," said old Joe Crupper, the saddler, "there ain't no good a-comin' out of this. We've got on very well hereabouts for many a year, without having anyone to worrit us from that place. Why can't they let it be as it has been so long? It don't want anyone to live in it to keep it warm. Why, I'm told that they've burnt thirty ton of coal in a winter to keep the place aired. We don't want no great people down here in these parts; we can get on well enough by ourselves. I didn't never know any good come of the haristockracy," said the saddler, giving the table a thump.

"But I'm told," chimed in a meek little man, who frequented the "Green Dragon" more for gossip than for drink, "that the new 'lord' is a little lady, and is only twelve years old."

"Joseph Simmons," said the saddler, looking witheringly into the little man's face, "you are a man of edication, and ought to know better. As to the little 'lord' being a lady, I ask you and all the company"—here the saddler looked round—"what difference does that make? Isn't a goose a goose, whether it's a goose or a gander? Would you say, when 'tis roasted, 'Who'll take a bit of gander?' No, goose or gander, 'tis a goose. In like manner, it don't matter whether 'tis a boy or girl, a man or a woman"—and here the saddler paused, evidently seeking for a further variety in sex, which he could not find—"excuse me," said he, looking deprecatingly round, "if I stop for a moment, for the argument is deep, and one's liable to get tangled a bit—a man or a woman. Yes, the argument is plain, and I defy you, Joseph Simmons, to beat it. A haristocrat is a haristocrat, whether it be man or woman, boy or girl."

"I humbly beg pardon if I've given any offence," said the meek little man. "You were once in London for a day, and you ought to know more than I do."

"Ah, you're now coming to your senses," said the saddler. "I always knew that you were a sensible man; the best of us forget ourselves at times, as you did just now. You just mind what I say: no good will come of this haristocrat." And as the saddler led most of the company by the nose, they all went away with a terrible prejudice against the little Countess.

The children, too, had their ideas and their talks. They had heard that the new "lord" was a lady, and that she was only twelve years old.

This was a puzzle to them, and no effort of their mental powers enabled them to understand it; but they could—each according to their own cast of mind—have their ideas on the subject, and talk of and debate about them amongst themselves.

And so it came to pass that they, as well as their elders at the Green "Dragon," had their argument about the newcomer.

We often form our ideas of people out of our own fancies; and we are very often wrong, and I would recommend all young people not to be in too great a hurry in forming their opinion about others, until they have something to go on.

In the present instance Dolly Strap, who hated lessons, and whose one desire was to run wild, said she "was sure that the little haristocrat that was coming" (for the saddler's word had got all over the village) "was a girl who never learned any lessons, who never did and never would be obliged to; who was allowed to jump over hedges and ditches, and never got whacked for tearing her frock. Look here!" said Dolly, exhibiting a long rent in her frock; "that means smackers to-night, girls, at eight o'clock; and as like as not there will be smackers to-morrow night too. And haristocrats jump over hedges and ditches, and tear their frocks to pieces every day, and they only gets new ones for their pains, and never a smack get they; and if the day was wet, and they couldn't get out of doors to tear them, then you may be sure they does it somehow indoors, leaping over chairs, or somehow. You know," said Dolly, with a leer in her eye, "when you want to do a thing, you can always do it—somehow."

"I don't know about dress," said Martha Furblow; "but you may be sure she's dressed very grand—lots of feathers and flowers in her hat, and plenty of lace and beads all over her."

"And she has dozens of dolls, you may be sure," said Mary Mater. "I've heard say that there are dolls that say 'Papa' and 'Mamma,' and that open their eyes and shuts 'em too, and winks when they wants to look knowin'. She'll have some that asks you how you are, and says, 'Very well, thank ye, and how are you?'"

"Ah," said Jenny Giblet, "and her sweets—do you think of them? Hard-bake every morning for breakfast, and ginger-pop, and bottles of peardrops, and boxes of peppermints—she don't go in for pennorths, not she."

"And a gold crown—only not quite so grand as the Queen's," said Dolly. "All the haristockracy wear gold crowns when they go to see the Queen, and on Sundays when they go to church."

Thus the village children settled amongst themselves all about the little Countess, and the outcome of it all was that, as she was so much better off than they, she was to be disliked, and when she came into the village—if, indeed, she ever did—they were to turn up their noses at her, just as they made sure she would turn up her nose at them.

There was one, however, amongst the group who ventured to put in a word for the poor little Countess—this was Patience Filbert—whom, in spite of themselves, everyone liked, for Patience was good to all. The child was a little younger than the Countess. She had long fair hair, and round grey eyes which seemed to open wide when she talked to you and looked you, as she often did, so honestly, so wonderingly, so lovingly in the face.

Patience ventured to say that, perhaps the little Countess might be very nice, and if she was born a countess that was not her fault; but poor Patience was told that she was a silly little thing.

"Yes, yes," said Dolly Strap; "you was hatched out a little goose, and you'll be a little goose until you die. Now you go and give your Bullie his dinner; you sat up with him half the night, and I hope he won't die."

"Yes," they all said, "we hope he won't die," for they all liked Patience—as, indeed, who could help doing?—and they knew that her bullfinch was her great pleasure in life.

Poor Bullie! he was indeed ill, drawing near his end. He no longer sang when Patience sang, nor hopped from his cage to eat out of her mouth. He had fulfilled his mission in life, by making the delicate child happy in what would have been many lonely hours, for she could seldom play with other girls; and now in his death Bullie was about to play a greater part than he had ever done in his life.

Bullie lingered two or three days, during which time he had three warm baths and apoplectic fits, to the last of which he succumbed, and, turning himself on his back and throwing his legs up into the air, he departed this life. As Bullie had nothing to leave—at least, so far as he knew—he died without a will, though in reality he left a good deal, which was divided amongst all the inhabitants of Hopedale, making them ever so much richer than they had been before.

And it all came about in this way.

When Bullie died, it was determined amongst the children that he should have a public funeral. Patience Filbert would have liked to bury him just by herself; but two considerations induced her to let her little neighbours have their way. There was first the kindly feeling shown to herself, and then there was the honour done to Bullie. And so Bullie was carried to his burial; his body was wrapped in a clean pocket-handkerchief, and his coffin was an old cigar box with wadding and sweet herbs inside. There was a long avenue of trees leading up to the Castle gate, beneath a particular one of which it was decided the body should be buried. Here it was interred.

There was one more at the funeral than was expected. The little Countess was there. She had seen the small procession as she was out for her morning walk, and followed respectfully at a little distance all the way. Moreover, she was at the ceremony of interment, only standing a little way behind the rest.

The child was dressed in a simple holland frock, with a black ribbon round her waist, and another round her plain straw hat. Her servant was so far behind that she seemed to be quite by herself.

She put her arm round Patience's neck.