“Death and its two-fold aspect! wintry—one,
Cold, sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut out;
The other, which the ray divine hath touch’d,
Replete with vivid promise, bright as spring.”

Wordsworth.

“Well then; but you must remember that I have been ill, and cannot be expected to invent anything very entertaining.”

“Oh, we do remember, indeed, Aunt Judy; we have been so miserable,” was the answer; and the speaker added, shoving her little chair close up to her sister’s:—

“I said if you were not to get better, I shouldn’t want to get better either.”

“Hush, hush, No. 6!” exclaimed Aunt Judy, quite startled by the expression; “it was not right to say or think that.”

“I couldn’t help it,” persisted No. 6. “We couldn’t do without you, I’m sure.”

“We can do without anything which God chooses to take away,” was Aunt Judy’s very serious answer.

“But I didn’t want to do without,” murmured No. 6, with her eyes fixed on the floor.

“Dear No. 6, I know,” replied Aunt Judy, kindly; “but that is just what you must try not to feel.”

“I can’t help feeling it,” reiterated No. 6, still looking down.

“You have not tried, or thought about it yet,” suggested her sister; “but do think. Think what poor ignorant infants we all are in the hands of God, not knowing what is either good or bad for us; and then you will see how glad and thankful you ought to be, to be chosen for by somebody wiser than yourself. We must always be contented with God’s choice about whatever happens.”

No. 6 still looked down, as if she were studying the pattern of the rug, but she saw nothing of it, for her eyes were swimming over with the tears that had filled into them, and at last she said:—

“I could, perhaps, about some things, but only not that about you. Aunt Judy, you know what I mean.”

Aunt Judy leant back in her chair. “Only not that.” It was, as she knew, the cry of the universal world, although it broke now from the lips of a child. And it was painful, though touching, to feel herself the treasure that could not be parted with.

So there was a silence of some minutes, during which the hand of the little sister lay in that of the elder one.

But the latter soon roused up and spoke.

“I’ll tell you what, No. 6, there’s nothing so foolish as talking of how we shall feel, and what we shall do, if so-and-so happens. Perhaps it never may happen, or, if it does, perhaps we may be helped to bear it quite differently from what we have expected. So we won’t say anything more about it now.”

“I’m so glad!” exclaimed No. 6, completely reassured and made comfortable by the cheerful tone of her sister’s remark, though she had but a very imperfect idea of the meaning of it, as she forthwith proved by rambling off into a sort of self-defence and self-justification.

“And I’m not really a baby now, you know, Aunt Judy! And I do know a great many things that are good and bad for us. I know that you are good for us, even when you scold over sums.”

“That is a grand admission, I must own,” replied Aunt Judy, smiling; “I shall remind you of it some day.”

“Well, you may,” cried No. 6, earnestly; and added, “you see I’m not half as silly as you thought.”

Aunt Judy looked at her, wondering how she should get the child to understand what was passing through her own mind; wondering, too whether it was right to make the attempt; and she decided that on the whole it was; so she answered:—

“Ay, we grow wise enough among ourselves as we grow older, and get to know a few more things. You are certainly a little wiser than a baby in long petticoats, and I am a little wiser than you, and mamma wiser than us both. But towards God we remain ignorant infants all our lives. That was what I meant.”

“But surely, Aunt Judy,” interrupted No. 6, “mamma and you know—” There she stopped.

“Nothing about God’s dealings,” pursued Aunt Judy, “but that they are sure to be good for us, even when we like them least, and cannot understand them at all. We know so little what we ought really to like and dislike, dear No. 6, that we often fret and cry as foolishly as the two children did, who, while they were in mourning for their mother, broke their hearts over the loss of a set of rabbits’ tails.”

No. 6 sprang up at the idea. She had never heard of those children before. Who were they? Had Aunt Judy read of them in a book, or were they real children? How could they have broken their hearts about rabbits’ tails? It must be a very curious story, and No. 6 begged to hear it.

Aunt Judy had, however, a little hesitation about the matter. There was something sad about the story; and there was no exact teaching to be got out of it, though certainly if it helped to shake No. 6’s faith in her own wisdom, a good effect would be produced by listening to it. Also it was not a bad thing now and then to hear of other people having to bear trials which have not fallen to our own lot. It must surely have a tendency to soften the heart, and make us feel more dependent upon the God who gives and takes away. On the whole, therefore, she would tell the story, so she made No. 6 sit quietly down again, and began as follows:—

“There were once upon a time two little motherless girls.”

No. 6’s excitement of expectation was hardly over, so she tightened her hand over Aunt Judy’s, and ejaculated:—

“Poor little things!”

“You may well say so,” continued Aunt Judy. “It was just what everybody said who saw them at the time. When they went about with their widowed father in the country village where ‘they lived, even the poor women who stood at their cottage door-steads, would look after them when they had passed, and say with a sigh:—

“‘Poor little things!’

“When they went up to London in the winter to stay with their grandmamma, and walked about in the Square in their little black frocks and crape-trimmed bonnets, the ladies who saw them,—even comparative strangers,—would turn round arid say:—

“‘Poor little things!’

“If visitors came to call at the house, and the children were sent for into the room, there was sure to be a whispered exclamation directly among the grown-up people of, ‘Poor little things!’ But oh, No. 6! the children themselves did not think about it at all. What did they know,—poor little things,—of the real misfortune which had befallen them! They were sorry, of course, at first, when they did not see their mamma as usual, and when she did not come back to them as soon as they expected. But some separation had taken place during her illness; and sometimes before, she had been poorly and got well again; and sometimes she had gone out visiting, and they had had to do without her till she returned; and so, although the days and weeks of her absence went on to months, still it was only the same thing they had felt before, continued rather longer; and meantime the little events of each day rose up to distract their attention. They got up, and dined, and went to bed as usual. They were sometimes merry, sometimes naughty, as usual. People made them nice presents, or sent for them to pleasant treats, as usual—perhaps more than usual; their father did all he could to supply the place of the lost one, but never could name her name; and soon they forgot that they had ever had a mamma at all. Soon? Ay, long before friends and strangers lead left off saying ‘Poor little things’ at sight of them, and long before the black frocks and crape-trimmed bonnets were laid aside, which, indeed, they wore double the usual length of time.”

“And how old were they?” asked No. 6, in a whisper.

“Four and five,” replied Aunt Judy; “old enough to know what they liked and disliked from hour to hour. Old enough to miss what had pleased them, till something else pleased them as well. But not old enough to look forward and know how much a mother is wanted in life; and, therefore, what a terrible loss the loss of a mother is.”

“It’s a very sad story I’m afraid,” remarked No. 6.

“Not altogether,” said Aunt Judy, smiling, “as you shall hear. One day the two little motherless girls went hand in hand across one of the courts of the great Charity Institution in London, where their grandmamma lived, into the old archway entrance, and there they stood still, looking round them, as if waiting for something. The old archway entrance opened into a square, and underneath its shelter there was a bench on one side, and on the other the lodge of the porter, whose business it was to shut up the great gates at night.

“The porter had often before looked at the motherless children as they passed into the shadow of his archway, and said to himself, ‘Poor little things;’ for just so, during many years of his life, he had watched their young mother pass through, and had exchanged words of friendly greeting with her.

“And even now, although it was at least a year and a half since her death, when he saw the waiting children seat themselves on the bench opposite his door, the old thought stole over his mind. How sad that she should have been taken away so early from those little ones! How sad for them to be left! No one—nothing—in this world, could supply the loss of her protecting care.—Poor little things!—and not the less so because they were altogether unconscious of their misfortune; and here, with the mourning casting a gloom over their fair young faces, were looking with the utmost eagerness and delight towards the doorway,—now and then slipping down from their seats to take a peep into the Square, and see if what they expected was coming,—now and then giggling to each other about the grave face of the old man on the other side of the way.

“At last, one, who had been peeping a bit as before, exclaimed, with a smothered shout, ‘Here he is!’ and then the other joined her, and the two rushed out together into the Square and stood on the pavement, stopping the way in front of a lad, who held over his arm a basket containing hares’ and rabbits’ skins, in which he carried on a small trade.

Here he is

“They looked up with their smiling faces into his, and he grinned at them in return, and then they said, ‘Have you got any for us to-day?’ on which he set down his basket before them, and told them they might have one or two if they pleased, and down they knelt upon the pavement, examining the contents of his basket, and talked in almost breathless whispers to each other of the respective merits, the softness, colour, and prettiness, of—what do you think?”

At the first moment No. 6, being engrossed by the story, could not guess at all; but in another instant she recollected, and exclaimed:—

“Oh, Aunt Judy, do you mean those were the rabbits’ tails you told about?”

“They were indeed, No. 6,” replied Aunt Judy; “their grandmamma’s cook had given them one or two sometime before, and there being but few entertaining games which two children can play at alone, and these poor little things being a good deal left to themselves, they invented a play of their own out of the rabbits’ tails. I think the pleasant feel of the fur, which was so nice to cuddle and kiss, helped them to this odd liking; but whatever may have been the cause, certain it is they did get quite fond of them—pretended that they could feel, and were real living things, and talked of them, and to them, as if they were a party of children.

“They called them ‘Tods’ and ‘Toddies,’ but they had all sorts of names besides, to distinguish one from the other. There was, ‘Whity,’ and ‘Browny,’ and ‘Softy,’ and ‘Snuggy,’ and ‘Stripy,’ and many others. They knew almost every hair of each of them, and I believe could have told which was which, in the dark, merely by their feel.

“This sounds ridiculous enough, does it not, dear No. 6?” said Aunt Judy, interrupting herself.

No. 6 smiled, but she was too much interested to wish to talk; so the story proceeded.

“Now you must know that I have looked rather curiously at hares’ and rabbits’ tails myself since I first heard the story; and there actually is more variety in them than you would suppose. Some are nice little fat things—almost round, with the hair close and fine; others longer and more skinny, and with poor hair, although what there is may be of a handsome colour. And as to colour, even in rabbits’ tails, which are white underneath, there are all shades from grey to dark brown one the upper side; and the patterns and markings differ, as you know they do on the fur of a cat. In short, there really is a choice even in hares’ and rabbits’ tails, and the more you look at them, the more delicate distinctions you will see.

“Well, the poor little girls knew all about this, and a great deal more, I dare say, than I have noticed, for they had played at fancy-life with them, till the Tods had become far more to them than any toys they possessed; actually, in fact, things to love; and I dare say if we could have watched them at night putting their Tods to bed, we should have seen every one of them kissed.

“It was a capital thing, as you may suppose, for keeping the children quiet as well as happy in the nursery, at the top of the London house, in one particular corner of which the basket of Tods was kept. But when grandmamma’s bell rang, which it did day by day as a summons, after the parlour breakfast was over, the Tods were put away; and it was dolls, or reasonable toys of some description, which the motherless little girls took down with them to the drawing-room; and I doubt whether either grandmamma or aunt knew of the Tod family in the basket up-stairs.

“After the affair had gone on for a little time, the children were accidentally in the kitchen when the rabbit-skin dealer called, and the cook begged him to give them a tail or two; and thenceforth, of course, they looked upon him as one of their greatest friends; and if they wanted fresh Tods, they would lie in wait for him in the archway entrance, for fear he should go by without coming in to call at their grandmamma’s house. And on the day I have described, two new brothers, ‘Furry’ and ‘Buffy,’ were introduced to the Tod establishment, and the talking and delight that ensued, lasted for the whole afternoon.

“Nobody knew, I believe; but certainly if anybody had known how the hearts of those children were getting involved over the dead rabbits’ tails, it would have been only right to have tried to lead their affection into some better direction. What a waste of good emotions it was, when they cuddled up their Tods in an evening; invented histories of what they had said and done during the day, and put them by at last with caresses something very nearly akin to human love!”

“Oh, dear Aunt Judy,” exclaimed No. 6, “if their poor mamma had but been there!”

“All would have been right then, would it not, No. 6?”

No. 6 said “Yes” from the very depths of her heart.

“As it seems to us, you should say,” continued Aunt Judy; “but that is all. It could not have seemed so to the God who took their mother away.”

“Aunt Judy—”

“No. 6, I am telling you a very serious truth. Had it indeed been right for the children that their mother should have lived, she would not have been taken away. For some reason or other it was necessary that they should be without the comfort, and help, and protection, of her presence in this world. We cannot understand it, but a time may come when we may see it all as clearly as we now see the folly of those children who so doted upon senseless rabbits’ tails.”

“Oh, Aunt Judy, but it was still very, very sad.”

“Yes, about that there cannot be a doubt, and I am as much inclined as anybody else to say, ‘Poor little things’ every time I mention them. But now let me go on with the story, for it has a sort of end as well as beginning. The Tod affair came at last to their grandmamma’s ears.”

“I am so glad,” cried No. 6.

“You will not say so when I tell you how it happened,” was Aunt Judy’s rejoinder. “The fact was, that one unfortunate day one of the Tods disappeared. Whether it lead been left out of the basket when grandmamma’s bell rang, and so got swept away by the nurse and burnt, I cannot say; but, at any rate, when the children went to their play one morning, ‘Softy,’ their dear little ‘Softy,’ was gone. He was the fattest-furred and finest-haired of all the Tod family, and the one about whom they invented the prettiest stories; he was, in fact, the model, the out-of-the-way-amiable pattern Tod. They could not believe at first that he really was gone. They hunted for him in every hole and corner of their nursery and bed-room; they looked for him all along the passages; they tossed all the other Tods out of the basket to find him, as if they really were—even in their eyes—nothing but rabbits’ tails; they asked all the servants about him, till everybody’s patience was exhausted, and they got angry; and then at last the children’s hope and temper were both exhausted too, and they broke out into passionate crying.

“This was vexatious to the nurse, of course; but her method of consolation was not very judicious.

“‘Why, bless my heart,’ was her beginning, ‘what nonsense! Didn’t the children know as well as she did, that hares’ and rabbits’ tails were not alive, and couldn’t feel? and what could it signify of one of them was thrown away and lost? They’d a basket-full left besides, and it was plenty of such rubbish as that! They were all very well to play with up in the nursery, but they were worth nothing when all was said and done!’

“This was completely in vain, of course. The children sat on the nursery floor and cried on just the same; and by-and-by went away to the corner of the room where the Tod-basket was kept, and bewailed the loss of poor ‘Softy’ to his brothers and sisters inside.

“As the time approached, however, for grandmamma’s summoning bell, the nurse began to wonder what she could do to stop this fretting, and cool the red eyes; so she tried the coaxing plan, by way of a change.

“‘If she was such nice little girls with beautiful dolls and toys, she never would fret so about a rabbit’s tail, to be sure! And, besides, the boy was sure to be round again very soon with the hare and rabbit skins; and if they would only be good, and dry their eyes, she would get him to give them as many more as they pleased. Quite fresh new ones. She dared say they would be as pretty again as the one that was lost.’

“If nurse had wished to hit upon an injudicious remark, she could not have succeeded better. What did they care for ‘fresh new’ Tods instead of their dear ‘Softy?’ And the mere suggestion that any others could be prettier, turned their regretful love into a sort of passionate indignation; yet the nurse had meant well, and was astonished when the conclusion of what was intended to be a kind harangue, was followed by a louder burst of crying than ever.

“It must be owned that the little girls had by this time got out of grief into naughtiness; and there was now quite as much petted temper as sorrow in their tears; and lo! while they were in the midst of this fretful condition, grandmamma’s summoning bell was heard, and they were obliged to go down to her.

“You can just imagine their appearance when they entered the drawing-room with their eyes red and swelled, their cheeks flushed, and anything but a pleasant expression over their faces. Of course, grandmamma and aunt immediately made inquiries as to the reason of so much disturbance, but the children were scarcely able to utter the usual ‘good morning;’ and when called upon to tell their cause of trouble, did nothing but begin to cry afresh.

“Whereupon their aunt was dispatched up-stairs to find out what was amiss; and then, for the first time, she heard from the nurse the history of the Tod family, the children’s devotion to them, and their present vexatious grief about the loss of a solitary one of what she called their stupid bits of nonsense.

“Foolish as the whole affair sounds in looking back upon it, it certainly was one which required rather delicate handling, and I doubt whether anybody but a mother could have handled it properly. Grandmamma and aunt had every wish to do for the best, but they hardly took enough into consideration, either the bereaved condition of those motherless little ones, or their highly fanciful turn of mind. Yet nobody was to blame; the children spent all the summer with their father in the country, and all the winter with their grandmamma in London; and, therefore, no continued knowledge of their characters was possible, for they were always birds of passage everywhere. Certainly, however, it was a great mistake, under such circumstances, for grandmamma and aunt to have broken rudely into the one stronghold of childish comfort, which they had raised up for themselves.”

Aunt Judy paused, and No. 6 really looked frightened as to what was coming next, and asked what Aunt Judy could mean that they did. “Were they very angry?”

“No, they were not very angry,” Aunt Judy said; “perhaps if they had been only that, the whole thing would have passed over and been forgotten.

“But they held grave consultation upon the subject, and made it too serious, in my opinion, and I dare say you will think so too. Meantime the naughty children were turned out of the room while they talked, and the mystery of this, sobered their temper considerably; so that they made no further disturbance, but wandered up and down the stairs, and about the hall, in silent discomfort.

“At one time they thought they heard the drawing-room door open, and their aunt go up-stairs towards the nursery department again; but then for a long while they heard no more; and at last, childlike, began to amuse themselves by seeing how far along the oil-cloth pattern they could each step, as they walked the length of the hall, the great object being to stretch from one particular diamond to another, without touching any intermediate mark.

“In the midst of the excitement of this, they heard their aunt’s voice calling to them from the middle of the last flight of stairs. There was something in her face, composed as it was, which alarmed them directly, and there they stood quite still, gazing at her.

“‘Grandmamma and I,’ she began, ‘think you have been very silly indeed in making such a fuss about those rabbits’ tails; and you have been very naughty indeed to-day, very naughty, in crying so ridiculously, and teazing all the servants, because of one being lost. You can’t play with them rationally, nurse is sure, and so we think you will be very much better without them. Grandmamma has sent me to tell you—You will never see the Tods, as you call them, any more.’

“Aunt Judy, it was horrible!” cried No. 6; “savage and horrible!” she repeated, and burst the next instant into a flood of tears.

“Oh, my old darling No. 6,” cried Aunt Judy, covering the sobbing child quite round with both her arms, “surely you are not going into hysterics about the rabbits’ tails too! I doubt if even their little mammas did that. Come! you must cheer up, or mamma will leave to be sent for to say that if you are so unreasonable, you must never listen to Aunt Judy’s stories any more.”

No. 6’s emotion began to subside under the comfortable embrace, and Aunt Judy’s joke provoked a smile.

“There now, that’s good!” cried Aunt Judy; “and now, if you won’t be ridiculous, I will finish the story. I almost think the prettiest part is to come.”

This was consolation indeed; but No. 6 could not resist a remark.

“But, Aunt Judy, wasn’t that aunt—”

“Hush, hush,” interrupted Aunt Judy, “I apologized for both aunt and grandmamma before I told you what they did. They meant to do for the best, and

‘The best can do no more.’

They cured the evil too, though in what you and I think rather a rough manner. And rough treatment is sometimes very effectual, however unpleasant. It was but a preparation for the much harder disappointments of older life.”

“Poor little things!” ejaculated No. 6, once more. “Just tell me if they cried dreadfully.”

“I don’t think I care to talk much about that, dear No. 6,” answered her sister. “They had cried almost as much as they could do in one day, and were stupified by the new misfortune, besides which, they had a feeling all the time of having brought it on themselves by being dreadfully naughty. It was a sad muddle altogether, I must confess. The shock upon the poor children’s minds at the time must have been very great, for the memory of that bereavement clung to them through grown-up life, as a very unpleasant recollection, when a thousand more important things had passed away forgotten from their thoughts. In fact, as I said, the motherless little girls really broke their hearts over a parcel of rabbits’ tails. But I must go on with the story. After a day or two of dull desolation, the children wearied even of their grief. And both grandmamma and aunt became very sorry for them, although the fatal subject of the Tods was never mentioned; but they bought them several beautiful toys which no child could help looking at or being pleased with. Among these presents was a brown fur dog, with a very nice face and a pair of bright black eyes, and a curly tail hung over his back in a particularly graceful manner; and this was, as you may suppose, in the children’s eyes, the gem of all their new treasures. The feel of him reminded them of the lost Tods; and in every respect he was, of course, superior. They named him ‘Carlo,’ and in a quiet manner established him as the favourite creature of their play. And thus, by degrees, and as time went on, their grief for the loss of the Tods abated somewhat; and at last they began to talk about them to each other, which was a sure sign that their feelings were softened.

“But you will never guess what turn their conversation took. They did not begin to say how sorry they had been, or were; nor did they make any angry remarks about their aunt’s cruelty; but one day as they were sitting playing with Carlo, in what may be called the Tod corner of the nursery, the eldest child said suddenly to her sister, in a low voice

“‘What do you think our aunt has really done with the Tods?’

“A question which seemed not at all to surprise the other, for she answered, in the same mysterious tone:—

“‘I don’t know, but I don’t think she could burn them.’

“‘And I don’t, either,’ was the rejoinder. ‘Perhaps she has only put them somewhere where we cannot get at them.’

“The next idea came from the younger child:—

“‘Do you think she’ll ever let us have them back again?’

“But the answer to this was a long shake of the head from the wiser elder sister. And then they began to play with Carlo again.

“But after that day they used often to exchange a few words together on the subject, although only to the same effect—their aunt could not have burnt them, they felt sure. She never said she had burnt them. She only said, ‘You will never see the Tods any more.’

“Perhaps she had only put them by; perhaps she had put them by in some comfortable place; perhaps they were in their little basket in some closet, or corner of the house, quite as snug as up in the nursery.

“And here the conversation would break off again. As to asking any questions of their aunt, that was a thing that never crossed their minds. It was impossible; the subject was so fatally serious! . . . But I believe there was an involuntary peeping about into closets and out-of-the-way places whenever opportunity offered; yet no result followed, and the Tods were not found.

“One night, two or three months later, and just before the little things were moved back from London to their country home; and when they were in bed in their sleeping room, as usual, and the nurse had left them, and had shut the door between them and the day nursery, where she sat at work, the elder child called out in a whisper to the younger one:—

“‘Sister, are you asleep?’

“‘No. Why?’

“‘I’ll tell you of a place where the Tods may be.’

“‘Where?’

“‘The cellar.’

“‘Do you think so?’

“‘Yes. I think we’ve looked everywhere else. And I think perhaps it’s very nice down there with bits of sawdust here and there on the ground. I saw some on the bottle to-day, and it was quite soft. Aunt would be quite sure we should never see them there. I dare say it’s very snug indeed all among the barrels and empty bottles in that cellar we once peeped into.’

“The younger child here began to laugh in delighted amusement, but the elder one bade her ‘hush,’ or the nurse would hear them; and then proceeded whispering as before

“‘It’s a great big place, and they could each have a house, and visit each other, and hide, and make fun.’

“‘And I dare say Softy was put there first,’ interposed the younger sister.

“‘Ay, and how pleased the others would be to find him there! Only think!’

“And they did think. Poor little things, they lay and thought of that meeting when ‘the others’ were put in the cellar where ‘Softy’ already was, ready to welcome them to his new home; and they talked of all that might have happened on such an occasion, and told each other that the Tods were much happier altogether there, than if the others had remained in the nursery separated from dear little Softy. In short, they talked till the door opened, and the nurse, unsuspicious of the state of her young charges, went to bed herself, and sleep fell on the whole party.

“But a new world had now opened before them out of the very midst of their sorrow itself. The fancy home of the Tods was almost a more available source of amusement, than even playing with the real things had been; and sometimes in the early morning, sometimes for the precious half-hour at night, before sleep overtook them, the little wits went to work with fresh details and suppositions, and they related to each other, in turns, the imaginary events of the day in the cellar among the barrels. Each morning, when they went down-stairs, Carlo was put in the Tod corner of the nursery and instructed to slip away, as soon as he could manage it, to the Tods in the cellar, and hear all that they had been about.

“And marvellous tales Mr. Carlo used to bring back, if the children’s accounts to each other were to be trusted. Such running about, to be sure, took place among those barrels and empty bottles. Such playing at bo-peep. Such visits of ‘Furry’ and his family to ‘Buffy’ and his family, when the little ‘Furrys’ and ‘Buffys’ could not be kept in order, but would go peeping into bungholes, and tumbling nearly through, and having to be picked out by Carlo, drabbled and chilled, but ready for a fresh frolic five minutes after!

“Such comical disputes, too, they had, as to how far the grounds round each Tod’s house extended; such funny adventures of getting into their neighbour’s corner instead of their own, in the dim light that prevailed, and being mistaken for a thief; when Carlo had to come and act as judge among them, and make them kiss and be friends all round!

“Such dinners, too, Carlo brought them, as he passed through the kitchen on his road to the cellar, and watched his opportunity to carry off a few un-missed little bits for his friends below. Dear me! his contrivances on that score were endless, and the odd things he got hold of sometimes by mistake, in his hurry, were enough to kill the Tods with laughing—to say nothing of the children who were inventing the history!

“Then the care they took to save the little drops at the bottom of the bottles, for Carlo, in return for all the trouble he had, was most praiseworthy; and sometimes, when there was a rather larger quantity than usual, they would have such a feast!—and drink the healths of their dear little mistresses in the nursery up-stairs.

“In short, it was as perfect a fancy as their love for the Tods, and their ideas of enjoyment could make it. Nothing uncomfortable, nothing sad, was ever heard of in that cellar-home of their lost pets. No quarrelling, no crying, no naughtiness, no unkindness, were supposed to trouble it. Nothing was known of, there, but comfort and fun, and innocent blunders and jokes, which ended in fun and comfort again. One thing, therefore, you see, was established as certain throughout the whole of the childish dream:—the departed favourites were all perfectly happy, as happy as it was possible to be; and they sent loving messages by Carlo to their old friends to say so, and to beg them not to be sorry for them, for, excepting that they would like some day to see those old friends again, they had nothing left to wish for in their new home:—

“And here the Tod story ends!” remarked Aunt Judy, in conclusion, “and I beg you to observe, No. 6, that, like all my stories, it ends happily. The children had now got hold of an amusement which was safe from interference, and which lasted—I am really afraid to say how long; for even after the fervour of their Tod love had abated, they found an endless source of invention and enjoyment in the cellar-home romance, and told each other anecdotes about it, from time to time, for more, I believe, than a year.”

When Aunt Judy paused here, as if expecting some remark, all that No. 6 could say, was:—

“Poor little things!”

“Ay, they were still that,” exclaimed Aunt Judy, “even in the midst of their new-found comfort. Oh, No. 6, when one thinks of the strange way in which they first of all created a sorrow for themselves, and then devised for themselves its consolation, what a pity it seems that no good was got out of it!”

It was not likely that No. 6 should guess what the good was which Aunt Judy thought might have been got out of it; and so she said; whereupon Aunt Judy explained:—

“Did it not offer a quite natural opportunity,—if any kind friend had but known of it,—of speaking to those children of some of the sacred hopes of our Christian faith?—of leading them, through kind talk about their own pretty fancies, to the subject of what really becomes of the dear friends who are taken away from us by death?

“Had I been their Aunt Judy,” she continued, “I should have thought it no cruelty, but kindness then, to have spoken to them about their lost mother, and told them that she was living now in a place where she was much, much happier, than she had ever been before, and where one of the very few things she had left to wish for, was, that one day she might see them again: not in this world, where people are so often uncomfortable and sad, but in that happy one where there is no more sorrow, or crying, for God Himself wipes away the tears from all eyes.

“I should have told them besides,” pursued Aunt Judy, “that it would not please their dear mother at all for them to fret for her, and fancy they couldn’t do without her, and be discontented because God had taken her away, and think it would have been much better for them if He had not done so—(as if He did not know a thousand times better than they could do:)—but that it would please her very much for them to pray to God to make them good, so that they might all meet together at last in that very happy place.

“In short, No. 6, I would have led them, if possible, to make a comforting reality to themselves of the next world, as they had already got a comforting fancy out of the cellar-dream of the Tods. And that is the good, dear child, which I meant might have been got out of the Tod adventure.”

Aunt Judy ceased, but there was no chance of seeing the effect of what she had said on No. 6’s face, for it was laid on her sister’s lap; probably to hide the tears which would come into her eyes at Aunt Judy’s allusion to what she had said about her.

At last a rather husky voice spoke:—

“You can’t expect people to like what is so very sad, even if it is—what you call—right—and all that.”

“No! neither does God expect it!” was Aunt Judy’s earnest reply. “We are allowed to be sorry when trials come, for we feel the suffering, and cannot at present understand the blessing or necessity of it. But we are not allowed to ‘sorrow without hope;’ and we are not allowed, even when we are most sorry, to be rebellious, and fancy we could choose better for ourselves than God chooses for us.”

Aunt Judy’s lesson, as well as story, was ended now, and she began talking over the entertaining part of the Tod history, and then went on to other things, till No. 6 was quite herself again, and wanted to know how much was true about the motherless little girls; and when she found from Aunt Judy’s answer that the account was by no means altogether an invention, she went into a fever-fidget to know who the children were, and what had become of them; and finally settled that the one thing in the world she most wished for, was to see them.

Nor would she be persuaded that this was a foolish idea, until Aunt Judy asked her how she would like to be introduced to a couple of very old women, with huge hooked noses, and beardy, nut-cracker chins, and be told that those were the motherless little girls who had broken their hearts over rabbits’ tails!—an inquiry which tickled No. 6’s fancy immensely, so that she began to laugh, and suggest a few additions of her own to the comical picture, in the course of doing which, she fortunately quite lost sight of the “one thing” which a few minutes before she had “most wished for in the world!”