THE BISHOP AND THE GEESE

When they reached the beach again the old lady was just in the act of departing for her lunch. She cheerfully paid the donkey man, but Jill was watching the transaction anxiously, and pursued the man to the end of the beach, where she held an earnest conversation with him.

"Jill is trying to make him give up his tenth," said Jack confidentially to the old lady. "I don't think she'll do it."

"What do you mean, child?"

Explanation followed, and with Bumps' eager and breathless interruptions, the old lady got quite mystified.

"Why do you keep talking about a tenth?" she said.

"Because it's a tenth that God expects from everybody," said Jack. "I suppose you give yours to somebody to look after, don't you?"

"I don't give a tenth of my money away at all," said the lady snappishly. "That is an old Jewish law. Thank goodness, we are not Jews, but Christians."

"But Miss Falkner told us it wasn't only meant for Jews," argued Jack. "She says everybody who gets money from God ought to give back some to Him."

"Yeth," nodded Bumps; "and becauth we can't send it up to heaven, Miss Falkner thaid we could thpend it on good things for God down on the earth, and we would be very happy if you gave us your money for our bag, wouldn't we, Jack?"

Jack was not a good beggar. He got hot and red.

"We don't ask people for money," he said; "but if they like to give us their tenth we should be pleased."

"Jill asks," said Bumps. "She asks everybody!"

"Oh, dear!" said the old lady, "here she comes running back! I must go. There, my boy, there's a coin for your bag!"

She put a sovereign into Jack's hand.

"Is it your tenth?" he asked wonderingly; "what a lot of money you must have! Thank you very much!"

But the old lady was gone, and strangely enough the children never saw her again.

"Have you got any money from the donkey man?" asked Jack.

"Yes," said Jill in quiet triumph. "He gave me sixpence. I don't know whether it was quite a tenth, but he seemed very pleased to do it—at least he got pleased. He said he had never done such a good thing in his life, and he hoped that it would be remembered. I told him God wouldn't forget it, for He can't forget anything. And he told me he only lives a mile from Chilton Common, and when the church is built I'm to let him know, and he will come and see it. He's a nice man!"

Then Jack opened his hand, and let her see what he had got. Jill screamed in ecstacy; the red bag was produced, and when both coins were safely deposited, they ran indoors to their dinner, feeling they had had an eventful morning.

The days passed slowly. There were days when everything went wrong, when Jill, as well as Jack and Bumps, was seized with the spirit of mischief and naughtiness. She was very repentant when the day was over, but Annie did not understand her moods, and was not so long-suffering as Miss Falkner.

"It's no good leading me such a life all day, and then thinking you make it all right by saying you're sorry," she said with great severity. "You're all talk, Miss Jill! pretending to be so good with your bag of money, and making Miss Bumps as wicked as yourself when you choose! I've no belief in them that talks good, and acts wicked!"

Jill's passionate temper was aroused at once.

"I don't pretend, and I don't talk good! And I hate you, Annie! It's you that make us wicked! Miss Falkner never does! I'll run away, and go straight home, and catch the scarlet fever! I won't stay with you!"

Annie laughed scornfully.

"Words again! You want a piece clipped out of your saucy tongue, Miss Jill!"

Jill was sitting up in bed. With all her strength she flung her pillow in Annie's face.

Annie caught it, and marched out of the room with it.

"You naughty, impudent child! I shall take it right away to punish you. You can sleep without it to-night!"

Jill buried her burning cheeks in her bolster, and began to cry.

Bumps sat up and ruefully regarded her.

"Never mind, Jill. Annie is horrid. Oh, pleath don't cry!"

"It's no good," sobbed poor Jill. "Annie doesn't mean me to finish off being wicked. She tries to make me go on for ever. Nobody understands but Miss Falkner. It's no use to try to be good again. I shall have to go on being in disgrace. I've gone miles away from my path to the Golden City to-day, and just when I'm trying to find my way back again, Annie pushes me away. I shall give it up altogether. I shall throw my red bag in the sea to-morrow, and shall give no more tenths to God. I shall be as wicked as I possibly can. I'm meant to be wicked!"

"Oh, dear!" sighed Bumps, in despair. "You do want Miss Falkner, Jill."

"Of course I do," said Jill, angrily. "How can I be good without her?"

"I wonder," said Bumps, "if God would do instead!"

There was silence. Bumps sometimes—baby though she was—had the rare faculty of hitting the nail straight on the head.

Jill stopped her weeping and began to think.

"I think," she said, after a few minutes' silence, "I'll just tell God all about it. I'd like to tell Him how nasty Annie is!"

Better thoughts soon stole into her angry little heart.

"There's one thing," she said presently, startling Bumps out of her first sleep; "God knows the proper truth about me. He knows I am sorry that I was tiresome to-day! Annie doesn't believe me, but He will. And He knows I don't pretend to be good!"

"Yeth," assented Bumps, drowsily; "He knowth it!"

Jill dropped asleep comforted.

The long time was over at last. Mona recovered and went away for change of air; the house was cleaned and re-papered, and one day Miss Falkner arrived to take them home.

"We almost like lessons now," said Jack. "We've had such long holidays."

But when lessons began the children found them irksome. They had become thoroughly unsettled, and accustomed to careless, unpunctual ways. Miss Falkner's regular routine fretted and chafed them. She found she needed all her patience to bring them and keep them under her control.

"I think," Jill said to Jack, one day, and her face was thoughtful as she spoke, "that no one can be properly good till they are twenty. I wonder how old Miss Falkner is."

"She's just as old as Mona," said Jack. "I heard Mona tell Miss Webb so."

"How funny! But she's not a bit like Mona."

"No. Miss Webb said to Mona when she told her, 'You are a child beside her, Mona.' Now, what did she mean by that?"

Jill pondered.

"Miss Falkner looks older. And I expect being good makes you old. Miss Falkner is very good. I'm sure when I try to be very good, and make you and Bumps good too, I feel—I feel a hundred years old!"

"I don't think children are meant to be very good," said Jack. "People always talk of us as if we're wicked. P'raps we ought to be good on Sundays."

"If we're walking to the Golden City, we ought to be good every day," said Jill decidedly.

Jack shook his curly head.

"I've thought of a lovely game I'm going to make Bumps play at."

"What?" asked Jill in an eager tone.

"Why you know the story that comes in our reading-books about the geese who saved Rome by cackling when the enemy was creeping up. I'm going to be the enemy, and Bumps and you must be asleep."

"But where?" asked Jill. "It was on the top of a high hill."

"Yes," nodded Jack; "but I've thought it out. There's the church tower. We'll do it to-morrow afternoon, and we'll take the geese up first."

"That will be splendid," said Jill; "only how will you do it? Remember the swans! I think if we can get hold of their food, and hold it out to them, they'll follow us, but how will you climb up to the tower?"

"Tom Sanders has done it. He told me he did, and I'm longing to try. You climb the yew tree first, and then get on to the ivy. Then you get in at the belfry window. He got out again and went up by the lightning-conductor, but I thought the geese would see me climbing in at the window and then they'll cackle—and of course I shan't be able to come on any further."

"But supposing they don't cackle?"

"Well, that's the game—to see if they do! If they don't, I shall know Roman history tells lies. Because, of course, these geese are just the same as those were."

"These are English geese!" Jill said doubtfully.

Jack was undaunted. He was a true little Briton.

"Then they must be better than Roman geese, and they'll cackle twice as loud, and be double as fierce!"

So the next afternoon when lessons were over, instead of playing in the garden, the three children stole quietly off to the farmyard.

The prospect was so exciting that even Jill had no qualms of conscience. Jack had persuaded one of the farm lads who looked after the geese to save him a dish of their food. Armed with a big dish he boldly went up to the biggest gander, who greedily put his head into it at once. It was the signal for all the others to follow suit. Then Jack, holding the dish, ran out of the farmyard; and to the children's delight, away strode the flock of geese after him, stretching out their necks and shrieking in protest. Jill and Bumps followed behind with switches to drive them along. Unfortunately, the fowls joined the chase, and two small black pigs escaped out of the yard and with squeals of delight raced into the flower-garden. Out into the lane the little procession went, and the geese behaved very well. Occasionally one or two would dive into a ditch after frogs, which delayed progress, but with Jill and Bumps chasing them behind, and Jack enticing them in front, they at last reached the church-yard, which was not very far away. The door of the tower was found open, and the geese were with a little difficulty driven in. But when Jill turned and shut the door a pandemonium ensued. The frightened birds screamed, and beat their wings against each other. As to making them mount the spiral stone steps, it seemed an impossibility. When Jack caught hold of the gander and tried to hoist him up, he turned and pecked at his hand so viciously that it began to bleed. Bumps got frightened, and crept into an empty oak chest. Jill coaxed and beat the birds by turns, and geese and children shrieked at the top of their voices, till the old tower echoed and re-echoed with the noise.

But Jack and Jill never gave up any cherished plan very easily.

By perseverance, and with much toil and persuasion, they got two young geese to the top. Their wings were strong and they flew most of the way. With these two birds they were forced to be content. Poor Bumps was forgotten, and the gander and his tribe were so furious at being entrapped in such a manner, that they shrieked and fought like furies. Bumps felt if she showed herself amongst them she would literally be torn to pieces, so she lay still in her chest, her little heart panting and throbbing with fright.

Presently she heard voices in the church, and in a few minutes the belfry door was flung open.

Mr. Errington had been entertaining his bishop that day, and had brought him and a party of ladies to look at a beautiful old screen in the church. Their consternation and amazement was considerable when the flock of angry geese confronted them. The ladies beat a hasty retreat behind the yew tree, and the bishop spoke sternly to the vicar, though there was a twinkle in his eye.

"Is this usual, Errington? Is the belfry your poultry-yard?"

And poor Mr. Errington was so utterly astonished that he could not utter a sound.

Away waddled the geese down the church-yard path, and then Bumps lifted up her voice, and her little body too, thereby causing a second alarm.

"Pleath it's only me," she explained, climbing out of her retreat. "The geeth were so angry, I wath quite frightened!"

"Are you a little goose girl?" asked the bishop, bending over her, and putting his hand under her chin.

"No," said Bumps, feeling distinctly aggrieved; "I'm not a gooth at all. It's a game, only the thtupid geeth won't play properly!"

"I am afraid my lord," said Mr. Errington, recovering his presence of mind, "that some young people have been making free of this belfry without my knowledge."

Then turning to Bumps he said, "Where are your brother and sister? I fancy they are the culprits."

"They're upstairs," said Bumps, tears filling her blue eyes, which she vainly struggled to keep back. "They're playing the game without me. They always does when I get left behind. The geeth wouldn't go up-stairs, but Jack and Jill made two of them go."

"And what game are you playing?" asked the bishop gently.

"It's something about Rome and geeth that have to cackle, and an enemy. Jack is the enemy; he is climbing up outthide, and the top is Rome, and the geeth have to wake Jill and me up. But I've never been athleep, and it's all no good!"

Tears dropped on her white pinafore.

The bishop looked more amused than angry. He turned to Mr. Errington—

"They say that some of our churches lead to Rome, Errington, but these youngsters have been early in discovering it. I should like to go up to Rome, I think. Will you lead the way?"

So Mr. Errington obeyed, and the ladies rustled after them, taking Bumps with them. When they came out on top, two geese were being held down forcibly by a very hot and dirty little boy and girl.

"Stop your cackling, you brutes!" Jack was screaming. "I want you to stop till I come up! They're no good, Jill, if they go on like this, and they'll be flying over the tower next. What shall we do? Let us tie their legs!"

"Jack!"

Mr. Errington's tone was so sternly indignant that the boy started and let go of his goose, which flew frantically between the bishop's legs, knocked Bumps down, and finally took a header down the the belfry stairs.

"What do you mean by this? How dare you use this church for such a purpose? Isn't your garden large enough for your games?"

"We haven't got a tower," mumbled Jack.

Jill broke in eagerly. "Please Mr. Errington don't be angry. We haven't been into the church. We wouldn't think of playing games in there. We didn't think you'd mind up here, and it is a history game."

"It seems to me," said the bishop, looking at Mr. Errington with a twinkle in his eye, "that you have some scamps amongst your parishioners as well as examples. I have been hearing"—here the bishop turned to Jack and Jill—"of some good little children that I think you would do well to imitate. You might expend some of your superfluous zeal on following their example. These children are steadily putting by a tenth of all their money, and persuading many of their friends to do the same, with the object of building a mission-room in a neglected neighbourhood!"

Jack and Jill looked at the bishop with open eyes and mouth.

"But that's us!" gasped Jill.

There was a moment's silence. Then the bishop's sense of humour overcame him and he laughed loud, the ladies joining him, only Mr. Errington preserving his gravity.

As he descended the stairs again, he said to the vicar, "One lives and learns, Errington. I had forgotten the complex natures of children."