“Are you better, dear?”

“I'm very well, thank you,” said the boy.

“In your mind, I mean. You were cross last time, you know.”

Compton remembered his mother's lessons about manly behavior, and said, in a jaunty way, “Well, I s'pose I was a little cross.”

Now the other cunning little thing had come to apologize, if there was no other way to recover her admirer. But, on this confession, she said, “Oh, if you are sorry for it, I forgive you. You may come and talk.”

Then Compton came and stood on the gate, and they held a long conversation; and, having quarreled last time, parted now with rather violent expressions of attachment.

After that they made friends and laid their little hearts bare to each other; and it soon appeared that Compton had learned more, but Ruperta had thought more for herself, and was sorely puzzled about many things, and of a vastly inquisitive mind. “Why,” said she, “is good thing's so hard, and had things so nice and easy? It would be much better if good things were nice and bad ones nasty. That is the way I'd have it, if I could make things.”

Mr. Compton shook his head and said many things were very hard to understand, and even his mamma sometimes could not make out all the things.

“Nor mine neither; I puzzle her dreadful. I can't help that; things shouldn't come and puzzle me, and then I shouldn't puzzle her. Shall I tell you my puzzles? and perhaps you can answer them because you are a boy. I can't think why it is wicked for me to dig in my little garden on a Sunday, and it isn't wicked for Jessie to cook and Sarah to make the beds. Can't think why mamma told papa not to be cross, and, when I told her not to be cross, she put me in a dark cupboard all among the dreadful mice, till I screamed so she took me out and kissed me and gave me pie. Can't think why papa called Sally 'Something' for spilling the ink over his papers, and when I called the gardener the very same for robbing my flowers, all their hands and eyes went up, and they said I was a shocking girl. Can't think why papa giggled the next moment, if I was a shocking girl: it is all puzzle—puzzle—puzzle.”

One day she said, “Can you tell me where all the bad people are buried? for that puzzles me dreadful.”

Compton was posed at first, but said at last he thought they were buried in the churchyard, along with the good ones.

“Oh, indeed!” said she, with an air of pity. “Pray, have you ever been in the churchyard, and read the writings on the stones?”

“No.”

“Then I have. I have read every single word; and there are none but good people buried there, not one.” She added, rather pathetically, “You should not answer me without thinking, as if things were easy, instead of so hard. Well, one comfort, there are not many wicked people hereabouts; they live in towns; so I suppose they are buried in the garden, poor things, or put in the water with a stone.”

Compton had no more plausible theory ready, and declined to commit himself to Ruperta's; so that topic fell to the ground.

One day he found her perched as usual, but with her bright little face overclouded.

By this time the intelligent boy was fond enough of her to notice her face. “What's the matter, Perta?”

“Ruperta. The matter? Puzzled again! It is very serious this time.”

“Tell me, Ruperta.”

“No, dear.”

“Please.”

The young lady fixed her eyes on him, and said, with a pretty solemnity, “Let us play at catechism.”

“I don't know that game.”

“The governess asks questions, and the good little boy answers. That's catechism. I'm the governess.”

“Then I'm the good little boy.”

“Yes, dear; and so now look me full in the face.”

“There—you're very pretty, Ruperta.”

“Don't be giddy; I'm hideous; so behave, and answer all my questions. Oh, I'm so unhappy. Answer me, is young people, or old people, goodest?”

“You should say best, dear. Good, better, best. Why, old people, to be sure—much.”

“So I thought; and that is why I am so puzzled. Then your papa and mine are much betterer—will that do?—than we are?”

“Of course they are.”

“There he goes! Such a child for answering slap bang I never.”

“I'm not a child. I'm older than you are, Ruperta.”

“That's a story.”

“Well, then, I'm as old; for Mary says we were born the same day—the same hour—the same minute.”

“La! we are twins.”

She paused, however, on this discovery, and soon found reason to doubt her hasty conclusion. “No such thing,” said she: “they tell me the bells were ringing for you being found, and then I was found—to catechism you.”

“There! then you see I am older than you, Ruperta.”

“Yes, dear,” said Ruperta, very gravely; “I'm younger in my body, but older in my head.”

This matter being settled so that neither party could complain, since antiquity was evenly distributed, the catechizing recommenced.

“Do you believe in 'Let dogs delight?'”

“I don't know.”

“What!” screamed Ruperta. “Oh, you wicked boy! Why, it comes next after the Bible.”

“Then I do believe it,” said Compton, who, to tell the truth, had been merely puzzled by the verb, and was not afflicted with any doubt that the composition referred to was a divine oracle.

“Good boy!” said Ruperta, patronizingly. “Well, then, this is what puzzles me; your papa and mine don't believe in 'Dogs delight.' They have been quarreling this twelve years and more, and mean to go on, in spite of mamma. She is good. Didn't you know that your papa and mine are great enemies?”

“No, Ruperta. Oh, what a pity!”

“Don't, Compton, don't: there, you have made me cry.”

He set himself to console her.

She consented to be consoled.

But she said, with a sigh, “What becomes of old people being better than young ones, now? Are you and I bears and lions? Do we scratch out each other's eyes? It is all puzzle, puzzle, puzzle. I wish I was dead! Nurse says, when I'm dead I shall understand it all. But I don't know; I saw a dead cat once, and she didn't seem to know as much as before; puzzle, puzzle. Compton, do you think they are puzzled in heaven?”

“No.”

“Then the sooner we both go there, the better.”

“Yes, but not just now.”

“Why not?”

“Because of the cowslips.”

“Here's a boy! What, would you rather be among the cowslips than the angels? and think of the diamonds and pearls that heaven is paved with.”

“But you mightn't be there.”

“What! Am I a wicked girl, then—wickeder than you, that is a boy?”

“Oh no, no, no; but see how big it is up there;” they cast their eyes up, and, taking the blue vault for creation, were impressed with its immensity. “I know where to find you here, but up there you might be ever so far off me.”

“La! so I might. Well, then, we had better keep quiet. I suppose we shall get wiser as we get older. But Compton, I'm so sorry your papa and mine are bears and lions. Why doesn't the clergyman scold them?”

“Nobody dare scold my papa,” said Compton, proudly. Then, after reflection, “Perhaps, when we are older, we may persuade them to make friends. I think it is very stupid to quarrel; don't you?”

“As stupid as an owl.”

“You and I had a quarrel once, Ruperta.”

“Yes, you misbehaved.”

“No, no; you were cross.”

“Story! Well, never mind: we did quarrel. And you were miserable directly.”

“Not so very,” said Compton, tossing his head.

“I was, then,” said Ruperta, with unguarded candor.

“So was I.”

“Good boy! Kiss me, dear.”

“There—and there—and there—and—”

“That will do. I want to talk, Compton.”

“Yes, dear.”

“I'm not very sure, but I rather think I'm in love with you—a little, little bit, you know.”

“And I'm sure I'm in love with you, Ruperta.”

“Over head an' ears?”

“Yes.”

“Then I love you to distraction. Bother the gate! If it wasn't for that, I could run in the meadow with you; and marry you perhaps, and so gather cowslips together for ever and ever.”

“Let us open it.”

“You can't.”

“Let us try.”

“I have. It won't be opened.”

“Let me try. Some gates want to be lifted up a little, and then they will open. There, I told you so.”

The gate came open.

Ruperta uttered an exclamation of delight, and then drew back.

“I'm afraid, Compton,” said she, “papa would be angry.”

She wanted Compton to tempt her; but that young gentleman, having a strong sense of filial duty, omitted so to do.

When she saw he would not persuade her, she dispensed. “Come along,” said she, “if it is only for five minutes.”

She took his hand, and away they scampered. He showed her the cowslips, the violets, and all the treasures of the meadow; but it was all hurry, and skurry, and excitement; no time to look at anything above half a minute, for fear of being found out: and so, at last, back to the gate, beaming with stolen pleasure, glowing and sparkling with heat and excitement.

The cunning thing made him replace the gate, and then, after saying she must go for about an hour, marched demurely back to the house.

After one or two of these hasty trips, impunity gave her a sense of security, and, the weather getting warm, she used to sit in the meadow with her beau and weave wreaths of cowslips, and place them in her black hair, and for Comp-ton she made coronets of bluebells, and adorned his golden head.

And sometimes, for a little while, she would nestle to him, and lean her head, with all the feminine grace of a mature woman, on his shoulder.

Said she, “A boy's shoulder does very nice for a girl to put her nose on.”

One day the aspiring girl asked him what was that forest.

“That is Bassett's wood.”

“I will go there with you some day, when papa is out.”

“I'm afraid that is too far for you,” said Compton.

“Nothing is too far for me,” replied the ardent girl. “Why, how far is it?”

“More than half a mile.”

“Is it very big?”

“Immense.”

“Belong to the queen?”

“No, to papa.”

“Oh!”

And here my reader may well ask what was Lady Bassett about, or did Compton, with all his excellent teaching, conceal all this from his mother and his friend.

On the contrary, he went open-mouthed to her and told her he had seen such a pretty little girl, and gave her a brief account of their conversation.

Lady Bassett was startled at first, and greatly perplexed. She told him he must on no account go to her; if he spoke to her, it must be on papa's ground. She even made him pledge his honor to that.

More than that she did not like to say. She thought it unnecessary and undesirable to transmit to another generation the unhappy feud by which she had suffered so much, and was even then suffering. Moreover, she was as much afraid of Richard Bassett as ever. If he chose to tell his girl not to speak to Compton, he might. She was resolved not to go out of her way to affront him, through his daughter. Besides, that might wound Mrs. Bassett, if it got round to her ears; and, although she had never spoken to Mrs. Bassett, yet their eyes had met in church, and always with a pacific expression. Indeed, Lady Bassett felt sure she had read in that meek woman's face a regret that they were not friends, and could not be friends, because of their husbands. Lady Bassett, then, for these reasons, would not forbid Compton to be kind to Ruperta in moderation.

Whether she would have remained as neutral had she known how far these young things were going, is quite another matter; but Compton's narratives to her were, naturally enough, very tame compared with the reality, and she never dreamed that two seven-year-olds could form an attachment so warm, as these little plagues were doing.

And, to conclude, about the time when Mr. Compton first opened the gate for his inamorata, Lady Bassett's mind was diverted, in some degree, even from her beloved boy Compton, by a new trouble, and a host of passions it excited in her own heart.

A thunder-clap fell on Sir Charles Bassett, in the form of a letter from Reginald's tutor, informing him that Reginald and another lad had been caught wiring hares in a wood at some distance and were now in custody.

Sir Charles mounted his horse and rode to the place, leaving Lady Bassett a prey to great anxiety and bitter remorse.

Sir Charles came back in two days, with the galling news that his son and heir was in prison for a month, all his exertions having only prevailed to get the case summarily dealt with.

Reginald's companion, a young gypsy, aged seventeen, had got three months, it being assumed that he was the tempter: the reverse was the case, though.

When Sir Charles told Lady Bassett all this, with a face of agony, and a broken voice, her heart almost burst: she threw every other consideration to the winds.

“Charles,” she cried, “I can't bear it: I can't see your heart wrung any more, and your affections blighted. Tear that young viper out of your breast: don't go on wasting your heart's blood on a stranger; HE IS NOT YOUR SON.”