“I don’t feel like story-telling,” said the purse. “I have been opening and shutting my mouth all my life, and I am tired of it.”

The purse looked very snappish.

“Why you wouldn’t be a purse if you couldn’t open and shut your mouth,” said Carl.

“Very true,” said the other; “but one may be tired of being a purse, mayn’t one? I am.”

“Why?” said Carl.

“My life is a failure.”

“I don’t know what that means,” said Carl.

“It means that I never have been able to do what I was meant to do, and what I have all my life been trying to do.”

“What’s that?” said Carl.

“Keep money.”

“You shall keep my cent for me,” said Carl.

“Think of that! A red cent! Anything might hold a red cent. I am of no use in the world.”

“Yes, you are,” said Carl,—“to carry my cent.”

“You might carry it yourself,” said the purse.

“No, I couldn’t,” said Carl. “My pockets are full.”

“You might lose it, then. It’s of no use to keep one cent. You might as well have none.”

“No, I mightn’t,” said Carl; “and you’ve got to keep it: and you’ve got to tell me your story, too.”

“Maybe you’ll lose me,” said the purse. “I wish your mother had.”

“No, I sha’n’t lose you,” said Carl; and he lifted up his two legs on each side of the purse and slapped them down in the sand again;—“I sha’n’t lose you.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” said the purse.

“Were you ever lost?” said Carl.

“Certainly I was.”

“Then how did you get here?”

“That’s the end of my story—not the beginning.”

“Well, make haste and begin,” said Carl.

“The first place where I was settled was in a big fancy-store in London,” the purse began.

“Where were you before that?” said Carl.

“I was in one or two rooms where such things are made, and where I was made.”

“Where were you before that?”

“I wasn’t a purse before that. I wasn’t anywhere.”

“What are you made of?” said Carl shortly.

“I am made of sealskin, the sides, and my studs and clasp are silver.”

“Where did the sides and the clasp come from?”

“How should I know?” said the purse.

“I didn’t know but you did,” said Carl.

“I don’t,” said the purse.

“Well, go on,” said Carl. “What did you do in that big shop?”

“I did nothing. I lay in a drawer, shut up with a parcel of other purses.”

“Were they all sealskin, with silver clasps?”

“Some of them; and some were morocco and leather, with steel clasps.”

“I’m glad you have got silver clasps,” said Carl,—“you look very bright.”

For Mrs. Krinken had polished up the silver of the clasp and of every stud along the seams, till they shone again.

“I feel very dull now,” said the purse. “But in those days I was as bright as a butterfly, and as handsome. My sides were a beautiful bright red.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Carl; “they are not red a bit now.”

“That’s because I have been rubbed about in the world till all my first freshness is worn off. I am an old purse, and have seen a good deal of wear and tear.”

“You aren’t torn a bit,” said Carl.

“If you don’t shut up, I will,” said the purse.

“I won’t,” said Carl. “And you’ve got to go on.”

“The next place I was in was a gentleman’s pocket.”

“How did you get there?”

“He came to buy a purse, and so a number of us were thrown out upon the counter, and he looked at us and tried us, and bought me and put me in his pocket.”

“What did you do there?”

“There my business was to hold guineas and half-guineas, and crowns and half-crowns, and all sorts of beautiful pieces of silver and gold.”

“And cents?” said Carl.

“Not such a thing. My master hadn’t any. He threw all his pennies away as fast as he got ’em.”

“Threw ’em where?” said Carl.

“Anywhere—to little boys, and beggars, and poor people, and gate-openers, and such like.”

“Why didn’t he keep ’em?”

“He had enough besides—gold and silver. He didn’t want pennies and halfpennies.”

“I wish you had kept some of them,” said Carl.

“I never had them to keep. I couldn’t keep but what he gave me, nor that either. He was always taking out and putting in.”

“Did he wear the red off?” said Carl.

“No. I didn’t stay long enough with him. He was travelling in some part of England with a friend, riding over a wide lonely plain one day; and they saw a little distance ahead a cow in the road, lying down, right across their path. ‘Stapleton,’ said my master, ‘let us clear that cow.’ ‘Can’t your servant do that?’ said Mr. Stapleton. ‘Do what?’ said my master. ‘Clear that beast from the road,’ said his friend. ‘Pshaw!’ said my master,—‘I mean, let us clear her at a bound. Leave her in quiet possession of the road, and we take an air-line over her back.’ ‘Suppose she took a stupid notion to get out of our way just as we are in hers?’ said Mr. Stapleton. ‘I don’t suppose anything of the kind,’ said my master; ‘we shall be too quick for her.’ With that they put spurs to their horses, but it happened that Mr. Stapleton’s horse got the start and was a little ahead. He cleared the cow well enough, but, unluckily it gave her an impression that just where she was it was a poor place to be; and she was throwing up her hind legs at the very minute my master came to take the leap. He was flung over and over, he and his horse, over and under each other—I don’t know how. I only know my master was killed.

“His friend and his servant picked him up and laid him by the roadside; and while Mr. Stapleton went full speed to the nearest town to get help, the other stayed behind to take care of his master, and do what could be done for him. But he very soon found that nothing could be done for him; and then, as nobody was in sight, he took the opportunity to do what he could for himself, by rifling his master’s pockets. He pulled out several things which I suppose he didn’t dare to keep, for he put them back again after a careful look at them, and after carefully taking off some seals from the watch-chain. I did not fare so well. He had me in his hands a long time, taking out and putting in silver and gold pieces,—afraid to keep too much, and not willing to leave a crown that might be kept safely; when a sudden step heard near, and the bursting out of a loud whistle, startled him. He jumped as if he had been shot; which was natural enough, as he was running a pretty good chance of getting hanged. I was dropped, or thrown behind him, in the grass; and before the countryman who came up had done asking questions, the horses of Mr. Stapleton and assistants were seen over the rising ground. They carried away my unfortunate first master, and left me in the grass.

“I knew I shouldn’t stay there long, but I was found sooner than I hoped. Before the evening had closed in, the sun was shining yet, I heard the tread of light feet,—somebody nearing the road and then crossing it. In crossing, this somebody came just upon me; and a kind sunbeam touching one of my silver points, I embraced the opportunity to shine as hard as I could. People say it is dangerous to have bright parts; I am sure I never found it out. I shone so she could not help seeing me. It was a girl about fifteen or sixteen years old: a slim figure, very tidy in her dress, with light brown hair nicely put back from her face; and her face a very quiet, sweet one. She looked at me, inside and out, looked up and down the road, as if to see where I had come from, and finally put me in her pocket. I was very glad nobody was in sight anywhere, for I knew by her face she would have given me up directly. She left the road then, and went on over the common, which was a wide, lonely, barren plain, grass-grown, and with here and there a bunch of bushes, or a low stunted tree. She was going after her cows, to bring them home; and presently, seeing them in the distance, she stood still and began to call them.”

“How did she call them?” said Carl.

“‘Cuff, cuff, cuff!’ That was while they were a good way off; when they came near,—‘Sukey’ and ‘Bessie,’ and ‘Jenny.’”

“And did they come when she called?”

“Left off eating as soon as they heard her; and then, when they had looked a little while to make sure it was she, they walked off slowly to come up to her.”

“How many cows were there?” said Carl.

“Sukey was a great black cow, and always marched first. Dolly was a beautiful red cow, and always was second. Three more came after her in a line, and when they got up with their little mistress she set off to go home, and the whole five of them followed gravely in order.

“The common was smooth and wide, not much broken with ups and downs and little footpaths—or cow-paths—tracking it in all directions. We wound along, my mistress and the cows, and I in my mistress’s pocket, through one and another of these; passing nothing in the shape of a house but a huge gloomy-looking building at some distance, which I afterwards found was a factory. A little way beyond this, not more than a quarter of a mile, we came to a small brown house, with one or two out-buildings. The house stood in a little field, and the outbuildings in another little field, close beside this one. Everything was small; house, and barn, and shed, and cow-field, and garden-field; but it was all snug, and neat, too.

“My little mistress—for she was slender, fair, and good, and such people we always call little——”

“But she wasn’t large, was she?” said Carl.

“She was not as large as if she had been grown up, but no more was she little for fifteen or sixteen. She was just right. She opened a gate of the barnyard, and held it while all the five cows marched slowly in, looking around them as if they expected to see some change made in the arrangements since they had gone out in the morning. But the old shed and manger stood just where they had left them, and Sukey stopped quietly in the middle of the barnyard and began to chew the cud, and Dolly and Bessie and Beauty took their stand in different places after her example; while Whiteface went off to see if she could find something in the mangers. She was an old cow that never had enough.”

“Was Beauty a handsome cow?” said Carl.

“No, she was the ugliest one of the whole set; one of her horns was broken, and the other lopped down directly over her left eye.”

“What was she called Beauty for, then?”

“Why, I heard say that she was a very pretty calf, and was named then in her youth; but when she grew older she took to fighting, and broke one of her horns, and the other horn bent itself down just in the wrong place. There is no knowing, while they are little, how calves or children will turn out.

“When their mistress had shut the gate upon the five cows, she opened another small gate in the fence of the field where the house stood; and there she went in, through two beds of roses and sweet herbs that were on each side of the narrow walk, up to the door. That stood open to let her in.

“It was the nicest place you ever saw. A clean scrubbed floor, with a thick coarse piece of carpet covering the middle of it; a dark wooden table and wooden chairs, nice and in their places, only one chair stood on the hearth, as if somebody had just left it. There was a big, wide, comfortable fire-place, with a fire burning in it, and over the fire hung a big iron tea-kettle, in the very midst of the flames, and singing already. On each side of the chimney brown wooden cupboards filled up the whole space from the floor to the ceiling. All tidy and clean. The hearth looked as if you might have baked cakes on it.

“The girl stood a minute before the fire, and then went to the inner door and called, ‘Mother!’

“A pleasant voice from somewhere said, ‘Here!’

“‘In the milk-room?’

“‘Yes!’

“And my little mistress went along a short passage—brown it was, walls, and floor, and all, even the beams overhead—to the milk-room; and that was brown, too, and as sweet as a rose.

“‘Mother, why did you put on the tea-kettle?’

“‘’Cause I wanted to have some tea, dear.’

“‘But I would have done it.’

“‘Yes, honey, I know. You’ve quite enough to do.’

“‘Look here what I’ve found, mother.’

“‘Can’t look at anything, daughter. Go along and milk and I will hear you at tea-time.’

“Then my little mistress took up the pails, and went out by another way, through another gate that opened directly into the cows’ yard; and there she stripped the yellow sweet milk into the pails, from every one of the five cows she had driven home. Not one of them but loved to be milked by her hand; they enjoyed it, every cow of them; standing quiet and sleepily munching the cud, except when now and then one of them would throw back her head furiously at some fly on her side; and then my mistress’s soft voice would say,—

“‘So, Beauty!’

“And Beauty was as good as possible to her, though I have heard that other people did not find her so.

“Mrs. Meadow took the milk-pails at the dairy door, and my mistress came back into the kitchen to get tea. She put up a leaf of the brown table and set a tray on it, and out of one of the cupboards she fetched two tea-cups and saucers; so I knew there were no more in the family. Then two little blue-edged plates and horn-handled knives, and the rest of the things; and when the tea was made she dressed up the fire, and stood looking at it and the tea-table by turns, till her mother showed herself at the door, and came in taking off her apron. She was the nicest-looking woman you ever saw.”

“She wasn’t as nice as my mother,” said Carl.

“Mrs. Krinken never was half so nice. She was the best-natured, cheerfullest, pleasantest-faced woman you could find, as bright as one of her own red apples.”

“Mine are bright,” said Carl.

“Yours are bright for Christmas, but hers were bright for every day. Everything about her was bright. Her spoons, and the apples, and the brass candlesticks, and the milk-pans, and the glass in the windows, and her own kind heart. The mother and daughter had a very cozy tea; and I was laid upon the table and my story told, or rather the story of my being found; and it was decided that I should remain in the keeping of the finder, whom her mother, by some freak of habit, rarely called anything but ‘Silky.’”

“What for?” said Carl.

“Maybe you’ll find out if you don’t ask so many questions,” said the purse snappishly. ‘It’s yours, Silky,’ Mrs. Meadow said, after looking at me and rubbing the silver mountings. ‘It’s odd such a handsome purse should have no money in it.’

“‘I’m not going to put it away out of sight, mother,’ said Silky; ‘I’m going to have the good of it. I’ll keep it to hold my milk-money.’

“‘Well, dear, here goes the first,’ said Mrs. Meadow;—‘here’s a silver penny I took for milk while you were after the cows.’

“‘Who came for it, mother?’

“‘Don’t know—a lady riding by—and she gave me this.’

“So a little silver coin was slipped into my emptiness, and my little mistress laid me on a shelf of the other cupboard, alongside of an old Bible. But she left the door a crack open; I could see them at work, washing up the tea-things, and then knitting and sewing upon the hearth, both of them by a little round table. By and by Mrs. Meadow took the Bible out and read, and then she and Silky kneeled down, close together, to pray. They covered up the fire after that, and shut the cupboard door, and went off to bed; and I was left to think what a new place I had come to, and how I liked it.

“It was a pretty great change. In my old master’s pocket I had kept company with wealth and elegance—the tick of his superb watch was always in my ear; now, on Mrs. Meadow’s cupboard shelf, I had round me a few old books, beside the Bible; an hour-glass; Mrs. Meadow’s tin knitting-needle case; a very illiterate inkstand, and stumpy clownish old pen; and some other things that I forget. There I lay, day and night; from there I watched my two mistresses at their work and their meals; from thence I saw them, every night and morning, kneel together and pray; and there I learned a great respect for my neighbour the Bible. I always can tell now what sort of people I have got among, by the respect they have for it.”

“My mother has one,” said Carl.

“Her great chest knows that,” said the purse. “I’ve been a tolerably near neighbour of that Bible for ten years; and it rarely gets leave to come out but on Sundays.”

“She reads it on Sunday,” said Carl.

“Yes, and puts it back before Monday. Mrs. Krinken means to be good woman, but these other people were good; there’s all the difference.

“My business was to lie there on the shelf and keep the milk-pennies, and see all that was going on. Silky sold the milk. The people that came for it were mostly poor people from the neighbouring village, or their children going home from the factory; people that lived in poor little dwellings in the town, without gardens or fields, or a cow to themselves, and just bought a penny’s worth, or a halfpenny’s, at a time—as little as they could do with. There were a good many of these families, and among them they took a pretty good share of the milk; the rest Mrs. Meadow made up into sweet butter—honest sweet butter, she called it, with her bright face and dancing eye; and everything was honest that came out of her dairy.

“The children always stopped for milk at night, when they were going home; the grown people, for the most part, came in the morning. After I had been on the cupboard shelf awhile however, and got to know the faces, I saw there was one little boy who came morning and evening too. In the morning he fetched a halfpennyworth and in the evening a pennyworth of milk, in a stout little brown jug; always the same brown jug; and always in the morning he wanted a halfpennyworth and in the evening a pennyworth. He was a small fellow, with a shock of red hair, and his face all marked with the small-pox. He was one of the poorest-looking that came. There was never a hat on his head; his trowsers were fringed with tags; his feet bare of shoes or stockings. His jacket was always fastened close up; either to keep him warm or to hide how very little there was under it. Poor little Norman Finch! That was his name.

“He had come a good many mornings. One day early, just as Mrs. Meadow and Silky were getting breakfast, his little red head poked itself in again at the door with his little brown jug, and ‘Please, ma’am,—a ha’penn’orth.’

“‘Why don’t you get all you want at once, Norman?’ said Silky, when she brought the milk.

“‘I don’t want only a ha’penn’orth,’ said Norman.

“‘But you’ll want a pennyworth to-night again, won’t you?’

“‘I’ll stop for it,’ said Norman, casting his eyes down into the brown jug, and looking more dull than usual.

“‘Why don’t you take it all at once, then?’

“‘I don’t want it.’

“‘Have you got to go back home with this before you go work?’

“‘No——I must go,’ said Norman, taking hold of the door.

“‘Are you going to the factory?’

“‘Yes, I be.’

“‘How will your mother get her milk?’

“‘She’ll get it when I go home.’

“‘But not this, Norman. What do you want this for?’

“‘I want it—She don’t want it,’ said the boy, looking troubled,—‘I must go.’

“‘Do you take it to drink at the factory?’

“‘No—It’s to drink at the factory—She don’t want it,’ said Norman.

“He went off. But as Silky set the breakfast on the table she said,—

“‘Mother, I don’t understand; I am afraid there is something wrong about this morning milk.’

“‘There’s nothing wrong about it, honey,’ said Mrs. Meadow, who had been out of the room; ‘it’s as sweet as a clover-head. What’s the matter?’

“‘O, not the milk, mother; but Norman Finch’s coming after it in the morning. He won’t tell me what it’s for; and they never used to take but a pennyworth a day, and his jug’s always empty now at night; and he said it wasn’t and it was to drink at the factory; and that his mother didn’t want it; and I don’t know what to think.’

“‘Don’t think anything, dear,’ said Mrs. Meadow, ‘till we know something more. We’ll get the child to let it out. Poor little creature! I wish I could keep him out of that place.’

“‘Which place, mother?’

“‘I meant the factory.’

“‘I don’t believe he can have a good home, mother, in his father’s house. I am sure he can’t. That Finch is a bad man.’

“‘It’s the more pity if it isn’t a good home,’ said Mrs. Meadow, ‘for it is very little he sees of it. It’s too much for such a morsel of a creature to work all day long.’

“‘But they are kind at the pin-factory, mother. People say they are.’

“‘Mr. Carroll is a nice man,’ said her mother. ‘But nine hours is nine hours. Poor little creature!’

“‘He looks thinner and paler now than he did six months ago.’

“‘Yes; and then it was winter, and now it is summer,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘I wish I knew what he wants to do with that milk!’ said Silky.

“The next morning Norman was there again. He put himself and his jug only half in at the door, and said, somewhat doubtfully,—

“‘Please, ma’am, a ha’penn’orth?’

“‘Come in, Norman,’ said Silky.

“He hesitated.

“‘Come!—come in—come in to the fire; it’s chilly out of doors. You’re in good time, aren’t you?’

“‘Yes,—but I can’t stay,’ said the boy, coming in however, and coming slowly up to the fire. But he came close, and his two hands spread themselves to the blaze as if they liked it, and the poor little bare feet shone in the firelight on the hearth. It was early, very cool and damp abroad.

“‘I’ll get you the milk,’ said Silky, taking the jug;—‘you stand and warm yourself. You’ve plenty of time.’

“She came back with the jug in one hand and a piece of cold bacon in the other, which she offered to Norman. He looked at it, and then grabbed it, and began to eat immediately. Silky stood opposite to him with the jug.

“‘What’s this milk for, Norman?’ she said, pleasantly.

“He stopped eating and looked troubled directly.

“‘What are you going to do with it?’

“‘Carry it—home,’ he said, slowly.

“‘Now?—home now? Are you going back with it now?’

“‘I am going to take it to the factory.’

“‘What do you do with it there?’

“‘Nothing,’ said Norman, looking at his piece of bacon, and seeming almost ready to cry;—‘I don’t do nothing with it.’

“‘You needn’t be afraid to tell me, dear,’ Silky said, gently. ‘I’m not going to do you any harm. Does your mother know you get it?’

“He waited a good while, and then when she repeated the question, taking another look at Silky’s kind quiet face, he said half under his breath,—

“‘No—’

“‘What do you want it for, then, dear? I’d rather give it to you than have you take it in a wrong way.—Do you want it to drink?’

“Norman dropped his piece of bacon.

“‘No,’ he said, beginning to cry,—‘I don’t want it—I don’t want it at all!’—

“Silky picked up the bacon, and she looked troubled in her turn.

“‘Don’t cry, Norman,—don’t be afraid of me.—Who does want it?’

“‘Oh, don’t tell!—’ sobbed the child;—‘My little dog!—’

“‘Now don’t cry!’ said Silky.—‘Your little dog?’

“‘Yes!—my little dog,’—And he sighed deeply between the words.

“‘Where is your little dog?’

“‘He’s up yonder—up to the factory.’

“‘Who gave him to you?’

“‘Nobody didn’t give him to me. I found him.’

“‘And this milk is for him?’

“‘He wants it to drink.’

“‘Does your mother know you get it?’

“Norman didn’t answer.

“‘She don’t?’ said Silky. ‘Then where does the money come from, Norman?’ She spoke very gently.

“‘It’s mine,’ said Norman.

“‘Yes, but where do you get it?’

“‘Mr. Swift gives it to me.’

“‘Is it out of your wages?’

“Norman hesitated, and then said ‘Yes,’ and began to cry again.

“‘What’s the matter?’ said Silky. ‘Sit down and eat your bacon. I’m not going to get you into trouble.’

“He looked at her again and took the bacon, but said he wanted to go.

“‘What for?—it isn’t time yet.’

“‘Yes—I want to see my little dog.’

“‘And feed him? Stop and tell me about him. What colour is he?’

“‘He’s white all over.’

“‘What’s his name?’

“‘Little Curly Long-Ears.’

“‘What do you call him?—all that?’

“‘I call him Long-Ears.’

“‘But why don’t you feed him at home, Norman?’

“‘He lives up there.’

“‘And don’t he go home with you?’

“‘No.’

“‘Why not?’

“‘Father wouldn’t let him. He’d take him away, or do something to him.’

“Norman looked dismal.

“‘But where does he live?’

“‘He lives up to the factory.’

“‘But you can’t have him in the factory.’

“‘Yes, I have him,’ said Norman, ‘because Mr. Carroll said he was to come in, because he was so handsome.’

“‘But he’ll get killed in the machinery, Norman, and then you would be very sorry.’

“‘No, he won’t get killed; he takes care: he knows he mustn’t go near the ’chinery, and he doesn’t; he just comes and lies down where I be.’

“‘And does Mr. Swift let him?’

“‘He has to, ’cause Mr. Carroll said he was to.’

“‘But your money—where does it come from, Norman?’

“‘Mr. Swift,’ said Norman, very dismally.

“‘Then doesn’t your mother miss it, when you carry home your wages to her?’

“‘No.’

“‘She must, my child.’

“‘She don’t, ’cause I carry her just the same I did before.’

“‘How can you, and keep out a ha’penny a-day?’

“‘’Cause I get more now—I used to have fourpence ha’penny, and now they give me fi’pence.’

“And Norman burst into a terrible fit of crying, as if his secret was out, and it was all up with him and his dog too.

“‘Give me the milk and let me go!’ he exclaimed through his tears. ‘Poor Curly!—poor Curly!’

“‘Here ’tis,’ said Silky, very kindly. ‘Don’t cry—I’m not going to hurt you or Curly either. Won’t he eat anything but milk?—won’t he eat meat?’

“‘No—he can’t—’

“‘Why can’t he?’

“‘He don’t like it.’

“‘Well; you run off to the factory now and give Curly his milk; and stop again to-morrow.’

“‘And won’t you tell?’ said Norman, looking up.

“‘I shall not tell anybody that will get you into trouble. Run, now!’

“He dried his tears, and ran, fast enough, holding the little brown jug carefully at half-arm’s length, and his bare feet pattering over the ground as fast as his short legs could make them.

“Silky stood looking gravely after him.

“‘I’m so sorry for him, mother!’ she said. ‘This won’t do; it’s very wrong, and he’ll get himself into dreadful trouble besides.’

“‘Poor fellow!—we’ll see, honey;—we’ll try what we can do,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“The next morning Norman came again, and Mrs. Meadow was there.

“‘How is Long-Ears, Norman? and how are you?’ she said cheerfully. But she did everything cheerfully.

“‘He’s well,’ said Norman, looking a little doubtfully at these civilities.

“‘And you are not well?’ said Mrs. Meadow, kindly. ‘Suppose you come and see me to-morrow?—it’s Sunday, you know, and you have no work—will you? Come bright and early, and we’ll have a nice breakfast, and you shall go to church with me, if you like.’

“Norman shook his head. ‘Curly’ll want to see me,’ he said.

“‘Well, about that just as you like. Come here to breakfast—that you can do. Mother’ll let you.’

“‘Yes, she’ll let me,’ said Norman, ‘and I can go to see Long-Ears afterwards. You won’t tell?’ he added, with a glance of some fear.

“‘Tell what?’

“‘About him,’ said Norman, nodding his head in the direction of the factory.

“‘Long-Ears?—Not I! not a word.’

“So he set off, with a gleam of pleasure lighting up his little face, and making his feet patter more quick over the ground.

“‘Poor little creature!’ Mrs. Meadow said again, most heartily, and this time the tear was standing in her eye.

“The next morning it rained,—steadily, constantly, straight up and down. But at the usual time Mrs. Meadow and Silky were getting breakfast.

“‘It does come down!’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘I’m so sorry, mother,’ said Silky; ‘he won’t come.’

“She had hardly turned her back to see to something at the fire, when there he was behind her, standing in the middle of the floor; in no Sunday dress, but in his everyday rags, and those wet through and dripping. How glad and how sorry both mother and daughter looked! They brought him to the fire and wiped his feet, and wrung the water from his clothes as well as they could: but they didn’t know what to do; for the fire would not have dried him in all the day; and sit down to breakfast dry, with him soaking wet at her side, Mrs. Meadow could not. What to put on him was the trouble; she had no children’s clothes at all in the house. But she managed. She stripped off his rags, and tacked two or three towels about him; and then over them wound a large old shawl, in some mysterious way, fastening it over the shoulders: in such a manner that it fell round him like a loose straight frock, leaving his arms quite free. Then, when his jacket and trowsers had been put to dry, they sat down to breakfast.

“In his odd shawl wrapper, dry and warm, little Norman enjoyed himself, and liked very much his cup of weak coffee, and bread and butter, and the nice egg which Mrs. Meadow boiled for him. But he did not eat like a child whose appetite knew what to do with good things; he was soon done; though after it his face looked brighter and cheerier than it ever had done before in that house.

“Mrs. Meadow left Silky to take care of the breakfast things; and, drawing her chair up on the hearth, she took the little boy on her lap and wound her arms about him.

“‘Little Norman,’ said she kindly, ‘you won’t see Long Ears to-day.’

“‘No,’ said Norman, with a sigh, in spite of breakfast and fire,—‘he will have to go without me.’

“‘Isn’t it good that there is one day in the week when the poor little tired pin-boy can rest?’

“‘Yes—it is good,’ said Norman, quietly; but as if he was too accustomed to being tired to take the good of it.

“‘This is God’s day. Do you know who God is, Norman?’

“‘He made me,’ said Norman,—‘and every body.’

“‘Yes, and every thing. He is the great King over all the earth; and he is good, and he has given us this day to rest and to learn to be good and please him. Can you read the Bible, Norman?’

“‘No, I can’t read,’ said Norman. ‘Mother can.’

“‘You know the Bible is God’s book, written to tell us how to be good; and whatever the Bible says we must mind, or God will be angry with us. Now the Bible says, ‘Thou shalt not steal.’ Do you know what that means?’

“Mrs. Meadow spoke very softly.

“‘Yes,’ said Norman, swinging one little foot back and forward in the warm shine of the fire,—‘I’ve heard it.’

“‘What does it mean?’

“‘I know,’ said Norman.

“‘It is to take what does not belong to us. Now, since God has said that, is it quite right for you to take that money of your mother’s to buy milk for Long-Ears?’

“‘It isn’t her money!’ said Norman, his face changing; ‘and Long-Ears can’t starve!’

“‘It is her money, Norman;—all the money you earn belongs to her, or to your father, which is the same thing. You know it does.’

“‘But Curly must have something to eat,’ said Norman, bursting into tears. ‘Oh, don’t tell! oh, don’t tell!—’

“‘Hush, dear,’ said Mrs. Meadow’s kind voice, and her kind hand on his head;—‘I’m not going to tell; but I want you to be a good boy and do what will please God, that you may be one of the lambs of the Good Shepherd’s flock.—Do you know what I am talking about?’

“‘Yes—no—I don’t know about the lambs,’ said Norman.

“‘Do you know who Jesus Christ is?’

“‘No.’

“‘Poor little thing!’ said Silky, and the tears fell from her face as she went from the fire to the table. Norman looked at her, and so did her mother, and then they looked at each other.

“‘Jesus Christ is your best friend, little Norman.’

“‘Is he?’ said Norman, looking.

“‘Do you know what he has done for you, little pin-boy?’

“Norman looked, and no wonder, for Mrs. Meadow’s eyes were running over full, and he did not know what to make of the dropping tears; but he shook his head.

“‘It’s all told about in God’s book, dear. Little Norman Finch, like everybody else, hasn’t loved God, nor minded his commandments as he ought to do; and God would have punished us all, if Jesus Christ hadn’t come down from heaven on purpose to take our punishment on himself, so that we might be saved.’

“‘How would he have punished us?’ said Norman.

“‘He would have sent us away from him, for ever, to be in a miserable place, with devils and bad people, where we should see nothing good nor happy, and we shouldn’t be good nor happy ourselves; it’s a place so dreadful, it is called in the Bible the lake that burns with fire; and he would never let us come into his heaven, where God is, and Jesus Christ is, and the good angels, and all God’s people are, and are all as good and happy as they can be.’

“‘And would I have been punished so?’ said Norman.

“‘Yes,—the Bible says so; and every one will now, who won’t believe and love Jesus Christ.’

“‘And did he go there?’

“‘Where?’

“‘To that place—that bad place—did he go there?’

“‘What, the Lord Jesus?’

“Norman nodded.

“‘Not there,—he is God; and he is called the Son of God; he could not do that; but he did this. He came to this world and was born into this world a little child; and when he grew up to be a man, he died a cruel death for you and me—for you and me, little Norman.’

“‘And then will God not punish me now?’ said Norman.

“‘No, not a bit, if you will love the Lord Jesus and be his child.’

“‘What did he do that for?’ said Norman.

“‘Because he is so good he loved us, and wanted to save us and bring us back to be his children, and to be good and happy.’

“‘Does he love me?’ said Norman.

“‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mrs. Meadow. ‘Do you think he came to die for you and doesn’t love you? If you will love and obey him, he will love you for ever, and take care of you;—better care than any one else can.’

“‘There isn’t anybody else to take care of me,’ said Norman. ‘Mother can’t, and father don’t, much. I wish I knew about that.’

“With a look, of wonder and interest, at her daughter, Mrs. Meadow reached after her Bible, without letting Norman down from her lap; and turning from place to place, read to him the story of Christ’s death, and various parts of his life and teaching. He listened, gravely and constantly and intently, and seemed not to weary of it at all, till she was tired and obliged to stop. He made no remark then, but sat a little while with a sober face; till his own fatigue of days past came over him, and his eyelids drooped, and slipping from Mrs. Meadow’s lap, he laid himself down on the hearth to sleep. They put something under his head and sat watching him, the eyes of both every now and then running over.

“‘How much do you think he understood, mother?’ said Silky.

“‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs. Meadow, shaking her head.

“‘He listened, mother,’ said Silky.

“‘Yes. I won’t say anything more to him to-day. He’s had enough.’

“And when the little sleeper awoke, they bent all their attention to giving him a pleasant day. He had a good dinner and a nice supper. His clothes were thoroughly dried; and Mrs. Meadow said when she put them on, that if she could only get a chance of a week-day, she would patch them up comfortably for him. Towards nightfall the rain stopped, and he went home dry and warm, and with a good piece of cheese and a loaf of plain gingerbread under his arm. When he was all ready to set out he paused at the door, and looking up at Mrs. Meadow said,—

“‘Does he say we mustn’t do that?’

“‘Who, dear?’

“‘Does Jesus Christ say we mustn’t do that?’

“‘Do what?’

“‘Steal,’ said Norman, softly.

“‘Yes, to be sure. The Bible says it, and the Bible is God’s word; and Jesus said it over again when he was on the earth.’

“Norman stood a quarter of a minute, and then went out and closed the door.

“The next morning they looked eagerly for him. But he did not come. He stopped at evening, as usual, but Silky was just then busy and did not speak to him beyond a word. Tuesday morning he did not come. At night he was there again with his jug.

“‘How do you do, Norman?’ said Mrs. Meadow, when she filled it, ‘and how is Long-Ears?’

“But Norman did not answer, and turned to go.

“‘Come here in the morning, Norman,’ Mrs. Meadow called after him.

“Whether he heard her or not, he did not shew himself on his way to the factory next morning. That was Wednesday.

“‘Norman hasn’t been here these three days, mother,’ said Silky. ‘Can it be he has made up his mind to do without his halfpennyworth of milk for the dog?’

“‘Little fellow!’ said Mrs. Meadow, ‘I meant to have given it to him; skim milk would do, I dare say; but I forgot to tell him Sunday; and I told him last night to stop, but he hasn’t done it. We’ll go up there, Silky, and see how he is, after dinner.’

“‘To the factory, mother?’

“‘Ay.’

“‘And I’ll carry a little pail of milk along, mother.’

“‘Well, honey, do.’

“After dinner they went, and I went in Silky’s pocket. The factory was not a great distance from Mrs. Meadow’s house, which stood half way between that and the town. Mrs. Meadow asked for Mr. Swift, and presently he came. Mrs. Meadow was a general favourite, I had found before; everybody spoke her fair; certainly she did the same by everybody.

“‘Is little Norman Finch at work to-day, Mr. Swift?’

“‘Norman Finch? Well, yes, ma’am, he’s to work,’ said the overseer;—‘he don’t do much work this day or so.’

“‘He’s not just right well, Mr. Swift.’

“‘Well, no, I s’pose he isn’t. He hasn’t hard work neither; but he’s a poor little billet of a boy.’

“‘Is he a good boy, sir?’

“‘Average,’ said Mr. Swift;—‘as good as the average. What, you’re going to adopt him?’

“‘No, sir,’ said Mrs. Meadow; ‘I wanted to ask a few questions about him.’

“‘I don’t know any harm of him,’ said Mr. Swift. ‘He’s about like the common. Not particularly strong in the head, nor anywhere else, for that matter; but he is a good-feeling child. Yes—now I remember. It’s as much as a year ago, that I was mad with him one day, and was going to give the careless little rascal a strapping for something,—I forget what; we must keep them in order, Mrs. Meadow, let them be what they will;—I was going to give it to him, for something,—and a bold brave fellow in the same room, about twice as big and six times as strong as Norman, offered to take it and spare him. I didn’t care; it answered my purpose of keeping order just as well that Bill Bollings should have it as Norman Finch, if he had a mind;—and ever since that time Finch has been ready to lay down his body and soul for Bollings, if it could do him any service. He’s a good-hearted boy, I do suppose.’

“Mrs. Meadow and Silky looked at each other.

“‘That’s it, mother!’ said Silky. ‘That’s why he understood and took it so quick.’

“‘What a noble boy, the other one!’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘Ha? well—that was noble enough,’ said Mr. Swift; ‘but he’s a kind of harum-scarum fellow—just as likely to get himself into a scrape to-morrow as to get somebody else out of one to-day.’

“‘That was noble,’ repeated Mrs. Meadow.

“‘Norman has never forgotten it. As I said, he’d lay down body and soul for him. There’s a little pet-dog he has, too,’ Mr. Swift went on, ’that I believe he’d do as much for. A pretty creature! I would have bought it of him, and given a good price for it, but he seemed frightened at the proposal. I believe he keeps the creature here partly for fear he would lose him home.’

“‘Isn’t it against the rules, sir, to have a dog in the factory?’

“‘Entirely!—of course!’ said Mr. Swift; ‘but Mr. Carroll has said it, and so a new rule is made for the occasion. Mr. Carroll was willing to let such a pretty creature be anywhere, I believe.’

“‘I should be afraid he would get hurt.’

“‘So I was, but the dog has sense enough; he gets into no danger, and keeps out of the way like a Christian.’

“‘May we go in, sir, and see Norman for a moment?’

“‘Certainly,’ Mr. Swift said; and himself led the way.

“Through several long rooms and rows of workers went Mr. Swift, and Mrs. Meadow and Silky after him, to the one where they found little Norman. He was standing before some sort of a machine, folding papers and pressing them against rows of pins, that were held all in order and with their points ready, by two pieces of iron in the machine. Norman was not working smartly, and looked already jaded, though it was early in the afternoon. Close at his feet, almost touching him, lay the little white dog. A very little and a most beautiful creature. Soft, white, curling hair, and large silky ears that drooped to the floor, as he lay with his head upon his paws; and two gentle brown eyes looked almost pitifully up at the strangers. He did not get up; nor did Norman look round, till Mrs. Meadow spoke to him.

“‘Hey, my boy, how are you getting on?’ Mr. Swift said first, with a somewhat rough but not unkind slap across the shoulders. Norman shrugged his shoulders, and said,—

“‘Pretty well, thank you, sir,—’ when he heard Mrs. Meadow’s soft, ‘Norman, how do you do?’

“His fingers fell from the row of pin points, and he turned towards her, looking a good deal surprised and a little pleased, but with a very sober face.

“‘Where have you been these two or three days?’

“‘I’ve been here,’ said Norman gravely.

“‘How comes it you haven’t been for Long-Ears’ milk these days?’

“‘I—I couldn’t,’ said Norman.

“‘Why?’

“‘I hadn’t any money—I gave it to mother.’ He spoke low, and with some difficulty.

“‘What made you do that, Norman?’

“He looked up at her.

“‘Because,—you know,—Jesus said so.’

“Mrs. Meadow had been stooping down to speak to him, but now she stood up straight, and for a minute she said nothing.

“‘And what has Long-Ears done, dear, without his milk?’

“Norman was silent, and his mouth twitched. Mrs. Meadow looked at the little dog, which lay still where he had been when she came in, his gentle eyes having, she thought, a curious sort of wistfulness in their note-taking.

“‘Won’t he eat meat?’

“Norman shook his head and said ‘No,’ under his breath.

“‘He’s a dainty little rascal,’ said the overseer; ’he was made to live on sweetmeats and sugarplums.’ And Mr. Swift walked on.

“‘I’ve brought him some milk,’ whispered Silky; and softly stooping down she uncovered her little tin-pail and tried to coax the dog to come to it. But Norman no sooner caught the words of her whisper and saw the pail, than his spirit gave way; he burst into a bitter fit of crying, and threw himself down oh the floor and hid his face.

“Mr. Swift came back to see what was the matter. Mrs. Meadow explained part to him, without telling of Norman’s keeping the money.

“‘O well,’ said Mr. Swift,—‘but he mustn’t make such a disturbance about it—it’s against all order; and feeding the dog, too, Lois!—but it’s a pretty creature. He’s hungry, he is! Well; it’s well we don’t have ladies come to the factory every day.’

“Silky’s other name was Lois.

“‘I’ll never do so again, Mr. Swift,’ said she, gently.

“‘O I don’t say that,’ said he. ‘I don’t dislike the sight of you, Miss Lois; but I must have you searched at the door. Keep this boy quiet, now, Mrs. Meadow; and don’t stay too long; or take him with you.’

“The boy was quiet enough now. While Mr. Swift had been speaking he had raised himself from the floor, half up, and had stopped sobbing, and was looking at Long-Ears and gently touching his curly head; who, on his part, was lapping the milk with an eagerness as if he had wanted it for some time. Norman’s tears fell yet, but they fell quietly. By the time the little dog had finished the milk they did not fall at all. Till then nobody said anything.

“‘Come for it every morning again, my child,’ said Mrs. Meadow, softly;—‘I’ll give it to you. What a dear little fellow he is! I don’t wonder you love him. He shall have milk enough.’

“Norman looked up gratefully, and with a little bit of a smile.

“‘You don’t look very strong, my boy,’ said Mrs. Meadow. ‘You don’t feel right well, do you?’

“He shook his head, as if it was a matter beyond his understanding.

“‘Are you tired?’

“His eyes gave token of understanding that.

“‘Yes, I’m tired. People are not tired up there, are they?’

“‘Where, dear?’

“‘Up there—in heaven?’

“‘No, dear,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘I’ll go there, won’t I?’

“‘If you love Jesus and serve him, he will take good care of you and bring you safe there surely.’

“‘He will,’ said Norman.

“‘But you’re not going yet, I hope, dear,’ said Mrs. Meadow, kissing him. ‘Good bye. Come to-morrow, and you shall have the milk.’

“‘Will you read to me that again, some time?’ he enquired wistfully.

“Mrs. Meadow could hardly answer. She and Silky walked back without saying three words to each other; and I never saw Mrs. Meadow cry so much as she did that afternoon and evening.

“Norman came after that every morning for the dog’s milk; and many a Sunday he and Long-Ears passed part of the time with Mrs. Meadow; and many a reading he listened to there as he had listened to the first one. He didn’t talk much. He was always near his little dog, and he seemed quietly to enjoy everything at those times.

“As the summer changed into autumn, and autumn gave way to winter, Norman’s little face seemed to grow better looking, all the while it was growing more pale and his little body more slim. It grew to be a contented, very quiet and patient face, and his eye took a clearness and openness it did not use to have; though he never was a bad-looking child. ‘He won’t live long,’ Mrs. Meadow said, after every Sunday.

“The little white dog all this while grew more white and curly and bright-eyed every day; or they all thought so.

“It was not till some time in January that at last Norman stopped coming for milk, and did not go by to the factory any more. It was in a severe bit of weather, when Mrs. Meadow was shut up with a bad cold; and some days were gone before she or Silky could get any news of him. Then, one cold evening, his mother came for milk, and to say that Norman was very ill and would like to see Lois and Mrs. Meadow. She was a miserable-looking woman, wretchedly dressed, and with a jaded, spiritless air, that seemed as if everything she cared for in life was gone, or she too poor to care for it. I thought Norman must have a sad home where she was. And his father must be much worse in another way, or his mother would not have such a look.

“Silky and Mrs. Meadow got ready directly. Silky put her purse in her pocket, as she generally did when she was going to see poor people, and wrapping up warm with cloaks and shawls and hoods, she and her mother set out. It was just sunset of a winter’s day; clear enough, but uncommonly cold.

“‘It will be dark by the time we come home, mother,’ said Silky.

“‘Yes, honey, but we can find the way,’ came from under Mrs. Meadow’s hood; and after that neither of them spoke a word.

“It was not a long way; they soon came to the edge of the town, and took a poor straggling street that ran where no good and comfortable buildings shewed themselves, or at least no good and comfortable homes. Some of the houses were decently well-built, but several families lived in each of them, and comfort seemed to be an unknown circumstance; at least after Mrs. Meadow’s nice kitchen, with the thick carpet, and blazing fire, and dark cupboard doors, these all looked so. The light grew dimmer and the air grew colder, as Mrs. Meadow and Silky went down the street; and Silky was trembling all over by the time they stopped at one of these brick dwelling-houses and went in.

“The front door stood open; nobody minded that; it was nobody’s business to shut it. They went in, through a dirty entry, and up stairs that nobody ever thought of cleaning, to the third story. There Mrs. Meadow first knocked, and then gently opened the door. A man was there, sitting over the fire; a wretched tallow-light on the table hardly shewed what he looked like. Mrs Meadow spoke with her usual pleasantness.

“‘Good evening, Mr. Finch. Can I see little Norman?’

“‘Yes,—I suppose so,’ the man said, in a gruff voice, and pointing to another door; ‘they’re in yonder.’

“‘How is he?’

“‘I don’t know!—Going, I expect.’ He spoke in a tone that might have been half heartless, half heartfull. Mrs. Meadow stayed no further questions. She left him there, and went on to the inner room.

“That was so dark, hardly anything could be seen. A woman rose up from some corner—it proved to be Mrs. Finch—and went for the light. Her husband’s voice could be heard gruffly asking her what she wanted with it, and her muttered words of reply; and then she came back with it in her hand.

“The room was ill-lighted when the candle was in it, but there could be seen two beds; one raised on some sort of a bedstead, the other on the floor in a corner. No fire was in this room, and the bed was covered with all sorts of coverings; a torn quilt, an old great-coat, a small ragged worsted shawl, and Norman’s own poor little jacket and trowsers. But on these, close within reach of the boy’s hand, lay curled the little dog; his glossy white hair and soft outlines making a strange contrast with the rags and poverty and ugliness of the place.

“Norman did not look much changed, except that his face was so very pale it seemed as if he had no more blood to leave it. Mrs. Meadow and Silky came near, and neither of them at first was forward to speak. Mrs. Finch stood holding the light. Then Mrs. Meadow stooped down by the bed’s head.

“‘Little Norman,’ she said, and you could tell her heart was full of tears,—‘do you know me?’

“‘I know you,’ he said, in a weak voice, and with a little bit of smile.

“‘How do you do?’

“‘Very well,’ he said, in the same manner.

“‘Are you very well?’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m going now.’

“‘Where, dear?’

“‘You know—to that good place. Jesus will take me, won’t he?’

“‘If you love and trust him, dear.’

“‘He will take me,’ said Norman.

“‘What makes you think you’re going, dear?’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘I can’t stay,’—said Norman, shutting his eyes. He opened them again immediately. ‘I’m going,’ he said. ‘I’m so tired. I sha’n’t be tired there, shall I?’

“‘No dear,’ said Mrs. Meadow, whose power of speech was like to fail her. She kept wiping her face with her pocket-handkerchief. Norman stroked and stroked his little dog’s silky head.

“‘Poor Long-Ears!’ said he, faintly,—‘poor Long-Ears!—I can’t take care of you now. Poor Long-Ears! you’re hungry. He hadn’t had anything to eat since—since—mother?’

“‘He don’t know how time goes,’ said Mrs. Finch, who had not before spoken. ‘The dog hasn’t had a sup of anything since day before yesterday. He has a right to be hungry. I don’t know what he lives on. My husband don’t care whether anything lives or not.’

“Silky had not said a word, and she didn’t now, but she brought out that same little tin pail from under her cloak, and set it down on the floor. Norman’s eye brightened. But the dog could not be coaxed to quit the bed; he would set only his two fore-feet on the floor, and so drank the milk out of the pail. Norman watched him, almost with a smile. And when the dog, having left the milk, curled himself down again in his old place, and looked into his master’s face, Norman quite smiled.

“‘Poor Long-Ears!’—he said, patting him again with a feeble hand. ‘I’m going to leave you,—what will you do?’

“‘I’ll take care of him, Norman,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘Will you?’ said Norman.

“‘As long as he lives, if you wish.’

“Norman signed for her to put her ear down to him, and said earnestly,—

“‘I give him to you—you keep him. Will you?’

“‘Yes, indeed, I will,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘Then you’ll have milk enough, dear little Long-Ears,’ said Norman. ‘But,’ he said eagerly to Mrs. Meadow, ‘you must take him home with you to-night—I’m afraid father will do something with him if you don’t.’

“‘But you will want him,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘No I won’t. Father will do something with him.’

“‘Indeed he will, sure enough,’ said Mrs Finch.

“‘Then I’ll take him, and keep him, dear, as if he was yourself,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘I won’t want him,’ said Norman, shutting his eyes again;—‘I’m going.’

“‘And you’re not sorry, dear?’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘No!’ he said.

“‘I wonder why he should,’ said Mrs. Finch, wiping her eyes.

“‘And you know Jesus will take you?’

“‘Because I love him,’ said Norman, without opening his eyes.

“‘What makes you love him so, dear?’

“‘Because he did that for me,’ said Norman, opening his eyes once more to look at her, and then re-shutting them. And he never opened them again. It seemed that having his mind easy about his pet, and having seen his friends, he wanted nothing more on this earth. He just slumbered away a few hours, and died so, as quietly as he had slept. His little pale meek face looked as if, as he said, he was glad to go.

“Nothing but a degree of force that no one would use could have moved Long-Ears from the body of his master, till it was laid in the grave. Then, with some difficulty, Mrs. Meadow gained possession of him, and brought him home.”

“Is that all?” said Carl, when the story stopped.

“All.”

“What more of Mrs. Meadow and Silky?”

“Nothing more. They lived there, and took care of Long-Ears, and were kind to everybody, and sold milk, just as they used.”

“And what about Long-Ears?”

“Nothing about him. He lived there with Mrs. Meadow and Silky, and was as well off as a little dog could be.”

“And is that all?”

“That is all.”

“And how did you get here?”

“I’ve told enough for once.”

“I’ll hear the rest another time,” said Carl, as he grasped the purse, and ran off towards home; for it was getting to be high noon, and his mother had called to him that dinner was ready.

“Mother,” said Carl, “I’ve heard the stories of my purse, and of my red cent, and of my three apples, and they’re splendid!”

“What a child!” said Mrs. Krinken. “Are the stories not done yet?”

“No,” said Carl; “and I don’t know which to hear next. There’s the boat, and the pine-cone, and the shoes, and the book, and the old stocking;—all of them;—and I don’t know which to have first. Which would you, mother?”

“What’s all that?” said John Krinken.

“He says his things tell him stories,” said Mrs. Krinken; “and he’s told over one or two to me, and it’s as good as a book. I can’t think where the child got hold of them.”

“Why they told ’em to me, mother,” said Carl.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Krinken; “something told it to thee, child.”

“Who told ’em, Carl?” said his father.

“My red cent, and my purse, and my three apples—or only one of the apples,” said Carl;—“that was Beachamwell.”

“Beach ’em what?” said his father.

“Beachamwell—that is the biggest of my three apples,” said Carl.

At which John and Mrs. Krinken looked at each other, and laughed till their eyes ran down with tears.

“Let’s hear about Beachamwell,” said John, when he could speak.

“I’ve told it,” said Carl, a little put out.

“Yes; and it was a pretty story, as ever I heard, or wish to hear,” said Mrs. Krinken, soothingly.

“Let’s hear the story of the shoes, then,” said John.

“I haven’t heard it yet,” said Carl.

“O, and you can’t tell it till you’ve heard it?” said his father.

“I haven’t heard any of ’em but three,” said Carl, “and I don’t know which to hear next.”

“The old stocking would tell you a rare story if it knew how,” said his father; “it could spin you a yarn as long as its own.”

“I’d rather hear the old pine-cone, John,” said his wife. “Ask the pine-cone, Carl. I wish it could tell, and I hear!”

“Which first?” said Carl, looking from one to the other.

But John and Mrs. Krinken were too busy thinking of the story-teller to help him out with his question about the stories.

“Then I’m a going to keep the stocking for the very last one!” said Carl.

“Why?” said his mother.

“’Cause it’s ugly. And I guess I’ll make the shoes tell me their story next; because I might want to put them on, you know!”

And Carl looked down at two sets of fresh-coloured toes, which looked out at him through the cracks of his old half-boots.

Mr. and Mrs. Krinken got up laughing, to attend to their business; and Carl indignantly seizing his shoes, ran off with them out of hearing to the sunny side of the house, where he plumped himself down on the ground with them in front of him, and commanded them to speak.