Part 7 (1/2)

”You're a smart boy, if we are to believe you,” said Miss Bethia. ”Did Mr Strong know that the blacksmith let you meddle with his horse's shoes? I should like to have seen his face when he heard it.”

”One must begin with somebody's horse, you know. And Peter Munro said he couldn't have done it better himself,” said Jem, triumphantly.

”Peter Munro knows about horseshoes, and that's about all he does know.

He ought to know that you might be about better business than hanging about his shop, learning no good.”

”Horseshoes no good!” said Jem, laughing.

”Jem, dear!” pleaded Violet.

”But it's dreadful to hear Miss Bethia speak disrespectfully of horseshoes,” said Jem.

”I think there's something more to be expected from your father's son than horseshoes,” said Miss Bethia.

”But horseshoes may do for a beginning,” said David. ”And by and by, perhaps, it may be engines, and railways; who knows?”

”And good horseshoes are better than bad sermons, and they pay better than good ones,” said Jem. ”And I'm bound to be a rich man. You'll see, Miss Bethia.”

Then he went on to tell of the wonderful things that were to happen when he became a rich man. Old Don was to be superannuated, and his father was to have a new horse, and a new fur coat to wear when the weather was cold. His mother and Violet were to have untold splendours in the way of dress, and the children as well. Davie was to go to college, and there should be a new bell to the church, and a new fence to the grave-yard, and Miss Bethia was to have a silk gown of any colour she liked, and a knocker to her front door. There was a great deal of fun and laughter, in which even Miss Bethia joined, and when Violet called them to tea, Jem whispered to David that they had escaped her serious lecture for that time.

After tea, they all went again to the kitchen, which, indeed, was as pleasant as many parlours, and while Violet washed the tea-dishes, Miss Bethia went on with the ironing, and the boys went on with their lessons. Just as they were all beginning to wonder what could be delaying the return home of their father and mother, there came a messenger to say that they had been obliged to go much farther than Mr Spry's, to see a sick person, and that as they might not be home that night, the children were not to wait for them past their usual time of going to bed.

There were exclamations of disappointment from the younger ones, and little Mary, who was getting sleepy and a little cross, began to cry.

”I had a presentiment that we should not see them to-night,” said David, taking his little sister on his lap to comfort her. ”Never mind, Polly.

Mamma will be home in the morning, and we must be able to tell her that we have all been good, and that n.o.body has cried or been cross, but quite the contrary.”

”I wish your mother knew that I had happened along. It would have set her mind at rest about you all,” said Miss Bethia.

The young people were not so sure of that, but there would have been no use in saying so.

”Oh! mamma knows we can get on nicely for one night. But she will be sorry to miss your visit, Miss Bethia,” said Violet.

”She won't miss it. I shall have a visit with her when she gets home.

And now hadn't you better put the children to bed before you set down?”

But the children, except little Mary, were in the habit of putting themselves to bed, and were not expected to do so till eight o'clock, as they declared with sufficient decision. So nothing more was said about it. If it had been any other child but little Mary. Miss Bethia would have counselled summary measures with her, and she would have been sent to bed at once. As it was the little lady had her own way for a while, and kept her eyes wide open, while David comforted her for the absence of mamma. He played with her and told her stories, and by and by undressed her gently, kissing her hands and her little bare feet, and murmuring such tender words, that baby grew good and sweet, and forgot that there was any one in the world she loved better than Davie.

As for Miss Bethia, as she watched them she was wondering whether it could be the rough, thoughtless schoolboy, to whom she had so often considered it her duty to administer both instruction and reproof. She was not, as a general thing, very tolerant of boys. She intended to do her duty by the boys of her acquaintance in the matter of rebuke and correction, and in the matter of patience and forbearance as well, and these things covered the whole ground, as far as her relations with boys were concerned. And so when she saw David kissing his little sister's hands and feet, and heard him softly prompting her in her ”good words”

as the eyelids fell over the sleepy little eyes, she experienced quite a new sensation. She looked upon a boy with entire approval. He had pleased her in the afternoon, when he had told her so much about his father's sermon. But she had hardly been conscious of her pleasure then, because of the earnestness of her desire to impress him and his brother with a sense of their responsibility as to the use they made of their privileges and opportunities. It came back to her mind, however, as she sat watching him and his little sister, and she acknowledged to herself that she was pleased, and that David was not a common boy.

David would never have guessed her thoughts by the first words she spoke.

”Put her to bed,” said she. ”She'll take cold.”

”Yes, I will,” said David, but he did not move to do it. ”Miss Bethia,”

said he in a little, ”if wee Polly were to die to-night and go to Heaven, do you suppose she would always stay a little child as she is now?”

Miss Bethia set down her flat-irons and looked at him in surprise.