That Little Beggar Part 6

"'Cause I know I could," he replied confidently.

"No, no," I said firmly; "we won't try. Come here; you sit on this chair and write this copy. Now show me how well you can write and spell. I know a boy no older than you, and he writes and spells beautifully for his age."

"Better than me?" Chris asked anxiously.

"Well, write and spell your very best, and then I shall be able to tell," I replied with caution. The mention of my small friend of advanced powers as scribe and speller proved a happy thought on my part.

The effect was excellent. Chris's mood changed; his lazy fit pa.s.sed away in a burning desire to emulate--not to say outdistance--his unknown rival. With frowning brow and tongue between his teeth, he laboured a.s.siduously at his copy, without uttering a word, whilst Granny, lulled by the quiet which prevailed, slept the sleep of the just.

I felt, indeed I had cause to be, fully satisfied with the result of my remark, for its effects lasted not only whilst the copy was being written but even through the spelling-lesson; an effect that could hardly have been antic.i.p.ated when the varying moods of that little beggar were taken into consideration.

As I closed the spelling-book, "Miss Beggarley," he said, gazing at me with anxious eyes, "have I written my writing and spelt my spelling as well as that other boy?"

"Yes, I really think you have; at least very nearly."

"P'r'aps I shall quite, to-morrow."

"Perhaps you will--if you take great pains."

"Shall I kiss my Granny?"

"No, you will wake her up."

"Why does she want to go to sleep? She often goes to sleep when she does my lessons. Do boys' lessons always make old people sleepy?"

"That depends on the little boy who does them," I replied gravely. "If he tires his granny very much, it is not surprising that she should go to sleep."

Chris looked thoughtful.

"Have I been a good boy?" he said.

"You were inattentive at the beginning, dear," I replied, "but you were good afterwards."

"Then I shall tell Briggs I have been a good boy," he remarked with satisfaction. And with a certain expression of antic.i.p.ated triumph upon his face, he walked off, followed by Jack, his constant and faithful companion.

CHAPTER IV.

TEACHING JACKY TO SWIM.

"Tell you a story? What shall it be about? I thought you were tired of stories." Granny spoke a trifle drowsily. It was very warm that September afternoon--an afternoon that made you feel more inclined to sleep than to tell stories.

But Chris was not to be denied.

"I want a story very much," he said; "very much indeed."

"Perhaps Miss Baggerley would tell you one," suggested Granny. "I am sure it would be a more interesting one than any I could think of."

"I don't want anyone to tell me a story but you," answered the little tyrant wilfully; "only you, my Granny."

"Then I will, my darling," she replied, plainly gratified at this preference so strongly expressed. "But you must wait a moment," she went on, "I shall have to think."

She closed her eyes as she spoke, and there was silence, broken only by the sounds of the world without carried through the open windows--the lazy hum of the bees amongst the flowers, the gentle, monotonous cooing of the wood-pigeons in the trees, the far-off voices of children at play.

Presently the little beggar became impatient.

"Why don't you begin, Granny?" he asked, pulling her sleeve as he leant against her knee.

She started from a slight doze into which she had fallen.

"Let me see," she said with a start; "I had just thought of a very nice story, but I was trying to recollect the end. I think I remember it now."

"There was once a very beautiful Newfoundland dog," she began hurriedly.

"Yes, he was a very beautiful dog indeed."

"How beautiful?" interrupted Chris, with his usual apt.i.tude for asking questions. "As beautiful as Jacky?"

"I think more beautiful," she replied, without pausing to consider.

"Then he was a nasty dog," he said, with vehemence. "I don't like a dog what is more beautiful than my Jacky."

"He was such a different kind of dog," she said deprecatingly. "A Newfoundland dog cannot very well be compared with a fox-terrier, my pet."

"What was his name?" asked the little beggar, accepting Granny's explanation and letting the matter pa.s.s.

"Rover; that was what he was called," she replied. "His little mistress loved him dearly," she continued.

"Did he belong to a _girl_?" Chris inquired, with some contempt on the substantive.

"Yes; and they always used to go out for pleasant walks together," she went on. "But never near the river, for she had said many a time, 'Don't go near the river, my darling, for it is not safe; not for a little girl like you'."

"Who said that?" he asked, speaking with some impatience. "The little girl--or what?"

"The little girl's mother," replied Granny, a trifle drowsily.

"You're going to sleep again!" Chris exclaimed reproachfully. "Oh, Granny, how can you tell me a story when you're asleep?"

"Asleep! Oh no, my darling," she said opening her eyes. "Well, one day, I am sorry, very sorry to say, Eliza--"

"Was that the little girl's name?" inquired Chris.

"Yes," she answered. "Didn't I tell you her name was Eliza? Dear, dear, how forgetful of me! As I was saying, Eliza thought, in spite of her father's and mother's command, she would go to the river, for she wished to pick some of the water-lilies which grew there in such profusion."

"How naughty of Eliza!" exclaimed Chris, with virtuous indignation.

"Yes, very naughty; very naughty indeed," agreed Granny, her voice again becoming sleepy. "It was sadly disobedient."