Miss Mouse and Her Boys Part 22

'I-- I don't see how, auntie,' he said at last. Then he went on more courageously. 'Bob is quite a good boy--he really is, though people speak against him. I'm sure he _never_ would have tried to get money from--from Miss Mouse, in any naughty way, or anything like that,' and, in spite of himself, his voice faltered as he uttered the pet name of their little friend.

His father turned upon him sharply.

'Get money from her,' he repeated. 'What do you mean? What put such a thing in your head?'

'I-- I don't----' Justin was beginning, when Uncle Ted interrupted.

'I think we are wasting time,' he said; 'the whys and wherefores can be gone into afterwards--the thing to do first is to find our poor darling.

If there is the least chance of the Crags knowing anything about her some one had better go there at once. Mattie, I wonder you did not mention the boy, Bob, having spoken to her this afternoon, before?'

'It only now came into my mind,' she replied gently. She was too unhappy to feel hurt at Uncle Ted's tone; she knew he was so terribly unhappy himself. Justin felt himself growing more and more miserable.

'Uncle Ted,' he exclaimed, 'may I go to the Crags? I can run very quickly, and----.' But his uncle and father had already left the hall, where they had all been standing, and had gone off again, probably to give fresh orders in the stables. Only Aunt Mattie was still there, and she had sat down on a chair by the large fire and was shading her eyes with her hand. She was feeling dreadfully tired and more and more wretched.

'If the darling has been out in the cold all this time,' she was saying to herself, 'it is enough to kill her, even if no accident has happened to her,' and all sorts of miserable thoughts came into her mind--of the letters that might have to be written to Rosamond's father and mother, telling--oh, it was too dreadful to think of _what_ might not have to be told! She sat there motionless, except that now and then she s.h.i.+vered, though not with cold. Justin saw that she was not thinking of or noticing him at all, and he suddenly made up his mind to wait no longer.

He crossed the hall softly, and in another moment was out in the dark drive in front of the house, unseen by any one. But once there, he turned quickly, and ran, at the top of his speed, his eyes, as he went, growing accustomed to the gloom, in the direction of the bit of lane leading towards the moor, which Miss Mouse had traversed a few hours earlier. Thence--as Justin knew well, even by the little light there was--he could, by careful noticing of some landmarks, make his way to the 'real' moor, as the boys called it, for the more or less gra.s.sy part nearer Caryll Place they did not think worthy of the name, and reach the Crags' cottage more quickly than it could be got to by the road.

He ran, steadily and not too fast, for he had a good deal of common sense and did not want to exhaust his 'wind' before he had reached his goal. And well it was that he kept his pace moderate and was able to look about him as he ran, for it was lighter out here and he had good eyes. What was that? A dark thick clump of--of what? No, there was something different about this object, and, eager as he was to get to his destination, the boy slackened his pace, hesitated, then dashed off, at full speed this time, in the direction of the something that had caught his sight.

Some snow had fallen, and now again flakes began to show themselves on his jacket. There were white dashes, too, on the strange, motionless shape he was making for. Was it setting in for a snowstorm? the boy asked himself with a curious anxiety, for there are times at which our thoughts seem to run before our reason. If so--and if--no, he would not think of such dreadful things; he would first--he was running now too fast to think--and--a minute more and he was stooping over the silent, dead-still figure of the faithful little girl. For it was Miss Mouse, her face as white as the snow, which, had it fallen already, as it was now beginning to do, would have covered her more completely than the robins covered the long-ago baby pair in the old forest; would have hidden her till it was indeed too late.

'Thank G.o.d,' whispered Justin, as he thought this; and perhaps it was the very first time he had _felt_ what these two words mean. But then terror seized him again, was it already too late?

He rubbed her little hands, he called her by name, his hot boy's tears fell on her cold white face. He did not yet understand how it had all come about, but something seemed to tell him that his selfish thoughtlessness had to do with it. But there was no answer, no movement.

'She will die,' he thought, 'if she is not dead. I must carry her.'

He lifted her, though with difficulty, and glanced about him. Oh, joy!

they were nearer Bob's cottage than he had thought; he stood still and whistled, the peculiar 'call' his brothers and he used for each other, and that Bob, too, knew. Then he moved on again, though but slowly--now and then it seemed scarcely more than a totter, his legs trembled so, and Rosamond was so strangely heavy. But it was not for long in reality, though it seemed to him hours, before help reached him. A figure came rus.h.i.+ng across the moor, and a voice called out loudly,

'Who is it? What is the matter? It's not--oh, Master Justin, is it you?

And--no, no, don't say it's the little lady-- I've killed her, I've killed her. It's all my fault.'

It was in kind old Nance's cottage that the little girl came back to consciousness. Bob's grandmother was clever and skilful, and, though sadly alarmed at first, soon saw that the two boys' very natural terror was greater than need be. The child was in a sort of stupor from cold and fright and pain too, for her ankle had swelled badly by this time, from the pressure of her boot. But careful management brought her round, and she was soon able to look about her and to drink the wonderful herb tea of some kind which Nance prepared. And then she sat up and explained what she could of how the misadventure had come to pa.s.s, helped by Bob, whom she glanced at doubtfully, till he said out manfully,

'Tell it all, miss, tell it all. It's me that's to blame, only me.'

But no, it was not only at poor Bob's door that lay the blame, and so Justin well knew, and so Justin had the honesty to confess when the anxiety and distress were to some extent past, though for a few days great care had to be taken of little Rosamond.

It would be difficult to describe the joy with which Uncle Ted carried her off to the carriage waiting at the nearest point on the road, wrapped up in his strong arms so that she _couldn't_ get chilled again, or Aunt Mattie and the Herveys' delight at the happy news of the little lost one being found. These things are more difficult to _tell_ than to picture to oneself.

So, too, it would be difficult to relate the change in Justin which those who cared for him always dated from the night on which Miss Mouse was lost--the night of which, had worse come of it to the kind little girl, he would never have been able to think without misery beyond words.

The ferrets were paid for, of course, though not with Rosamond's money, which was now happily spent on her Christmas presents. But though paid for, Justin's pets were soon sold again, and replaced by some more lovable and attractive creatures, whom his mother and Miss Mouse and everybody could take pleasure in too. I rather think the new treasures were some particularly pretty guinea-pigs--curly-haired ones; though to be quite sure of this I should have to apply to some boys and girls of my acquaintance whose grandfather has often told them the long-ago story of Miss Mouse and the good that came of her gentle influence on him and his brothers when they were all children together.

And dear Miss Mouse herself--what of her? Where is she now? It is so many years ago, is she still alive?

Yes. I have nothing sad with which to end my little story. She is now, what most of you, I daresay, would consider a very old lady, for her hair is quite white, though her pretty gray eyes are as clear as ever.

Not that they have not known tears, those kind eyes, many tears, I daresay, for the sorrows of others more than for her own, perhaps. Life would not be what it has to be, what G.o.d means it to be, without tears as well as smiles.

And Bob Crag. You will not be surprised to hear that Uncle Ted took him thoroughly in hand, and that the wild but affectionate boy grew up to be a good and useful man.

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NURSE HEATHERDALE'S STORY.

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A CHRISTMAS POSY.

"CARROTS," JUST A LITTLE BOY.

A CHRISTMAS CHILD.

CHRISTMAS-TREE LAND.

THE CUCKOO CLOCK.

FOUR WINDS FARM.

GRANDMOTHER DEAR.

HERR BABY.

LITTLE MISS PEGGY.

THE RECTORY CHILDREN.

ROSY.

THE TAPESTRY ROOM.

TELL ME A STORY.

TWO LITTLE WAIFS.

"US": AN OLD-FAs.h.i.+ONED STORY.

CHILDREN OF THE CASTLE.

By Miss ROSSETTI.