Chapter 5 MADAME AND THE PRINCESS.

For once the old man was sitting quite still, doing nothing, unless you can call smoking a very dirty and ill-smelling pipe an occupation. He nodded to them and puffed away, saying between his whiffs,-

"How d'ye do, stranger? You agin, Mort? Set daown, both on ye; settin's jest as cheap as standin' raound here," indicating the bench on the other side of the door with a blackened thumb.

But neither cared to sit, and Morton lost no time in coming to business.

"He wants to go gunning with us in the morning, Uncle Adam, may he?"

Adam eyed the young man, who returned his gaze with frank, smiling eyes, without speaking.

"Kin ye shoot?" asked the old sportsman at last.

"A little," modestly.

"Waal, what-tame turkeys?" contemptuously.

"No: I have shot wild ones, as well as prairie-chickens, quail, and- deer."

"What! Be thet some o' your college sass, naow? I git so full o' thet every season, it makes me sick!"

"I'm not a college student, and I generally tell the truth. I've lived

West for some years, and have had some good hunting at odd times; but,

to be honest, I don't know anything about your bird-shooting here, and

I'm hankerin' after an experience!"

The homely native word pleased the old man, and he smiled leniently.

"Waal," he said, removing the pipe to knock out the ashes and put it in his pocket (much to the other's satisfaction), "waal, I guess we kin fix it. Mort, here, an' me, we was goin' out airly in the mornin'. Ef you kin turn out in time, ye mought go with us. I've got a gun for you, but you'll hev to pay fer the powder an' shot, an' give me my share o' the birds."

"We won't quarrel about terms," laughed the other. "I'll be on hand without fail, and am much obliged."

"Oh, ye're welcome; good-day. Remember, four sharp, naow!" as they turned to go.

"You see," said the young man to the boy, as soon as they were beyond ear-shot, "he didn't put me through the manual of arms, after all. I feel almost defrauded of my just rights. Do you suppose I knocked the conceit out of him with my talk of big game?"

"I don't know," said Morton, "but I guess he took a liking to you. He's queer about that. Sometimes he won't look at these fancy fellers that come down from the city, no matter how much they offer. He says he can't abide 'em-that a fool of a loon is too good to die at their hands!"

"And he isn't far wrong, I'm thinking. Are you going that way? Then you will pass near the yacht, won't you? Have you any objections to taking a look at it, to see if it is safe? Oh, and by the way, there's a basketful of eatables stowed away under the stern-seat that we won't need now; couldn't you dispose of them in some way?"

"I think I could, sir," said Morton demurely, dropping his lids, not to show too strongly the joy in his eyes, for if he had been hungry in the morning, he was ravenous now.

"All right, then; good-by, my little friend-or, rather, au revoir. I'll see you in the morning," and the two separated, mutually pleased with each other.

A few minutes later Morton entered the home kitchen, joy beaming from his countenance, and a large basket hanging from his arm.

"Sara," he cried, "have you been to dinner?"

"No, we waited for you; but how late you are. It's after two."

"All the better, for here's a dinner to match the biggest kind of an appetite! See here, and here!"

He spread out with intense satisfaction sandwiches, fried chicken, cakes, doughnuts, and cheese, besides jellies and fruit, while Molly fairly howled with delight, and even Sara's eyes shone happily; for, unless you have lived for a week on salt herring and potatoes, topped off by a long fast since breakfast, you cannot understand how good those things looked to the hungry children.

"But, Morton, you didn't tell Mrs. Norris, did you?" Sara asked in a distressed tone. "I didn't want"-

"Now, don't you worry, Sara! I sold her the goose, and got my money- here it is; but this is another kind of game, and while we're eating, I'll tell you the whole story," which he at once proceeded to do, for, hungry as they were, they all fell to with scant ceremony.

The next morning the blond lady, being bereft of both escorts, started out for a stroll on her own account.

You have before this, doubtless, divined her to be the wife of that same little man Sara had met on the cliff; and we now formally introduce her as Madame Grandet, wife of Professor Leon Alphonse Grandet, of the Academie des Sciences at Paris, who was now prosecuting his geological studies in New England.

She herself was endowed with no mean artistic talent, her specialty being the painting of flowers in water colors, and, as she always sketched from nature, she had become almost as much of a botanical student as her husband was a mineralogical.

But this morning the quaintness and quiet of the village tempted her into a stroll down its long street, before she should seek the pine woods farther back, in search of hidden beauties, and one picture that she came upon held her spell bound for a moment. This was a small, poor cottage, painted only by the sun and rain, before which, on a tiny square of green, a baby was rolling about-a cunning little fellow with rings of silky light hair, while on the low doorstep sat a girl of such unusual appearance that the lady stared in undisguised admiration.

Her head was bent above a book, and the auburn shades of her luxuriant hair caught the sunlight in every wave and tendril; her eyes were cast down, but the dark lashes curled upward from the slightly flushed cheek thick and long, while the brows were as daintily perfect as if laid on with a camel's hair brush; the nose was straight and delicate; the mouth, now set with deep thought, firm and sweet, while the chin carried out this look of decision, and would have been almost too square but for the coquettish little cleft which gave it the needed touch of femininity.

Her complexion, unblemished, except for the sun-tinge which showed an out-of-doors life, was of that peculiar tint, neither blond nor brunette, which is usually found with hair of that coppery hue, and the whole artistic head but crowned a form whose grace and roundness not even her ill-fitting gown could conceal.

"One of nature's gems!" whispered the on-looker in her native tongue.

"And what a cherub of a baby! I must make their acquaintance."

She took an orange from the satin bag hanging on her arm, and held it towards the little one, who had now toddled to the open gate, and was gazing shyly at her.

He looked at the tempting yellow apple, then back at sister, oblivious in the door-way, then once more at the coveted fruit, and was conquered.

As Madame Grandet stepped towards him, he did not retreat, but reached up his dimpled, dirty little hands (he had been making sand-pies) and caught the fruit she dropped into them.

Then he gave a delighted little laugh, which roused Sara, who raised her large eyes, now dreamy with far-away thoughts, but which flashed into pleasure at sight of the two.

"Pray pardon me," said madame with a gracious little nod; "I would not deesturb you, but the babee, he ees so sweet! You will let me give to him the orange?"

"Oh, certainly; thank you! It will be a great treat for him," rising and coming forward, with her book in her hand. "Won't you come in and rest a moment? The sun is warm this morning."

"Thank you, mooch; it ees indeed most warm! May I not here sit on the step of the door by yourself?"

"Oh, let me bring you a chair," running to get one. "There, this will be more comfortable," placing it just within the open door.

"That is true; t'anks! Come, mine babee, let me to you show how an orange is to eat, when one has no care for the appearance-it is nature's own way." She cut a tiny hole through the thick rind with her pearl-handled penknife, then put it to the child's lips and bade him suck out the juice, as the little bees suck honey from the lily-buds.

Sara watched her delightedly. How graceful, fair, and easy she was! What a beautiful dress she wore-perfectly simple, yet with an air of taste and style even her unaccustomed eyes could note. How delicate her features, how refined her voice, and with what a small white hand she managed the little knife!

She felt at once that here was a woman different from any she had ever seen before-perhaps the first one for whom she felt the word "lady" was no misnomer.

Her admiration showed so plainly in her honest eyes that the madame was inwardly amused, as well as pleased, yet not at all discomfited, for she had been used to admiration all her life.

"What is the book you read, my dear young lady, may I ask?" she said presently.

"It is Hugh Miller's 'Testimony of the Rocks,'" answered Sara.

"So?" It was the French lady's turn to look undisguised astonishment.

"And does it for you have interest then?"

"Yes, indeed; did you ever read it? Don't you think it is wonderful how those long-buried veins of rock are made to tell us God's own plans and workings? I can never see a cliff that I don't begin to wonder how it was formed, and what secrets it may contain. I am like baby with his toys," smiling till her dimples deepened, "I want to break it in pieces and find out how it was made!"

"But that is joost like my Leon! Always he goes about with his hammer tapping, tapping, at every bit of stone. Is it then that you, too, are a geologist?"

"Oh, no, not that! I do not know enough, only sometimes I find a

specimen; I have a few inside, if you would care to see them?"

"Indeed I care," rising at once; and when she stood before the well- filled shelves we have before mentioned, she cried out in astonishment,-

"But, surely, my Leon must see these. You have here some greatly rare bits. Ah, what a beautiful pink rubellite! I have not seen ever a finer. And this geode is most perfect. Did you yourself find them?"

"Yes, nearly all, except what my brother has brought me, and in this neighborhood too; I've never been more than twenty miles away in my life."

"And I do see you have them labelled and classed so neat as my Leon could do. You must indeed let me bring him to see you. He is my husband, and a-a-I forget now your English word how to say-but he eats and sleeps and dreams over dose minerals, and he would almost forget of me, the wife whom he adores, for one fine new piece of old rock with the print of a bird's toes therein!" Sara laughed with a merrier sound than she had known lately; and the lady, delighted to have pleased her, joined in.

"Oh! it is laugh we can now, my child, but some days it ees not so funny, for he does come home too often with no hat, or perhaps even his coat that is left behind; but the hammer-ah, he would never from that to part did he not have a single clothes left!"

Sara suddenly turned, her eyes dancing with merry interest.

"Wait! Was he here about a month ago? Does he wear glasses, and is he short and"-

"It is, it is! You have then seen him?"

"Yes, indeed!" and she related the meeting on the cliff, to the madame's genuine enjoyment.

She kept nodding her bright head, and finally burst out, as Sara told of the lost sunbonnet and its rescuer:-

"He vas my nevew, Robert Glendenning" (she pronounced it however Robare

Glendneeng); "and is he not one handsome, fine young man?"

"I did not look at him long, but I think he is," blushing a little. "And are not you the party my brother told me of yesterday? I did not think then it was the two gentlemen I had met who were so kind to him. Morton is not any too good at description!"

"Morton, ah, yes, that ees the bright youth who did put my brave Robare to the rout! And he is thy brother, then? May I not know thy name also, my fair young mees?"

"It is Sara Olmstead, ma'am, and I am a fisherman's daughter."

"And I, my fisher-lass, am name Madame Grandet now, though my girl name it was Felicie."

"Oh, how pretty!"

"You t'ink? Do you know it mean 'happy,' 'fortunate,' and I am that, for I have few cares, and my husband does indulge every wish I can make. And your name, does it mean something good also?" "I have read somewhere that it means 'a princess,'" blushing more than before; "but that is hardly the meaning my name should have," giving a quick glance about upon her homely surroundings. "I do not know. You have the grand air, and-ah, I have it! I have it! You must be a King's daughter, a princess indeed!"

"But, madame, my father is plain Reuben Olmstead, a good and honest man, yet only a fisherman."

"But, no, my child, you do not yet comprehend. The King, it is thy Father in heaven, and thou must be one of those who call themselves the King's Daughters. It is a great society which does extend over the whole world of Christians, and each one of the members does take her pledge to do some good each day, for the help of mankind. It is 'in His name' that they do this, and their reward it is in heaven!" She spoke with great earnestness, and Sara listened breathlessly.

A princess, a daughter of the King of kings, endowed with the birthright of high thoughts and noble deeds, enrolled in the royal order of the Saviour of men! Surely here was a destiny grand and glorious enough to satisfy the highest ambition.

Her eyes darkened with the rush of thoughts that kept her silent, and finally she drew a long breath, looking up with such humility, yet kindling joy, that her words seemed but an echo of her glance.

"I will be one; teach me how!"

As she spoke, the baby who had been sitting on the doorstep contentedly sucking his orange, now broke through the rind of his yellow globe of sweets, to find nothing left but a bitter shell, and thereupon set up a wail and toddled over to Sara.

She lifted him up with tender words of comfort, applied a dampened towel to his sticky face and hands, then brought him in her arms to the doorstep again, where she seated herself near the madame, who had resumed her chair just within.

The absence of any adults in the house suddenly struck the latter, and she asked, "Where is then the mother, Mees Sara?"

"In heaven," said the girl softly. "She died when I was little; and poor baby Ned's followed her a few weeks ago, since father went for the long fish."

"Ah, how sad! how sad! And have he not hear of this trouble?" "I do not know; not unless he got the word I sent by Captain Smalley. But, you see, his smack may not have sighted the Nautilus at all. It seems as if father would have tried hard to come, if he had heard," she added, her eyes growing misty; "we need him so!"

"Poor child, poor little one!" murmured the lady in her own language, then in English, "But what is it you speak,-the 'long fish'? Do not all your ships return each Saturday?"

"No; not now. That's the way they do at many of the fishing-villages, I have heard, but we are a long way from the Banks, and there's Mare's Head, which every vessel must round to make our harbor, so dangerous a point that our fleets used scarcely ever to get by all in safety; for when a man is hurrying home to his own fireside on a stormy Saturday night, he is not as careful as he should be. So now our boats stay out through the season, and when they have a big haul put into Gloucester or Annisquam to sell their fish, only bringing home such as they cannot find a market for. It saves many wrecks, and they make more money, but it is often hard on those left at home!"

"Yes, yes, that is true, I make no doubt! But do you live here quite alone, you and the babee?"

"Oh, no; there are my brother and sister,-the twins. Morton is the one I spoke of; he has gone gunning with Uncle Adam Standish, and the young man who must be your nephew, I'm sure; and Molly has gone on an errand."

"That Morton-it ees one fine boy! His air do say, 'Behold the American citizen in me!' is it not?"

Sara smiled and sighed.

"He is a good boy, and my mainstay now, for it is hard sometimes to manage for so many; but will you not please tell me some more about the King's Daughters, madame?"

Her new friend, nothing loath, went into further details of that marvellous organization, telling of the silver cross, which was a passport to the best society and gentlest treatment the world over; describing its growth by tens, its circles within circles, its active benevolences and astonishing influence-all that of which the world has been hearing, almost as a child listens to a fairy-tale, with wonder and delight, yet only half credulous.

She also promised to send her copies of those beautiful stories, "Ten Times One," and "In His Name," which first gave rise to the grand idea; and when she finally made her adieus, it was to leave Sara in a happy dream, filled with new hopes, desires, and resolutions, all petty cares for the time being quite forgotten!