`COME to me, my little gentleman,' said our hostess, liftingBruno into her lap, `and tell me everything.'

`I ca'n't,' said Bruno. `There wouldn't be time. Besides,I don't know everything.'

The good woman looked a little puzzled, and turned toSylvie for help. `Does he like riding?' she asked.

`Yes, I think so,' Sylvie gently replied. `He's just hada ride on Nero.'

`Ah, Nero's a grand dog, isn't he? Were you ever outsidea horse, my little man?'

`Always!' Bruno said with great decision. `Never was insideone. Was oo?'

Here I thought it well to interpose, and to mention thebusiness on which we had come, and so relieved her, for a few minutes,from Bruno's perplexing questions.

`And those dear children will like a bit of cake, I'llwarrant!' said the farmer's hospitable wife, when the business was concluded,as she opened her cupboard, and brought out a cake. `And don't you wastethe crust, little gentleman!' she added, as she handed a good slice ofit to Bruno. `You know what the poetry-book says about wilful waste?'

`No, I don't,' said Bruno. `What doos he say about it?'

`Tell him, Bessie!' And the mother looked down, proudlyand lovingly, on a rosy little maiden, who had just crept shyly into theroom, and was leaning against her knee. `What's that your poetry-book saysabout wilful waste?'

`For wilful waste makes woeful want,' Bessie recited,in an almost inaudible whisper: `and you may live to say "How much I wishI had the crust that then I threw away!"'

`Now try if you can say it, my dear! For wilful--'

`For wifful--sumfinoruvver--' Bruno began, readily enough;and then there came a dead pause. `Ca'n't remember no more!'

`Well, what do you learn from it, then? You can tell usthat, at any rate?'

Bruno ate a little more cake, and considered: but themoral did not seem to him to be a very obvious one.

`Always to--' Sylvie prompted him in a whisper.

`Always to--' Bruno softly repeated: and then, with suddeninspiration, `always to look where it goes to!'

`Where what goes to, darling?'

`Why the crust, a course!' said Bruno. `Then, if I livedto say `How much I wiss I had the crust--" (and all that), I'd know whereI frew it to!'

This new interpretation quite puzzled the good woman.She returned to the subject of `Bessie'. `Wouldn't you like to see Bessie'sdoll, my dears! Bessie, take the little lady and gentleman to see MatildaJane!'

Bessie's shyness thawed away in a moment. `Matilda Janehas just woke up,' she stated, confidentially, to Sylvie. `Won't you helpme on with her frock? Them strings is such a bother to tie!'

`I can tie strings,' we heard, in Sylvie's gentle voice,as the two little girls left the room together. Bruno ignored the wholeproceeding, and strolled to the window, quite with the air of a fashionablegentleman. Little girls, and dolls, were not at all his line.

And forthwith the fond mother proceeded to tell me (aswhat mother is not ready to do?) of all Bessie's virtues (and vices too,for the matter of that) and of the many fearful maladies which, notwithstandingthose ruddy cheeks and that plump little figure, had nearly, time and again,swept her from the face of the earth.

When the full stream of loving memories had nearly runitself out, I began to question her about the working men of that neighbourhood,and specially the `Willie', whom we had heard of at his cottage. `He wasa good fellow once,' said my kind hostess: `but it's the drink has ruinedhim! Not that I'd rob them of the drink--it's good for the most of them--butthere's some as is too weak to stand agin' temptations: it's a thousandpities, for them, as they ever built the Golden Lion at the corner there!'

`The Golden Lion?' I repeated.

`It's the new Public,' my hostess explained. `And it standsright in the way, and handy for the workmen, as they come back from thebrickfields, as it might be to-day, with their week's wages. A deal ofmoney gets wasted that way. And some of'em gets drunk.'

`If only they could have it in their own houses--' I mused,hardly knowing I had said the words out loud.

`That's it!' she eagerly exclaimed. It was evidently asolution, of the problem, that she had already thought out. `If only youcould manage, so's each man to have his own little barrel in his own house--there'dhardly be a drunken man in the length and breadth of the land!'

And then I told her the old story--about a certain cottagerwho bought himself a little barrel of beer, and installed his wife as bar-keeper:and how, every time he wanted his mug of beer, he regularly paid her overthe counter for it: and how she never would let him go on `tick', and wasa perfectly inflexible bar-keeper in never letting him have more than hisproper allowance: and how, every time the barrel needed refilling, shehad plenty to do it with, and something over for her money-box: and how,at the end of the year, he not only found himself in first-rate healthand spirits, with that undefinable but quite unmistakable air which alwaysdistinguishes the sober man from the one who takes `a drop too much', buthad quite a box full of money, all saved out of his own pence!

`If only they'd all do like that!' said the good woman,wiping her eyes, which were overflowing with kindly sympathy. `Drink hadn'tneed to be the curse it is to some--'

`Only a curse,' I said, `when it is used wrongly. Anyof God's gifts may be turned into a curse, unless we use it wisely. Butwe must be getting home. Would you call the little girls? Matilda Janehas seen enough of company, for one day, I'm sure!'

`I'll find 'em in a minute,' said my hostess, as she roseto leave the room. `Maybe that young gentleman saw which way they went?'

`Where are they, Bruno?' I said.

`They ain't in the field,' was Bruno's rather evasivereply, `'cause there's nothing but pigs there, and Sylvie isn't a pig.Now don't interrupt me any more, 'cause I'm telling a story to this fly;and it wo'n't attend!'

`They're among the apples, I'll warrant 'em!' said theFarmer's wife. So we left Bruno to finish his story, and went out intothe orchard, where we soon came upon the children, walking sedately sideby side, Sylvie carrying the doll, while little Bess carefully shaded itsface, with a large cabbage-leaf for a parasol.

As soon as they caught sight of us, little Bess droppedher cabbage-leaf and came running to meet us, Sylvie following more slowly,as her precious charge evidently needed great care and attention.

`I'm its Mamma, and Sylvie's the Head-Nurse,' Bessie explained:`and Sylvie's taught me ever such a pretty song, for me to sing to MatildaJane!'

`Let's hear it once more, Sylvie,' I said, delighted atgetting the chance I had long wished for, of hearing her sing. But Sylvieturned shy and frightened in a moment.

`No, please not!' she said, in an earnest `aside' to me.`Bessie knows it quite perfect now. Bessie can sing it!'

`Aye, aye! Let Bessie sing it!' said the proud mother.`Bessie has a bonny voice of her own,' (this again was an `aside' to me)`though I say it as shouldn't!'

Bessie was only too happy to accept the `encore'. So theplump little Mamma sat down at our feet, with her hideous daughter recliningstiffly across her lap (it was one of a kind that wo'n't sit down, underany amount of persuasion), and, with a face simply beaming with delight,began the lullaby, in a shout that ought to have frightened the poor babyinto fits. The Head-Nurse crouched down behind her, keeping herself respectfullyin the background, with her hands on the shoulders of her little mistress,so as to be ready to act as Prompter, if required, and to supply `eachgap in faithless memory void'.

The shout, with which she began, proved to be only a momentaryeffort. After a very few notes, Bessie toned down, and sang on in a smallbut very sweet voice. At first her great black eyes were fixed on her mother,but soon her gaze wandered upwards, among the apples, and she seemed tohave quite forgotten that she had any other audience than her Baby, andher Head-Nurse, who once or twice supplied, almost inaudibly, the rightnote, when the singer was-getting a little `flat'.

`Matilda fane, you never look
At any toy or picture-book:
I show you pretty things in vain--
You must be blind, Matilda fane!

`I ask you riddles, tell you tales,
But all our conversation fails:
You never answer me again--
I fear you're dumb, Matilda fane!

`Matilda, darling, when I call,
You never seem to hear at all:
I shout with all my might and main--
But you're so deaf, Matilda fane!

`Matilda fane, you needn't mind:
For, though you're deaf, and dumb, and blind,
There's some one loves you, it is plain--
And that is me, Matilda fane!'

She sang three of the verses in a rather perfunctory style,but the last stanza evidently excited the little maiden. Her voice rose,ever clearer and louder: she had a rapt look on her face, as if suddenlyinspired, and, as she sang the last few words, she clasped to her heartthe inattentive Matilda Jane.

`Kiss it now!' prompted the Head-Nurse. And in a momentthe simpering meaningless face of the Baby was covered with a shower ofpassionate kisses.

`What a bonny song!' cried the Farmer's wife. `Who madethe words, dearie?'

`I--I think I'll look for Bruno,' Sylvie said demurely,and left us hastily. The curious child seemed always afraid of being praised,or even noticed.

`Sylvie planned the words,' Bessie informed us, proudof her superior information: `and Bruno planned the music--and I sang it!'(this last circumstance, by the way, we did not need to be told).

So we followed Sylvie, and all entered the parlour together.Bruno was still standing at the window, with his elbows on the sill. Hehad, apparently, finished the story that he was telling to the fly, andhad found a new occupation. `Don't imperrupt!' he said as we came in. `I'mcounting the Pigs in the field!'

`How many are there?' I enquired.

`About a thousand and four,' said Bruno.

`You mean "about a thousand",' Sylvie corrected him. `There'sno good saying "and four": you ca'n't be sure about the four!'

`And you're as wrong as ever!' Bruno exclaimed triumphantly.`It's just the four I can be sure about; 'cause they're here, grubblingunder the window! It's the thousand I isn't pruffickly sure about!'

`But some of them have gone into the sty,' Sylvie said,leaning over him to look out of the window.

`Yes,' said Bruno; `but they went so slowly and so fewly,I didn't care to count them.'

`We must be going, children,' I said. `Wish Bessie good-bye.'Sylvie flung her arms round the little maiden's neck, and kissed her: butBruno stood aloof, looking unusually shy. (`I never kiss nobody but Sylvie!'he explained to me afterwards.) The Farmer's wife showed us out: and wewere soon on our way back to Elveston.

`And that's the new public-house that we were talkingabout, I suppose?' I said, as we came in sight of a long low building,with the words `THE GOLDEN LION' over the door.

`Yes, that's it,' said Sylvie. `I wonder if her Willie'sinside? Run in, Bruno, and see if he's there.'

I interposed, feeling that Bruno was, in a sort of way,in my care. `That's not a place to send a child into.' For already therevellers were getting noisy: and a wild discord of singing, shouting,and meaningless laughter came to us through the open windows.

`They wo'n't see him, you know,' Sylvie explained. `Waita minute, Bruno!' She clasped the jewel, that always hung round her neck,between the palms of her hands, and muttered a few words to herself. Whatthey were I could not at all make out, but some mysterious change seemedinstantly to pass over us. My feet seemed to me no longer to press theground, and the dream-like feeling came upon me, that I was suddenly endowedwith the power of floating in the air. I could still just see the children:but their forms were shadowy and unsubstantial, and their voices soundedas if they came from some distant place and time, they were so unreal.However, I offered no further opposition to Bruno's going into the house.He was back again in a few moments. `No, he isn't come yet,' he said. `They'retalking about him inside, and saying how drunk he was last week.'

While he was speaking, one of the men lounged out throughthe door, a pipe in one hand and a mug of beer in the other, and crossedto where we were standing, so as to get a better view along the road. Twoor three others leaned out through the open window, each holding his mugof beer, with red faces and sleepy eyes. `Canst see him, lad?' one of themasked.

`I dunnot know,' the man said, taking a step forwards,which brought us nearly face to face. Sylvie hastily pulled me out of hisway. `Thanks, child,' I said. `I had forgotten he couldn't see us. Whatwould have happened if I had stayed in his way?'

`I don't know,' Sylvie said gravely. `It wouldn't matterto us; but you may be different.' She said this in her usual voice, butthe man took no sort of notice, though she was standing close in frontof him, and looking up into his face as she spoke.

`He's coming now!' cried Bruno, pointing down the road.

`He be a-coomin noo!' echoed the man, stretching out hisarm exactly over Bruno's head, and pointing with his pipe.

`Then chorus agin!' was shouted out by one of the red-facedmen in the window: and forthwith a dozen voices yelled, to a harsh discordantmelody, the refrain:

`There's him, an' yo', an' me,
                    Roarin' laddies!
We loves a bit o' spree,
Roarin' laddies we,
                    Roarin' laddies
                    Roarin' laddies!'

The man lounged back again to the house, joining lustilyin the chorus as he went: so that only the children and I were in the roadwhen `Willie' came up.