Chatterbox, 1906 Part 101

EVA'S KITTEN.

Breakfast was over, Father had started for the City, and now was the time for p.u.s.s.y's breakfast.

Eva brought the saucer to her mother, and when it was filled with milk, Eva put it carefully on the floor. The kitten rushed up to it, and at once began lapping.

'Isn't she clever, Mother?' asked Eva, as she seated herself on her own footstool, and watched the dainty way in which the kitten licked up every drop of milk that fell on her fur. 'She knows how to keep herself so clean and tidy.'

Mrs. Poison was reading a letter which had just come by the post, but she looked up as Eva spoke, and said half-absently, for she was thinking more of her letter than the kitten, 'Yes, very clever! Listen, Eva, my letter is from Mrs. James: she wants us both to drive over to her this afternoon and have tea.'

'Oh, I shall like that,' said Eva, shaking out her long auburn hair like a cloud, as she joyfully nodded her head. 'I shall like to see Jessie again. Is she quite well now?'

'No, dear, she is not; her mother says she seems as if she could not shake off the effects of the whooping-cough.'

'Oh! and I had it at the same time, and I am quite well,' said Eva, in astonishment.

'Poor Jessie! she is a delicate little thing,' said Mrs. Polson. 'You must see what you can do to cheer her up, Eva.'

'Yes, Mother,' said Eva, thoughtfully.

When Eva and her mother arrived at Mrs. James's house, no Jessie was in the drawing-room to welcome them, and Mrs. James had to explain the reason.

'Poor Jessie, she is terribly upset,' she said, 'for only an hour ago her little cat was found dead in the garden. We are afraid it was poisoned. Jessie is fretting about it, and she is shy of showing herself with her red eyes, so she ran away to the nursery.'

'May I go to her?' asked Eva.

'Yes, dear, do,' answered Mrs. James; 'she will perhaps forget the poor cat in a game of play.'

Eva ran upstairs to the nursery, and did her best to comfort Jessie, but the poor child was languid and fretful, and could hardly put away the thought of her lost pet.

'It was such a dear little cat, and quite black all over,' she told Eva.

'There was not a white hair in it. I shall never see a quite black kitten again. Nurse says they are very rare; oh! I wish I had it back!'

Again Jessie burst out crying, for she was worn out with grief, and hardly knew how to stop.

Eva was really sorry for Jessie, who, though two or three years older than herself, looked so small and frail, and throwing her arms around her, she whispered, 'Don't cry any more, Jessie! You shall have my kitten for your very own; it is quite black, too, and you will soon love it very much. I will ask Mother to let the groom bring it you to-night.'

'Oh, Eva! will you really? But it is a shame to take your kitten,' said Jessie, stopping her sobs, and looking up at Eva. 'You love it too; I know you do, Eva.'

'Yes, I do,' said Eva, slowly, 'but I want to give it you because you are ill, and cannot run about out of doors as I can, and this kitten will be your friend; and now you must stop crying.'

The black kitten was taken to its new home that same evening, and Jessie was so pleased to have a kitten once more that she went off cheerfully to bed, much to her mother's relief.

Eva felt the parting from her pet, but there is a feeling in giving up for others that is a happiness in itself, and that happiness was Eva's.

THE STRING OF PEARLS.

My mother has a string of pearls, So pure and fine and white: She lets me take it in my hands, And hold it to the light.

My mother says that like that chain My life should ever be, Each day a pearl to stand apart In flawless purity.

THE NEW ZEALAND GLOW-WORM.

Everybody has not seen one, but we all have read about the Glow-worm, the remarkable insect which has the power of exhibiting a bright light in the dusk of evening. In England we have two species of insects that are called by this name, which properly belongs only to a kind of wingless beetle, found along the hedgerows and moist banks during the summer. The other insect which shares the name is also known as the electric centipede; it is seen about gardens or fields, and has the peculiarity of leaving upon the path it has trodden a s.h.i.+ning track.

In New Zealand there is a very curious glow-worm. The first idea about this insect was that it turned into a kind of beetle; afterwards it proved to be the larva or grub of a fly. Its light is seemingly given it to attract small insects which are its food, and these are secured by means of a web. This web is placed in a niche amongst rocks or trees, and has a central thread, from which run smaller threads to the sides of the opening. Upon several of the lower threads there are usually a number of globules that resemble tiny silver beads, but what is the use of these is uncertain. Upon the middle thread the grub sits; if startled, it glides away into a hole it has for a hiding-place. The light comes from the hinder part of the body, and the grub can display or darken this as it chooses. On damp, warm nights it is brightest, and it is not visible when the weather is cold, nor, of course, during the day. Having reached its full size, the grub becomes a chrysalis, being fastened firmly to its web. A faint light comes from the chrysalis now and then. When the fly comes out, that also has a faint light, only half as bright as that of the grub; what it feeds upon is unknown.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(_Continued from page 323._)

CHAPTER XVIII.

Mrs. Wright had been waiting in great anxiety for the return of Jack.

Twenty times over she went to the end of the sandy path to see if the tide was going out, and returned in an anxious state of mind to make preparations for the drenched party. She reproached herself bitterly for carelessness. How could she have trusted so entirely to Julien? She ought to have known he was ignorant of the tides, if not of the caves.

Her anxiety was almost more than she could bear by the time the tide had left the gorge. Then she stood on the beach to watch, and it was with a cry of delight that she saw the three coming towards her.

They were all glad of the hot meal which smoked upon the table in readiness for their return, and sat down in very cheerful spirits, in spite of their damp condition. But it was not so pleasant to be hurried off immediately afterwards to bed and warm blankets. Julien, who had not shown much appet.i.te, and still looked pale and s.h.i.+very, refused to go to bed. Jack would have compelled him, but the boy begged to be allowed to go home, as he felt ill. It really seemed the best thing to do; so, wrapping him up in a big coat, Jack took him to the Prefet's house, and handed him over to his mother's care, not forgetting to say a few words in praise of the courage the boy had shown.

'Now, Jack,' said Mrs. Wright, as he entered the warm kitchen on his return, 'if you want to do something to please me, my son, you will just go and take your wet things off, and turn in for a bit. I will bring you some hot cocoa in a minute.'

Jack laughed; then, stooping, he took his mother into his great arms, kissed her, and went.

The day of Estelle's departure was drawing near. The boat had been prepared, and Fargis had been amiable enough to offer to go with them, taking his usual crew. He realised that his trouble would be paid for, and probably handsomely paid for, into the bargain. The weather was in favour of the crossing, so Estelle and Jack had come for a last walk on the cliff before that sad day came. To Mrs. Wright and her son the loss of the child was a deep sorrow; to Estelle, though she was going home to her beloved Aunt Betty, to the kindest of uncles and aunts, to her most loving cousins, it was a wrench. She loved those dear ones at home deeply, truly. But she loved Goody and her dear, kind Jack. What should she do when she could not see them? Tears came into her eyes, and made the boats and the sea dim. She longed to ask Jack for one thing before she went away. Went away! Oh, why must there be these partings?

Meantime, Jack grieved over the loss of his 'little Missie.' He was sad, and would be sadder when the long winter evenings came, and he missed her at every turn; but there were other anxieties. He must face that English world again from which he had fled in the long years of the past. For Estelle's sake, and because it was his duty, he must take her back to her English home, and he was debating, painfully, bravely, what that journey would mean to him. What would it mean to his mother? She was the dearest and best tie he had in the world. For his sake she had made sacrifices to which few mothers would have consented, had borne hards.h.i.+ps few would have faced so n.o.bly. Had he any right, after all she had done for him, to expose her to any chance of evils which this return to England might bring upon him, and, through him, on her?

Estelle, looking up, saw the grief and perplexity in his face, and her heart smote her for her own selfish thoughts. She did not understand how he suffered, but she felt she must comfort him.

'Jack,' she said, swallowing down her tears, and speaking in as steady a voice as she could muster--dear Jack, you have been so good and kind to me! So good, I can't express it! Do let me do something for you. I know you have a secret, and I am afraid it is that, even more than my going, which is making you so miserable. I don't want to pry into it, dear Jack, but remember that my father is a rich man, and he is powerful, too. If you won't mind telling him about it, I know--I am quite, _quite_ sure--he will do anything in his power for you. Think what you have done for me! And he loves me--he has only me now.'

Jack sat silent for some moments, his head on his arms, which were crossed upon his knees.

'Missie,' he said at last, raising his face, 'n.o.body can help me. I want no help such as your father, or any other rich, powerful man can give. I know you mean it kindly, little girl, but there are some things in which a man must stand and fall alone. Alone?' he added bitterly; 'yes, but he doesn't suffer alone! He drags his dearest and best down with him, let his remorse be what it may.'