THE FIRST MONTH.

FOR the first time for many a year, Hannah refused an engagement to cook for a grand dinner-party on the 20th, without the excuse of being pre-engaged. She simply said that she had business at home, and could not be absent on that day. And the lady who wanted her, being a hot-tempered dame, said that she would never employ her again. However, after an experience of a man-cook sent from a pastry-cook's shop, she found it convenient to forgive Mrs. Rule. Not that Hannah cared, for she had as much work as she could do.

It was about four o'clock when Wellington Row beheld a handsome brougham, drawn by a pair of spanking bays, with a coachman and a footman in correct attire—grand creatures, who looked too fine for the street and too big for the small houses. It is a fact that the footman looked tall enough to look in at the first floor windows when he alighted to perform a tremendous knock at No. 3.

"A carriage and pair!" cried Mrs. Collins, and stared as if bereft of her senses. "And two servants—they look well fed, too. Ah, why did I marry young instead of going to service!" (It did not occur to her that a small woman could hardly develop into a six-foot footman.) "At Hannah Rule's! What's the man lifting out of the carriage? A bundle?—No, a child wrapped in a shawl. A lady, too! Oh, me, what a silk! She's in black. She's going in. No doubt it's the foundling she has brought with her. Oh, Hannah Rule! But you 'are' deep. The child that's brought in a carriage and pair by a lady in silks and laces, and looking like a queen—that child's well paid for, or I'm an idiot. Some old servant's child, I suppose. Dear, dear, some folks has all the luck."

And the worthy soul stood gazing at the carriage and the two men, wondering if she dare go to No. 3 to ask if she could be of any use. But she did not dare, which vexed her to the heart.

"What a nice, sunny room, Hannah," said Mrs. Anstruther. "Ah! Little Ellen, you're a lucky child. Yes, the shawl is mine—dear me, the child is half dead with fright. I do hope, Hannah—I cannot stop a moment, just step outside. I want a word with you. That stupid coachman took me miles out of the way, I suspect, and I have an engagement this afternoon. Good-bye, Ellen; be a good child, for you have to thank Mrs. Rule for great kindness, you know, and—"

"Well, now, Mrs. Anstruther, she has to get the kindness yet. All I've done, so far, is to take her away from the place she knows, and she told me she didn't want to come. But you'll see, ma'am, she'll change her mind."

Mrs. Anstruther stood on the pavement, and Hannah on her snow-white door-step, holding the door nearly shut.

"Change her 'mind,' Hannah! The question is, has she a mind to change? We took a long time to drive here, and she never moved nor opened her lips from the moment I wrapped the shawl round her to hide the terrible red frock. I begin to fear she is deficient. If so, you must come to me. I can get her admitted into the Willoughby Home, or somewhere. You must not be burdened with a fool, my good Hannah. Good-bye. I do feel that you've been so kind."

And under the very eyes of the watchful and envious Collins, Mrs. Anstruther shook hands with Hannah, got into her carriage, and was whirled away.

And the carriage had not turned the corner, when Mrs. Collins knocked at No. 3. The door opened before she had let go the knocker. Hannah had seen her at her own door, and had waited.

"You lost no time, Mrs. Collins. I can't ask you to come in, because I'm going to be busy."

And, if it can be believed, she shut the door, though Mrs. Collins was so full of questions that she had asked one before she realized that she was alone.

"Who was that lady?" she said. And then, after a pause of disgust, set off towards her own door.

But when there, she turned back again, saying—

"There's no law against me passing the house, I presume!"

And she did pass it; but, alas! those admired geraniums prevented her seeing into the parlour. She caught a glimpse of something red, and that was all. Returning, sadly, she became aware that Hannah had perceived her manœuvre, for she stood behind the flowers, laughing. I think Mrs. Collins ought to be pitied: curiosity as acute as hers really amounts to a pain.

"Well, she's gone now, it may be hoped," said Hannah, turning to the child, who sat just where she had been set down by the tall footman, huddled up in an armchair near the fireplace.

"Why, you poor little soul, you're as cold as if 'twas midwinter, instead of June weather! Come with me, honey, to the kitchen, and we'll make some tea, and you shall see what's in the oven—just wait till you see. Come, dear; I dare say you're hungry."

Ellen tumbled herself off the chair. But she was really so frightened and so wretched that, when her feet touched the floor, they refused to do their work, and she would have fallen but that Hannah caught her.

"You're dizzy with driving in the carriage, not being used to it. See, now; I'll help you."

And she carried the child into the kitchen. Here she bustled about, making tea and getting ready a very tempting meal. She considered it better to stay in the kitchen, lest Mrs. Collins, or any other inquiring neighbour, should look in at the parlour window, and also for the sake of getting the child warm.

Out of the oven came a little round cake, with "Ellen" in coloured comfits on the top of it.

"See, now, child, that cake was made for you, on purpose. And, though I say it that ought not, you never ate a better seed bun in your life."

But poor Ellen was quite innocent of having eaten seed bun of any kind, and she was afraid to touch this one. Hannah cut it in two, and took some herself. That was a wise move—Ellen soon ventured on a nibble.

"Drink some tea while it is hot, dear. Were you much afraid when Mrs. Anstruther took you away?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ah, I dare say. But you're not afraid of me, are you?"

"Ye—yes, ma'am."

"Of me, that made a cake on purpose for you? To welcome you? Why, that's foolish, now. Finish up your cake, and have some bread and butter. And another cup of tea? Come, you'll feel better now. I'll get the frock I'm making for you, and we'll see if it is a right length. Not a moment longer than we can help shall you keep on that ugly red thing. See, now—isn't that pretty? I have the skirt made, and the body all tacked. Shall we see how it fits?"

The rest of the day was spent by Hannah in finishing the calico frock. Ellen made no resistance when it was tried on, but seemed to take no interest in it. In fact, she did not understand that it was meant for her. The poor child felt as if she understood nothing, but that she was in a new world. Hannah put her to bed at last, and felt as tired as if she had done a hard day's work. She sat down to rest, and muttered—

"If I have to do all the talking for long, it will be the death of me. Poor little lamb! She's like one only half-awake. Well, now, I had better go and tell Mrs. Collins all I mean to tell her, or no one knows what stories she'll have all over the place. Besides, she might die of curiosity, and I don't want to have her death at my door."

She was so tired that she actually felt glad when a well-known "rap-tap" at her door announced that she need not go in search of Mrs. Collins, who was soon seated in the parlour, sending searching glances round in search of the child in the red frock, but suppressing with care and success all traces of annoyance at the way in which she had been treated earlier in the day.

"You can't see Ellen to-day, for she's in bed, fair tired out. You see, she never was half a mile away from Armine's Trust, where she was brought up from a baby, and she's not used to strangers, and so everything is very trying."

"All, well, I'll see her some other time. Who was the lady that brought her here?"

"Mrs. Anstruther. She was Miss Geraldine Bulteel, and it was in her mother's nursery that I first went to service. She's a widow now, and very rich. And she's been made one of the Board, as they call it, for managing Armine's Trust. A while ago I was mending lace for her, and I mentioned that if I could get a child that had no better friends, I would be glad to see to it. She's full of kind plans, and does a deal of good. And so she said that I should do her a favour by taking a child from Armine's Trust, as they want to have fewer there, money being short. So I said I'd try, and went to see the children, and the one I liked best was this little Ellen, who will be ten in August. And the child is very timid and backward, and younger than I wished, but I don't mind that. I must see what to do with her when I'm out for the day."

"Nearly ten, is she? Well, that's too old to be wanting regular care, like a little one. If you like to leave her with me when you are out, I'll give her house-room. You won't mind her running an errand for me now and then, of course? 'Tis good for children to be kept active."

Mrs. Rule laughed a little. "No doubt," said she, "you'd be the one to keep her active. Thank you, Mrs. Collins, but I must put her to school for the mornings, and I must arrange for her to stay there till I go for her. She's a mere baby, as far as taking care of herself goes. I must say, as far as I see of it, I don't like the way children are brought up in such places—in the lump, as I may say. Do you know of any small school where I could put her?"

"The parish school would be good enough for a charity foundling, to 'my' mind," replied Mrs. Collins, with a sniff.

"Quite good enough if she were strong. But she'll want care, and people must be patient with her. She'd die of fright the first time she heard the noise those young rogues make when school's over. And I've had to get on a door-step myself not to be knocked down with the rush."

"Mrs. Rule, is the child silly, that she needs such cosseting?"

"I don't think she is. But she's one that has never had a soft word said to her, nor any word more than was needful. And I'm determined that she shall have a fair chance and time to get that frightened look out of her poor little face, if possible. Now, Mrs. Collins, I've told you everything; so, if any one is curious about the matter, you know what to tell them."

Mrs. Collins did not wait for any one to be curious, and what she told every one was this. Some grand lady had persuaded Mrs. Rule to take charge of this child who was too troublesome to be kept in some asylum with a queer name, being half witted, and, Mrs. Collins hoped, not subject to fits. No doubt the lady paid well, but Mrs. Rule would never own to that. But she did no great harm, for nobody believed more than half she said, and Hannah never found out what a report she had given of her investigations. Before long, people got used to see Ellen with Mrs. Rule, and forgot all about her arrival.

Next day the nice calico frock and white pinafore made a great improvement in Ellen's look. Hannah smiled secretly to see the child turning her little cropped head about till she nearly broke her neck, to see the frock all round. As to the hat with the blue ribbon, Ellen sat gazing at it with awe. The first shy little dawn of a smile came when that hat was tied under her own small chin. Breakfast was over then, and Mrs. Rule put on her own bonnet, took her basket, and invited Ellen to come with her, which Ellen consented to, because she was afraid of being left alone even for a short time.

"I have to market for my lodger as well as for myself, Ellen, and to see about a school for you. I dare say Mrs. Green, at the baker's shop, may know of some nice quiet place."

She looked at Ellen, but the child looked quite vacant—a look which soon gave place to one of alarm when they got into the busy crowded street. Hannah took her hand, saying—

"Never fear, Pussie, I'll take care of you;" and led her along, but found she must walk slowly, as the child was unable to get on fast.

Mrs. Green, the baker's wife, said that her own little girls went to a very nice school, kept by a widowed lady—a Mrs. Cartwright—in a quiet street not far off. But she did not know if she would take a child for extra hours.

"But she may, Mrs. Rule, for she's as poor as poor can be. Is the child a relation of yours?"

"She's my adopted child, ma'am, and I'm willing to pay for her schooling and anything else in reason. Come, Ellen, we'll go and see Mrs. Cartwright at once. And thank you, Mrs. Green."

Ellen shuffled along, looking as tired as if she had walked miles. But they had not very far to go, and Mrs. Cartwright was in the schoolroom.

Her little daughter said, "And won't you come in, ma'am?"

So Hannah entered.

The schoolroom was only the drawing-room of a very tiny house, and there were about ten little girls all diligently writing copies.

"Mamma, this lady wishes to speak to you."

"Could I see you alone, ma'am? I will not keep you long."

"Certainly," said Mrs. Cartwright, pleasantly; and, turning to her daughter, she added, "Mildred, do you keep order and call me if you want me."

She then led the way into another room. Hannah had intended to leave Ellen in the schoolroom, but the poor child clung to her and looked so terrified that she had not the heart to insist.

"Wait for me here, Ellen," she said; "you can sit on the stairs. No one will touch you, child."

"Is she ill?" Mrs. Cartwright said anxiously.

"No, ma'am. If you'll let me tell you all about her, you'll be able to give me an answer at once."

Very quietly and plainly the story was told. Mrs. Cartwright knew all about Armine's Trust, as it happened, and had often heard, she said, of Mrs. Anstruther, who had been very kind to her when she lost her husband. She was not much inclined to take charge of Ellen, but she felt ashamed to refuse. Hannah had no idea of setting an example, but there was something in her simple, straightforward way of trying to do the best for the child that made Mrs. Cartwright determine to help in the good work, if possible.

"But you must not blame me, Mrs. Rule, if the parents of my pupils object, and I have to let her go. I dare not lose my pupils. However, as Mrs. Green sent you here, I almost think we are safe enough."

"And you'll keep the child till I come for her? When she's a bit older and—wiser, she can come home alone, but for the present I shall bring her here and take her home. And you must tell me, ma'am, what I'm to pay for her being kept all day when I'm at work at a distance. I'll call for her on my way home."

All was duly arranged. But when they went out to the stairs for Ellen to tell her about it, Ellen was not there! Hannah remembered what Mrs. Anstruther had said about some of the girls trying to return to the Trust, and, thinking of Ellen's timidity and helplessness, she was quite frightened. The hall door was open; Hannah went quickly out, and looked up and down the street. She soon espied a little figure sitting on a door-step, the hands up to the eyes and the cropped head hatless.

"I see her," said Hannah. "Never mind, ma'am, I shall fetch her to-morrow."

And she hurried on to where Ellen's short career as a runaway had come to an abrupt end.

"Why, Ellen, what made you leave the house? That wasn't right of you—and where's your hat?"

Ellen looked up, at first more frightened than ever. But when she recognized her kind friend, the poor little face brightened.

"It is you!" she said. "Yes, ma'am, I was bad." And she held out her small hand, palm uppermost, and shut her eyes tight, that she might not see the slap coming.

"I'm not going to slap you, child. Where did you want to go?"

"I don't know. A girl opened the door and looked at me, and then more came and looked, too. And, when they shut the door again, I went away. I think I wanted to go back to the Trust. But a big boy got hold of my hat and said 'twas his, and asked who cropped my head so pretty? So I sat down and cried."

"Ellen, listen to me. Promise me you'll stay with me and do as I tell you for one month, and then, if you want to go back to Armine's Trust, I'll speak to Mrs. Anstruther about it. I know that, if you say you will, you will keep your word—that is why I chose you, because you speak the truth."

Ellen promised. Another hat was then bought, but no blue ribbon. Hannah thought that a silent lesson might, perhaps, be learned by the absence of the admired ribbon.

Hannah had no engagement for that day, so she employed herself in washing her own aprons and in making up a couple of tidy caps, also in making bread, and soup, and various other small cookeries. Ellen followed her about from room to room, but always retired to a corner and sat watching her. Upstairs, to dust and arrange the first floor rooms; higher still, to the attic where that new bedstead stood beside Hannah's own; out into the yard to feed the two respectable hens, and to look in the nest for an egg—a great puzzle to poor Ellen, who had never before connected eggs with feathered fowl; in and out, up and down, the silent, unsmiling child followed Hannah all that day, until, thanks to the unusual exertion and excitement, she got so tired that she fell fast asleep in her corner, and Hannah carried her off to bed.

Every day that Hannah spent at home, Ellen went about after her in the same way, as soon as she got home from school. Hannah was a sensible woman, and possessed of much quiet patience, and she just let the child alone, talking to her a little, but not unless she seemed to listen willingly.

At school Ellen wept one whole day—plentifully, but silently. After that, she seemed assured that no bodily harm was intended her by the other children, and so was more at rest. It was discovered that she could read very correctly, in a sing-song voice, and without any stops, except one now and then where it was not wanted, unless to allow her to draw breath. Also she could write really beautiful copies, but whether she knew that the letters she formed so carefully meant anything more than so many curves and loops, was a very doubtful matter. She could say the multiplication table without being troubled with any consideration as to its meaning, just as a parrot might; and she could do small sums in simple addition, but they were always wrong. Mrs. Cartwright was not surprised at this result, when she observed that the child dabbed her slate-pencil at each figure in the row, and then wrote a figure below, without any mental process whatever.

Poor Mrs. Cartwright! She was an exceedingly conscientious woman, and her endeavours to arouse Ellen's dormant faculties were constant, but she never succeeded until a bright idea struck little Mildred, who had taken Ellen under her protection. Mildred bought twopennyworth of marbles, and, by their help, convinced Ellen that when you add two to two you have four, and if you take one away you will have but three. Ellen gravely said it made the sums harder, but more sense in them. This happy event took place before the month during which she had promised to remain in her new home had expired.

That promise had been made on the 28th of June, and, although she rather dreaded the child's answer, Hannah would not cheat her about the time. On the 28th of July, when she had brought her home from school, she said—

"Well, Ellen, the month is up to-day. Am I to ask Mrs. Anstruther to get you back into the Trust, and give me another girl instead of you?"

Ellen started and grew pale. "That was long ago—'very' long ago," she said.

"No—it seems long to you, maybe," said Hannah, quite disappointed, "but it is just a month since you made me that promise, and you've kept it very honestly. And I was in hopes you were getting contented, but—"

She turned away, and looked out over the geraniums with a very real feeling of sorrow. She had tried very hard.

Then she felt a little rough head being pushed under her hand—just as a dog might have done it—two thin arms were flung round her. With a great sob, Ellen said—

"You won't send me away! I'll be good. I'll do anything—anything. You—you're so kind. I want to stay. No one is like you."

Hannah was so moved that, for a moment, she could not speak. Then she took the child in her arms.

"Then you're my own little girl," she said; "and you and me will part no more till it is God's will."

"But ask Him to let me stay!" Ellen said, as she flung her arms round Hannah's neck. "Do—please do—give me a kiss."

From that time Hannah took the child to her heart. And, as to Ellen, she really thought as she said, that there was no one like Hannah. But it cannot be said that Hannah's troubles with her were quite over. Her utter want of any notion of taking care of herself, her helplessness, and want of handiness, made her a trying child. Indeed, she was so awkward that Hannah began to wonder if she would ever be fit for any work but the very roughest.

Thinking it over, she determined to let her look on for a good long time, hoping that she might learn something in that way without being vexed by perpetual failures. Mrs. Collins thought this very foolish indeed.

"'I'd' make her learn," said she, eyeing poor quaking Ellen in a very severe way; "and you'll wish yet that you'd been advised, Mrs. Rule—but well I know you'll never own to it."

"Well, she's not strong; and I don't want help as yet. She's but a child. But she's coming on in her schooling nicely. Ellen, could you read a chapter just to show how you've come on? She reads the Bible to me every evening. You'd rather not? Well, well, some other time you will."

"Mrs. Rule," said Mrs. Collins, "you're weaker than I thought possible, and you'll be the ruin of that child."