"There's Whitefoot, and that dear little boy Mr. Carpenter told us about," exclaimed a young girl, who was no other than Emma Blagden.

The donkey trotted on until the two carriages met, when a pleasant voice called out:

"Stop a minute, please. Is your name Herbert Curtis?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"How do you do, Whitefoot?" exclaimed the young girl, springing to the ground and throwing her arms around the donkey's neck.

"Oh, you stupid creature not to know your old mistress!" she went on, as the animal took no notice of her caresses.

"I'm very glad to see you," Bertie began, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. "Will you please go and see mamma?"

"Have you moved into the new house yet," inquired the lady who had asked them to stop.

"No, ma'am. Mamma is over there though; and she would be very glad to see you, and thank you for sending me the bird."

"Oh, yes!" cried Emma. "Where is the linnet? I dare say she'd know me."

"I'm sorry; but I lent my bird to a little girl in the hospital. It does amuse the children there so much to watch it."

"Did you tire of it, then?"

"Oh, no, indeed! I like it dearly; but they have to be in their cots, you know; and it makes them feel better to have something to look at."

"Shall we waive ceremony and call at Woodlawn?" asked the lady of her husband.

"Just as you say," answered the gentleman smiling.

"Well, Bertie, if you think your mamma is not too much engaged, we will call for a few moments. You may drive Whitefoot on, and we will follow."

"Oh, mamma! Mr. Carpenter didn't tell half the beauties of the scenery," exclaimed Emma, gazing from the carriage window; "and we thought that he exaggerated. Only look at the water glistening through the trees; and then the reflection of that weeping willow in the lake is so perfect."

Bertie drove quickly to the front door, and lifting Winnie from her seat, ran into the house to announce the visitors.

It was a pleasant call, though a short one, the only seats being the stairs. Then Bertie persuaded his sister to stay with Nancy, who was washing windows; and he took mamma in his donkey carriage and accompanied their new friends over the nicely gravelled road to the lake.

There were a pair of swans, now, which had grown so tame that they would sail up close to the sh.o.r.e and pick up the crumbs the children threw to them.

CHAPTER V.

THE SORROWING FATHER.

In another volume of this series, I have told you about Mr. Cahart who brought the stone steps from the granite quarry. He had a son who gave him great trouble, and whom he promised that that he would send to Oxford for Bertie to take to his mamma, hoping she would do him good.

Every day for a long time the little fellow expected the boy would come up the avenue at Woodlawn. But nothing had ever been seen or heard from him; and now more than a month had pa.s.sed.

One lovely afternoon during the pleasant season called the Indian summer, Mr. Curtis invited his wife, Bertie and Winnie to ride with him to the quarry where he wished to pay the balance of his bill, part of which Bertie had paid Mr. Cahart.

The lady gladly consented and told Nancy to dress the children as soon as possible.

The country never had looked so delightful to Mrs. Curtis as now that the fields were dressed in their gay, autumn attire. Their road lay through rich woods of maple, birch and oak, brilliant in their red and yellow hues.

Mrs. Curtis could scarcely express her delight.

"Oh, there is a branch so perfect! I must have that!" or, "Lawrence, it's too bad to trouble you again; but it does seem wicked to pa.s.s so many beauties. They would look so lovely in our new house."

And Lawrence, the most indulgent of husbands, would check up his gay horses, and spring from the carriage and break off branch after branch as she directed.

Herbert had inherited all his mother's love for the beauties of nature, as well as her enthusiasm. His cheeks glowed and his blue eyes sparkled as she piled her treasures in his lap, charging him to guard them with care.

At length they reached the town and drove at once to the hotel, where Mr. Curtis left them, promising to return in fifteen or twenty minutes.

The air was so fine that Mrs. Curtis preferred to sit in the carriage, which she could easily do as the hostler stood at the horses' heads.

The children were chatting gayly when a loud geeing was heard; and presently an ox-team was seen slowly approaching from the direction of the granite quarry.

"Oh, mamma!" said Bertie greatly excited, "there's Mr. Cahart. I do hope he will stop and speak to me. I want to know why his son did not come to Woodlawn as he promised."

The child leaned as far as he could from the carriage, hoping to attract attention; but the man did not once glance toward him. His face looked very sober, as if his heart were sore.

Just as the great load of granite was opposite the carriage Bertie shouted in an excited tone:

"Mr. Cahart! Oh, Mr. Cahart! Please stop! I want to see you!"

Mrs. Curtis was surprised at the effect of her son's voice on the man.

He started, gazed about him, and then spying the little fellow in the carriage, came quickly toward them, seizing the small hand Bertie so cordially held out, and exclaiming with great energy:

"Aye, aye, boy, I'm powerful glad to see you!"

"This is my mamma," explained Bertie. "We came to pay Mr. Fuller's bill, and I hoped I should see you somewhere; but why didn't you let your son come to see us?"

Mr. Cahart's face worked convulsively. For a moment he seemed unable to articulate one word; but presently recovering himself he said, with a gasp:

"I've never set eyes on that boy since."

"Why, I'm so sorry, where is he?"

"Run off."

"Oh, dear! how could he do so?"

"Did you never find where he had gone?" inquired Mrs. Curtis in a deeply sympathizing tone.

"I followed him to the city, ma'am, found he'd sailed the morning before, in company with one of his mates, the worst boy in town."