But it was, of course, the worst for poor mother. It was bad enough in the nursery, where the tea, that n.o.body had cared to touch, was set out as neatly as usual on the table; the chairs drawn round, the one that Baby always had with a footstool on it--to make up for there being no high chair at the Villa--in its place, though the well-known, funny little figure was not perched on it. And Lisa, with a face swollen so that no one would have known her, fussing away to have the kettle boiling, so that her darling should have some hot tea as soon as ever he came in--for she wouldn't allow but that he would soon come in, though sad little stories kept running through Celia's and Denny's heads about children that had been lost and never found, or found only when it was no longer they themselves but only their poor little bodies, drowned, perhaps, or "choked in the snow," as Denny said. And she got rather cross when Celia reminded her that there was no snow, so it couldn't be _that_, any way.

All this was bad enough, but still they were free to talk about their fears, and to cry if they felt inclined, and to keep running to the window or the door. But for poor mother, as you can fancy, it was _much_ worse. There she had to sit smiling and talking as if everything were quite nice and comfortable, not only for the sake of the friends who had come to dine with them, but still more for poor grandfather's sake, who kept growing more and more fidgety and put out, and at the bottom of his heart, though he would not own it even to himself, really frightened and anxious.

At last his patience was exhausted.

"May," he said, speaking across the fireplace to mother. She was talking to the lady beside her, and did not at first hear him. "_May_," said grandfather again, and if the children had been in the room I think his voice would have made them jump, "it is using our friends very badly to keep them waiting so long for dinner. Be so good as to ring again and tell the servants we will _not_ wait any longer."

Poor mother--she looked up--it was all she could do not to burst into tears!

"Yes," she said, "I will tell them."

She was half rising from her seat, whispering to the lady beside her (the lady who _did_ know all about it), "I don't know _how_ I shall get through dinner," when--what was it?--no bell had rung, there was no sound that any one else heard, what could it have been that _mother_ heard? I don't know what it was, and I daresay mother herself could not have told, but something she did hear. For she stopped short, and a sort of eager look came into her eyes and a flush into her cheeks. And then the other people in the room seemed to catch the infection, and everybody else looked up to see what was coming, and in the silence a sort of fumbling was heard at the door. It only lasted a second or two, then somehow the handle turned, much more quickly than was usually the case when it was Baby's small hands that were stretching up to reach it--I rather think some one must have been behind to help him--the door opened and--oh such a funny little figure came in! You know who it was of course, but it would be very difficult to tell you exactly what he looked like. He was dressed just as he had been for playing in the garden--a little short thick jacket over his holland blouse, which was no longer very clean; his short scarlet socks and oldest boots on his legs, the bare part of which looked very red and cold, and what had been his best straw hat with part of the brim dangling down, on his curly head. But he seemed quite pleased with himself--that was another of Herr Baby's "ways"; he always did seem quite pleased with himself, best of all, I think, when he had his oldest clothes on--he trotted into the room just as he would have trotted into the garden, even though there were a good many rather finely-dressed ladies and gentlemen sitting round--for his whole mind was filled with the thoughts of two big paper parcels which he carried in his arms. They could not have been as heavy as they were big, or else he could not possibly have carried them! And close at his heels, making him look still funnier, came Minet, very pleased, I am sure, to find herself again in sight of a fire.

Herr Baby looked round him for a moment, only for a moment, for though the lights in the room and the number of people dazzled and puzzled him a little, _he_ did not need to look round for which was mother.

Forgetting all about everything, except that her baby was found, up jumped mother, a rosy flush coming over her face which had looked so white and sad, pretty mother with her silvery silky dress and her sweet eyes filled with tears, and rushing over to Baby caught him up in her arms, poor little cold, tired, red-legged Herr Baby, and for a minute or so, greatly to grandfather's surprise, she hid her face somehow among the wee man's curls without speaking.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Forgetting all about everything, except that her baby was found, up jumped mother.--P. 170.]

Grandfather was surprised but not alarmed, for just behind in the open doorway stood auntie, who came quietly forward and explained to him that Baby had gone out on his own account and they had been afraid of his losing his way, that was what had kept her out so late, and she was _so_ sorry. Auntie had such a nice clear simple way of speaking, grandfather's vexation seemed to melt away as he listened. He glanced at the little figure still clasped in mother's arms, and a queer look came into his eyes.

"Poor children!" he said, "poor children! May, you should have told me."

But he knew why they hadn't told him. The ladies and gentlemen came round auntie to hear what she was saying. They were all very kind and very sorry and very glad. But it was difficult not to smile when a little voice was heard saying,

"Mother, p'ease put him down. Him's got somesing _so_ pitty, but him's afraid of breaking them."

And sliding down to the ground, he managed somehow to set the two parcels safely on the floor, and began undoing them. They all watched him, but he didn't care, and he would let n.o.body help him. He got one out at last, and held it up with a beautiful happiness in his little face.

"See, mother!" he cried, "shiny jugs! Him's got them all himself wif him's own pennies. Two! Them's for you, mother, 'cos him boked you's 'nother ones. Him founded them himself in a shop. Him's been as quick as him could, 'cos of mother's party, to make the table pitty."

"My darling," said mother, hugging him again, and when she looked up half smiling, half crying, and tried to say to the ladies and gentlemen that she hoped they would not think her silly, there were tears in some other eyes besides in hers.

But Herr Baby was quite himself.

"You _is_ p'eased," he said contentedly. "Then him'll go to tea, for him's raver hungry. But p'ease put the shiny jugs on the table to make it pitty."

He held up his face for another kiss. Then grandfather came forward and in his turn lifted the little truant into his arms.

"He is tired, the poor little man," he said, looking round: "you are so kind; I should ask you to forgive our want of politeness, but I am sure you will. I will be back in a moment."

And it was grandfather himself who carried off Herr Baby and gave him over to Lisa, weeping for joy now, as she caught her darling in her arms.

There _was_ a happy tea in the nursery that night after all. Baby was very tired, but so exceedingly pleased with himself that his face grew rosy and his eyes bright, as if he had only just wakened up in the morning, as he sat at the table answering all the questions of Celia and Denny and Fritz and Lisa about his adventures. How had he found his way?

How had he made the old man understand what he wanted? Hadn't he been frightened? Had he been pleased to see auntie? Had he carried Minet all the way? Oh, there were more questions than I could tell you--almost more than Herr Baby could answer; and Minet, too, came in for a share of the petting.

When they had got most of their questions answered, they all found out they were very hungry, and they set to work at their tea, and for a while there was silence in the nursery. Suddenly Baby leant his two elbows on the table and looked round.

"It were all the pitty little girl that keeped the shiny gla.s.ses for him. Her _are_ so pitty."

"What little girl?" said the children, all together.

"Do you mean the young woman's little girl in the shop?"

"No," said Herr Baby, "not that kind of little girl. Him means a little girl up on the wall--a _pitcher_ girl; but him thinks her are a _fairy_."

And having thus given his opinion, Baby looked round again with great satisfaction, and Celia and Denny whispered to each other that really Baby sometimes said very funny things for such a little boy!

They were all dressed as usual, and Denny and Baby went in to dessert, while Celia and Fritz waited, as became such _big_ young people, in the drawing-room. Everybody was very kind to the children, and Baby, had he been any one else _but_ Herr Baby, would have been spoilt by all the petting the ladies wanted to give him. But his eyes were fixed on one thing, or rather on two things, on the table, one in front of mother at one end, one in front of grandfather at the other, there they stood, two queerly-shaped gla.s.s jugs, sparkling and shining with many colours like a rainbow, filled with the brightest and clearest water which might have been drawn at a fairy well. And what pleasure shone in Baby's face as he looked at them.

"You _is_ p'eased?" he said again to mother, as he bade her good-night.

It was a little difficult for mother to have to make "him" understand that much as she loved him for remembering how sorry she had been to have the first jugs broken, and how sweet she thought it of him to have got her new ones, that still he must never again think of doing such things by himself and without telling or asking any one.

She did not say anything to him that night; she could not bear to spoil his pretty pleasure, but the next day she made him understand; and Baby "p'omised" he would never again set off on his own account, or settle any plan without asking mother or auntie, or perhaps Celia, about it.

And so the end of the story of the broken jugs was quite a happy one.

Herr Baby's birthday came in the late spring. They were all back in England by then. The old garden was no longer "lonely," for the children's voices were heard all over it, and the sunlight through the leaves flickered on to their curly heads as they ran about in delight, seeking for all their old favourite corners. The "labbits" were well and happy; Jones and Thomas had come to meet them at the railway station with broad smiles on their honest faces; all the house looked bright and smiling, too, it had been so well rubbed up to receive them--altogether Herr Baby thought "coming back" was a very nice and happy thing, though he had enjoyed himself so much at Santino that he told Lisa he didn't think he would much mind if they _did_ go there again next winter, when it began to get cold at home, as was already spoken of, as Santino had done grandfather so much good this time.

So, as I was saying, it was a very happy little man, indeed, that woke up in his "own dear little bed,"--which, wonderful to say, had not grown too small for him all the months they had been away,--on the morning of Herr Baby's fifth birthday. He could hardly stand still to be dressed, so eager was he to run off to mother's room to get her birthday kiss, and to see the presents which he knew would not have been forgotten.

They turned out even prettier than he had expected; indeed, it would take me too long were I to tell you all about the beautiful box of bricks, big enough to build real houses almost, Baby thought, from grandfather, and the lovely pair of toy horses with _real_ hair, in a stable, from mother, and the coachman's whip to crack at them from Fritz, and the pair of slippers Celia and Denny had worked for him, one foot each, and the birthday cake all snowed over with sugar, and with his name on in pink, from grandfather and mother together, "'asides their other presents." It quite took Herr Baby's breath away to think all these lovely things were for him; he sat at the nursery table quite unable to eat his breakfast, something like Fritz the morning they were starting on their journey, do you remember? till Lisa persuaded him to eat, by telling him if he didn't, he would be so tired that he wouldn't enjoy his birthday at all, which made him set to work at his bread and milk. Lisa, too, had remembered the day, for she had made him the prettiest little penny purse you ever saw, knitted in bright-coloured silk, so that now he was very well off, indeed, with his "scented" purse for his gold and silver, and Lisa's one for pennies and halfpennies, and his money-box to store up the rest in when the purses were full. He had all his presents set out in a row, so that he could see them while he was eating, and just when he was at nearly the last spoonful, he was quite startled by a voice beside him, saying, "And what about _my_ present, Baby, dear? Did you think I had forgotten your birthday?"

It was auntie. She had come in so quietly that Herr Baby had not heard her. She leant over his chair, and he put his arms round her neck and kissed her.

"Him is so happy, auntie dear," he said; "him has such lots of p'esents, him never thought about your p'esent."

"Didn't you, dear?" said auntie, smiling. "Well, _I_ didn't forget it--indeed, I thought of it a long time ago, as you will see. Come with me, for I see you have finished your breakfast."

Auntie took him by the hand. Baby wondered where she was going to, and he was rather surprised when she led him to his own room--that is to say, to the pretty nursery where he and Denny had their two little white beds side by side.

"Look up, Baby," said auntie.

And looking up, what do you think he saw? On the wall, at the side of his own little bed, where his eyes could see it the first thing in the morning, and the last at night, hung the picture of the blue-eyed little girl, the dear little girl of long ago, with her sweet rosy face, and queer old-fashioned white frock, smiling down at him, with the sort of wise, loving look, just as she had smiled down at him in the old shop at Santino.

"Oh, auntie, auntie!" cried Baby. But then he seemed as if he could say no more. He just stared up at the sweet little face, clasping his hands, as if he was _too_ pleased to speak. Then, at last, he turned to auntie and _hugged_ her.

"Oh, auntie!" he said again. "Oh, him _is_ so p'eased to have him's own pitty little girl always smiling at him. Him will _always_ have her, won't him, auntie?"

"I hope so, dear. She is your very own."

"Him will keep her till him is _kite_ old. Him will show her to him's children and him's g'anchildren, won't him?" went on Baby solemnly.

"I hope so, dear," said auntie again, smiling at his flushed little face.

"Her _is_ so pitty," said Baby. "Her is as sweet as a fairy. Auntie, him would _so_ like to hear all the story about her. Couldn't you find it out, auntie?"