'Then pray, Betty,' continued Miss Barbara, 'don't forget to-morrow, the first thing you do, to send off to Shrewsbury for my new bonnet. I must have it _to dine in_, at the Abbey, or the ladies will think nothing of me; and, Betty, remember the mantua-maker too. I must see and coax papa to buy me a new gown against the ball. I can see, you know, something of the fashions to-morrow at the Abbey. I shall _look the ladies well over_, I promise you. And, Betty, I have thought of the most charming present for Miss Somers, as papa says it's good never to go empty-handed to a great house, I'll make Miss Somers, who is fond, as her maid told you, of such things--I'll make Miss Somers a present of that guinea-hen of Susan's; it's of no use to me, so do you carry it up early in the morning to the Abbey, with my compliments. That's the thing.'

In full confidence that her present and her bonnet would operate effectually in her favour, Miss Barbara paid her first visit at the Abbey. She expected to see wonders. She was dressed in all the finery which she had heard from her maid, who had heard from the 'prentice of a Shrewsbury milliner, was _the thing_ in London; and she was much surprised and disappointed, when she was shown into the room where the Miss Somerses and the ladies of the Abbey were sitting, to see that they did not, in any one part of their dress, agree with the picture her imagination had formed of fashionable ladies. She was embarra.s.sed when she saw books and work and drawings upon the table, and she began to think that some affront was meant to her, because _the company_ did not sit with their hands before them.

When Miss Somers endeavoured to find out conversation that would interest her, and spoke of walks and flowers and gardening, of which she was herself fond, Miss Barbara still thought herself undervalued, and soon contrived to expose her ignorance most completely, by talking of things which she did not understand.

Those who never attempt to appear what they are not--those who do not in their manners pretend to anything unsuited to their habits and situation in life, never are in danger of being laughed at by sensible, well-bred people of any rank; but affectation is the constant and just object of ridicule.

Miss Barbara Case, with her mistaken airs of gentility, aiming to be thought a woman and a fine lady, whilst she was, in reality, a child and a vulgar attorney's daughter, rendered herself so thoroughly ridiculous, that the good-natured, yet discerning spectators were painfully divided between their sense of comic absurdity and a feeling of shame for one who could feel nothing for herself.

One by one the ladies dropped off. Miss Somers went out of the room for a few minutes to alter her dress, as it was the custom of the family, before dinner. She left a portfolio of pretty drawings and good prints for Miss Barbara's amus.e.m.e.nt; but Miss Barbara's thoughts were so intent upon the harpers' ball, that she could not be entertained with such _trifles_. How unhappy are those who spend their time in expectation!

They can never enjoy the present moment. Whilst Barbara was contriving means of interesting Miss Somers in her favour, she recollected, with surprise, that not one word had yet been said of her present of the guinea-hen. Mrs. Betty, in the hurry of her dressing her young lady in the morning, had forgotten it; but it came just whilst Miss Somers was dressing; and the housekeeper came into her mistress's room to announce its arrival.

'Ma'am,' said she, 'here's a beautiful guinea-hen just come, _with_ Miss Barbara Case's compliments to you.'

Miss Somers knew, by the tone in which the housekeeper delivered this message, that there was something in the business which did not perfectly please her. She made no answer, in expectation that the housekeeper, who was a woman of a very open temper, would explain her cause of dissatisfaction. In this she was not mistaken. The housekeeper came close up to the dressing-table, and continued, 'I never like to speak till I'm sure, ma'am, and I'm not quite sure, to say certain, in this case, ma'am, but still I think it right to tell you, which can't wrong anybody, what came across my mind about this same guinea-hen, ma'am; and you can inquire into it, and do as you please afterwards, ma'am. Some time ago we had fine guinea-fowls of our own, and I made bold, not thinking, to be sure, that all our own would die away from us, as they have done, to give a fine couple last Christmas to Susan Price, and very fond and pleased she was at the time, and I'm sure would never have parted with the hen with her good-will; but if my eyes don't strangely mistake, this hen, that comes from Miss Barbara, is the self-same identical guinea-hen that I gave to Susan. And how Miss Bab came by it is the thing that puzzles me. If my boy Philip was at home, maybe, as he's often at Mrs. Price's (which I don't disapprove), he might know the history of the guinea-hen. I expect him home this night, and if you have no objection, I will sift the affair.'

'The shortest way, I think,' said Henrietta, 'would be to ask Miss Case herself about it, which I will do this evening.' 'If you please, ma'am,'

said the housekeeper, coldly; for she knew that Miss Barbara was not famous in the village for speaking truth.

Dinner was now served. Attorney Case expected to smell mint sauce, and, as the covers were taken from off the dishes, looked around for lamb; but no lamb appeared. He had a dexterous knack of twisting the conversation to his point. Sir Arthur was speaking, when they sat down to dinner, of a new carving knife, which he lately had had made for his sister. The Attorney immediately went from carving-knives to poultry; thence to butchers meat. Some joints, he observed, were much more difficult to carve than others. He never saw a man carve better than the gentleman opposite him, who was the curate of the parish. 'But, sir,'

said the vulgar attorney, 'I must make bold to differ with you in one point, and I'll appeal to Sir Arthur. Sir Arthur, pray may I ask, when you carve a forequarter of lamb, do you, when you raise the shoulder, throw in salt, or not?' This well-prepared question was not lost upon Sir Arthur. The attorney was thanked for his intended present; but mortified and surprised to hear Sir Arthur say that it was a constant rule of his never to accept of any presents from his neighbours. 'If we were to accept a lamb from a rich neighbour on my estate,' said he, 'I am afraid we should mortify many of our poor tenants, who can have little to offer, though, perhaps, they may bear us thorough good-will notwithstanding.'

After the ladies left the dining-room, as they were walking up and down the large hall, Miss Barbara had a fair opportunity of imitating her keen father's method of conversing. One of the ladies observed that this hall would be a charming place for music. Bab brought in harps and harpers, and the harpers' ball, in a breath. 'I know so much about it,--about the ball I mean,' said she, 'because a lady in Shrewsbury, a friend of papa's, offered to take me with her; but papa did not like to give her the trouble of sending so far for me, though she has a coach of her own.' Barbara fixed her eyes upon Miss Somers as she spoke; but she could not read her countenance as distinctly as she wished, because Miss Somers was at this moment letting down the veil of her hat.

'Shall we walk out before tea?' said Miss Somers to her companions; 'I have a pretty guinea-hen to show you.' Barbara, secretly drawing propitious omens from the guinea-hen, followed with a confidential step. The pheasantry was well filled with pheasants, peac.o.c.ks, etc.; and Susan's pretty little guinea-hen appeared well, even in this high company. It was much admired. Barbara was in glory; but her glory was of short duration.

Just as Miss Somers was going to inquire into the guinea-hen's history, Philip came up, to ask permission to have a bit of sycamore, to turn a nutmeg box for his mother. He was an ingenious lad, and a good turner for his age. Sir Arthur had put by a bit of sycamore on purpose for him; and Miss Somers told him where it was to be found. He thanked her; but in the midst of his bow of thanks his eye was struck by the sight of the guinea-hen, and he involuntarily exclaimed, 'Susan's guinea-hen, I declare!' 'No, it's not Susan's guinea-hen,' said Miss Barbara, colouring furiously; 'it is mine, and I have made a present of it to Miss Somers.'

At the sound of Bab's voice, Philip turned--saw her--and indignation, unrestrained by the presence of all the amazed spectators, flashed in his countenance.

'What is the matter, Philip?' said Miss Somers, in a pacifying tone; but Philip was not inclined to be pacified. 'Why, ma'am,' said he, 'may I speak out?' and, without waiting for permission, he spoke out, and gave a full, true, and warm account of Rose's emba.s.sy, and of Miss Barbara's cruel and avaricious proceedings.

Barbara denied, prevaricated, stammered, and at last was overcome with confusion; for which even the most indulgent spectators could scarcely pity her.

Miss Somers, however, mindful of what was due to her guest, was anxious to despatch Philip for his piece of sycamore. Bab recovered herself as soon as he was out of sight; but she further exposed herself by exclaiming, 'I'm sure I wish this pitiful guinea-hen had never come into my possession. I wish Susan had kept it at home, as she should have done!'

'Perhaps she will be more careful now that she has received so strong a lesson,' said Miss Somers. 'Shall we try her?' continued she. 'Philip will, I daresay, take the guinea-hen back to Susan, if we desire it.'

'If you please, ma'am,' said Barbara, sullenly; 'I have nothing more to do with it.'

So the guinea-hen was delivered to Philip, who set off joyfully with his prize, and was soon in sight of Farmer Price's cottage. He stopped when he came to the door. He recollected Rose and her generous friendship for Susan. He was determined that she should have the pleasure of restoring the guinea-hen. He ran into the village. All the children who had given up their little purse on May-day were a.s.sembled on the play-green. They were delighted to see the guinea-hen once more.

Philip took his pipe and tabor, and they marched in innocent triumph towards the white washed cottage.

'Let me come with you--let me come with you,' said the butcher's boy to Philip. 'Stop one minute! my father has something to say to you.' He darted into his father's house. The little procession stopped, and in a few minutes the bleating of a lamb was heard. Through a back pa.s.sage, which led into the paddock behind the house, they saw the butcher leading a lamb.

'It is Daisy!' exclaimed Rose. 'It's Daisy!' repeated all her companions. 'Susan's lamb! Susan's lamb!' and there was a universal shout of joy.

'Well, for my part,' said the good butcher, as soon as he could be heard,--'for my part, I would not be so cruel as Attorney Case for the whole world. These poor brute beasts don't know aforehand what's going to happen to them; and as for dying, it's what we must all do some time or another; but to keep wringing the hearts of the living, that have as much sense as one's self, is what I call cruel; and is not this what Attorney Case has been doing by poor Susan and her whole family, ever since he took a spite against them? But, at any rate, here's Susan's lamb safe and sound. I'd have taken it back sooner, but I was off before day to the fair, and am but just come back. Daisy, however, has been as well off in my paddock as he would have been in the field by the water-side.'

The obliging shopkeeper, who showed the pretty calicoes to Susan, was now at his door, and when he saw the lamb, and heard that it was Susan's, and learned its history, he said that he would add his mite; and he gave the children some ends of narrow riband, with which Rose decorated her friend's lamb.

The pipe and tabor now once more began to play, and the procession moved on in joyful order, after giving the humane butcher three cheers; three cheers which were better deserved than 'loud huzzas' usually are.

Susan was working in her arbour, with her little deal table before her.

When she heard the sound of the music, she put down her work and listened. She saw the crowd of children coming nearer and nearer. They had closed round Daisy, so that she did not see it; but as they came up to the garden gate she saw that Rose beckoned to her. Philip played as loud as he could, that she might not hear, till the proper moment, the bleating of the lamb. Susan opened the garden-wicket, and at this signal the crowd divided, and the first thing that Susan saw, in the midst of her taller friends, was little smiling Mary, with the guinea-hen in her arms.

'Come on! Come on!' cried Mary, as Susan started with joyful surprise; 'you have more to see.'

At this instant the music paused, Susan heard the bleating of a lamb, and scarcely daring to believe her senses, she pressed eagerly forward, and beheld poor Daisy!--she burst into tears. 'I did not shed one tear when I parted with you, my dear little Daisy!' said she. 'It was for my father and mother. I would not have parted with you for anything else in the whole world. Thank you, thank you all,' added she, to her companions, who sympathised in her joy, even more than they had sympathised in her sorrow. 'Now, if my father was not to go away from us next week, and if my mother was quite stout, I should be the happiest person in the world!'

As Susan p.r.o.nounced these words, a voice behind the little listening crowd cried, in a brutal tone, 'Let us pa.s.s, if you please; you have no right to stop up the public road!' This was the voice of Attorney Case, who was returning with his daughter Barbara from his visit to the Abbey.

He saw the lamb, and tried to whistle as he went on. Barbara also saw the guinea-hen, and turned her head another way, that she might avoid the contemptuous, reproachful looks of those whom she only affected to despise. Even her new bonnet, in which she had expected to be so much admired, was now only serviceable to hide her face and conceal her mortification.

'I am glad she saw the guinea-hen,' cried Rose, who now held it in her hands. 'Yes,' said Philip, 'she'll not forget May-day in a hurry.' 'Nor I neither, I hope,' said Susan, looking round upon her companions with a most affectionate smile: 'I hope, whilst I live, I shall never forget your goodness to me last May-day. Now I've my pretty guinea-hen safe once more, I should think of returning your money.' 'No! no! no!' was the general cry. 'We don't want the money--keep it, keep it--you want it for your father.' 'Well,' said Susan, 'I am not too proud to be obliged.

I _will_ keep your money for my father. Perhaps some time or other I may be able to earn----' 'Oh,' interrupted Philip, 'don't let us talk of earning; don't let us talk to her of money now; she has not had time hardly to look at poor Daisy and her guinea-hen. Come, we had best go about our business, and let her have them all to herself.'

The crowd moved away in consequence of Philip's considerate advice; but it was observed that he was the very last to stir from the garden-wicket himself. He stayed, first, to inform Susan that it was Rose who tied the ribands on Daisy's head. Then he stayed a little longer to let her into the history of the guinea-hen, and to tell her who it was that brought the hen home from the Abbey.

Rose held the sieve, and Susan was feeding her long-lost favourite, whilst Philip leaned over the wicket, prolonging his narration. 'Now, my pretty guinea-hen,' said Susan--'my naughty guinea-hen, that flew away from me, you shall never serve me so again. I must cut your nice wings; but I won't hurt you.' 'Take care,' cried Philip; 'you'd better, indeed you'd better let me hold her whilst you cut her wings.'

When this operation was successfully performed, which it certainly could never have been if Philip had not held the hen for Susan, he recollected that his mother had sent him with a message to Mrs. Price. This message led to another quarter of an hour's delay; for he had the whole history of the guinea-hen to tell over again to Mrs. Price, and the farmer himself luckily came in whilst it was going on, so it was but civil to begin it afresh; and then the farmer was so rejoiced to see his Susan so happy again with her two little favourites, that he declared he must see Daisy fed himself; and Philip found that he was wanted to hold the jugful of milk, out of which Farmer Price filled the pan for Daisy.

Happy Daisy! who lapped at his ease whilst Susan caressed him, and thanked her fond father and her pleased mother.

'But, Philip,' said Mrs. Price, 'I'll hold the jug--you'll be late with your message to your mother; we'll not detain you any longer.'

Philip departed, and as he went out of the garden-wicket he looked up, and saw Bab and her maid Betty staring out of the window, as usual. On this, he immediately turned back to try whether he had shut the gate fast, lest the guinea-hen might stray, out and fall again into the hands of the enemy.

Miss Barbara, in the course of this day, felt considerable mortification, but no contrition. She was vexed that her meanness was discovered, but she felt no desire to cure herself of any of her faults.

The ball was still uppermost in her vain, selfish soul. 'Well,' said she to her _confidante_, Betty, 'you hear how things have turned out; but if Miss Somers won't think of asking me to go out with her, I've a notion I know who will. As papa says, it's a good thing to have two strings to one's bow.'

Now some officers, who were quartered at Shrewsbury, had become acquainted with Mr. Case. They had gotten into some quarrel with a tradesman of the town, and Attorney Case had promised to bring them through the affair, as the man threatened to take the law of them. Upon the faith of this promise, and with the vain hope that, by civility, they might dispose him to bring in a _reasonable_ bill of costs, these officers sometimes invited Mr. Case to the mess; and one of them, who had lately been married, prevailed upon his bride _sometimes_ to take a little notice of Miss Barbara. It was with this lady that Miss Barbara now hoped to go to the harpers' ball.

'The officers and Mrs. Strathspey, or, more properly, Mrs. Strathspey and the officers, are to breakfast here, to-morrow, do you know?' said Bab to Betty. 'One of them dined at the Abbey to-day, and told papa they'd all come. They are going out on a party, somewhere into the country, and breakfast here on their way. Pray, Betty, don't forget that Mrs. Strathspey can't breakfast without honey. I heard her say so myself.' 'Then, indeed,' said Betty, 'I'm afraid Mrs. Strathspey will be likely to go without her breakfast here; for not a spoonful of honey have we, let her long for it ever so much.' 'But, surely,' said Bab, 'we can contrive to get some honey in the neighbourhood.' 'There's none to be bought, as I know of,' said Betty. 'But is there none to be begged or borrowed?' said Bab, laughing. 'Do you forget Susan's beehive? Step over to her in the morning with _my compliments_, and see what you can do. Tell her it's for Mrs. Strathspey.'

In the morning Betty went with Miss Barbara's compliments to Susan, to beg some honey for Mrs. Strathspey who could not breakfast without it.

Susan did not like to part with her honey, because her mother loved it, and she therefore gave Betty but a small quant.i.ty. When Barbara saw how little Susan sent, she called her a _miser_, and she said she _must_ have some more for Mrs. Strathspey. 'I'll go myself and speak to her.

Come with me, Betty,' said the young lady, who found it at present convenient to forget her having declared, the day that she sucked up the broth, that she never would honour Susan with another visit. 'Susan,'

said she, accosting the poor girl, whom she had done everything in her power to injure, 'I must beg a little more honey from you for Mrs.

Strathspey's breakfast. You know, on a particular occasion such as this, neighbours must help one another.' 'To be sure they should,' added Betty.

Susan, though she was generous, was not weak; she was willing to give to those she loved, but not disposed to let anything be taken from her, or coaxed out of her, by those she had reason to despise. She civilly answered that she was sorry she had no more honey to spare.

Barbara grew angry, and lost all command of herself, when she saw that Susan, without regarding her reproaches, went on looking through the gla.s.s pane in the beehive. 'I'll tell you what, Susan Price,' said she, in a high tone, 'the honey I _will_ have, so you may as well give it to me by fair means. Yes or no? Speak! Will you give it me or not? Will you give me that piece of the honeycomb that lies there?' 'That bit of honeycomb is for my mother's breakfast,' said Susan; 'I cannot give it you.' 'Can't you?' said Bab, 'then see if I don't take it!' She stretched across Susan for the honeycomb, which was lying by some rosemary leaves that Susan had freshly gathered for her mother's tea.

Bab grasped, but at her first effort she only reached the rosemary. She made a second dart at the honeycomb, and, in her struggle to obtain it, she overset the beehive. The bees swarmed about her. Her maid Betty screamed and ran away. Susan, who was sheltered by a laburnum tree, called to Barbara, upon whom the black cl.u.s.ters of bees were now settling, and begged her to stand still, and not to beat them away. 'If you stand quietly you won't be stung, perhaps.' But instead of standing quietly, Bab buffeted and stamped and roared, and the bees stung her terribly. Her arms and her face swelled in a frightful manner. She was helped home by poor Susan and treacherous Mrs. Betty, who, now the mischief was done, thought only of exculpating herself to her master.

'Indeed, Miss Barbara,' said she, 'this was quite wrong of you to go and get yourself into such a sc.r.a.pe. I shall be turned away for it, you'll see.'

'I don't care whether you are turned away or not,' said Barbara; 'I never felt such pain in my life. Can't you do something for me? I don't mind the pain either so much as being such a fright. Pray, how am I to be fit to be seen at breakfast by Mrs. Strathspey; and I suppose I can't go to the ball either to-morrow, after all!'

'No, that you can't expect to do, indeed,' said Betty, the comforter.