There was a flower-market once a week in the town of Northclough.

It was every Thursday, the regular market-day, when the country people came in to sell and to buy. But Northclough was not a pretty, old-fashioned country town, such as you would very likely fancy from the mention of markets and country folk. Once, long ago, it had been a village, a rather lonely and out-of-the-way village, though never a pretty one. For it was up in the north, as its name tells, in a bare and cold part of the world, where the gra.s.s is never very brightly green, and the skies much more often grey than blue.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "The Nurse"]

And now, as far as looks go, any way, it had changed from bad to worse.

The village had grown into a smoky town, where there were lots of high chimneys, and constant sounds of machinery booming away, and railway trains shrieking and whistling in and out of the stations. There was no longer any ivy on the old church, which the oldest people could remember almost buried in it. And the new churches which had been built since, already looked old themselves--no stones could keep clean or fresh in such smoky grimy air.

But some of the old customs still lingered on, and one was the weekly market, which was held just outside the old church walls--the walls of the church-yard, I should say--every Thursday, just as it had been since the village first grew into a small market town, more than a hundred years ago. And what some people would have done without the pleasure and amus.e.m.e.nt of this market, I should be afraid to say. I mean some _little_ people, the children of the vicar, who lived with their parents in a grey old house, as grey and old as the church itself, which stood at one side of the market place.

It was grey and grim outside, but inside the father and mother made it as bright and cheery as they could. In winter I think they managed this better than in summer, for good blazing fires do a great deal, especially of an evening when the curtains are drawn and the cold north wind, howling and bl.u.s.tering outside as if in a rage at not being able to get in, only makes the house seem still cosier. And one of the good things about the north is that coals are cheap and plentiful, so that though the vicar was not rich, there was no need to go without comfortable fires.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "There were four of them."]

But in summer it was sometimes _not_ easy to make the old house look cheerful. Very little sunshine could get in, for on two sides the neighbouring houses almost shut out the light. And the sun had hard work, persevering though he is, to get through the murky air--murky even in summer--that hangs like a curtain over what is called a "manufacturing town." Then there was no garden of any kind, as the new schools had been built on what was once the vicarage lawn, though after all I hardly think a garden would have been much good, and perhaps the children's nurse was right when she said:

"Better without it, 'twould only have been a trap for more soots and s.m.u.ts, and it's hard enough to keep the pinafores clean for half-an-hour together as it is."

Nurse had come with their mother from the south, and she didn't take kindly to the greyness, and the smokiness, and the grimness at all. But she took very kindly to the babies, which was after all of more consequence.

There were four of them--they were "leaving off being babies" now, as little Ruth, the youngest but one, said indignantly, when some one spoke of her and Charlie in that disrespectful way. "Charlie's three and I'm four, and Pansy's nearly six, and Bob's seven past."

That was Ruth's description of the family, and I think it will do very well, though some people might say it began at the wrong end.

And these were the little people who would have been badly off without the weekly market, which they looked forward to as the "next best" treat to having tea in the dining-room on Sat.u.r.day evenings with mamma.

Their nursery windows overlooked the market place. The nurseries were the brightest rooms in the house, and as it was a large house, whatever its faults in other ways, there were three of them. The day nursery in the middle and a large bedroom on one side, and on the other a small one which was beginning to be called "Miss Pansy's room." And on Thursdays Pansy's room was in great request, as from _its_ window one had the best view of all of the market, especially of the corner where the flowers were.

[Ill.u.s.tration: PANSY'S WINDOW WAS IN GREAT REQUEST]

There was always _something_ to be seen on the flower-stalls, even in winter, when there was nothing else there were evergreens, holly and mistletoe of course, in plenty, as Christmas came on. And though some other parts of the market might be more amusing and exciting, where the c.o.c.ks and hens, and geese and ducks, were all to be heard gabbling, and quacking and clucking and crowing, for instance; or the railed-in place where there were generally a few calves or poor little frightened sheep bleating and baa-ing, yet the little girl's first thought was always the flower corner. First thing on Thursday morning, sometimes before it was light, she would lie wondering what sort of dear little plants there would be _this_ week, and hoping it would be a fine day, so that nurse would let her poke her head out through the bars a tiny bit, so as to see better, without calling to her that she would catch cold.

Pansy's birthday was in May--she was going to be six. She liked having a birthday because mamma always invited herself to tea in the nursery, and if it happened to be one of papa's not very busiest days, he would sometimes join them too. That _was_ delightful.

Generally she got two or three simple presents, and always one very good and valuable one from her G.o.dmother. But strange to say this handsome present never pleased her half so much as the little trifling ones. Her G.o.dmother was kind, but she was old and unused to children, and she had not seen Pansy since she was very tiny, so her thought was more perhaps about helping Pansy's mother than pleasing Pansy herself. And so the present was sure to be a new frock--or stuff to make one with, or a nice jacket, or even once--that was _rather_ a funny present for a little girl, I think--a new set of china tea-cups and saucers and plates and milk jugs and everything complete for a nursery tea-service.

But "to make up" for G.o.dmother's presents being so very "useful,"

Pansy's mother always gave her something pretty and pleasant, a doll, or some doll's furniture, or picture books or some nice ornament for her room. Any little girl of six or seven can easily fancy the kind of presents I mean.

This sixth birthday, however, was going to be rather different. For on this day the G.o.dmother thought it was time to give Pansy a present of another kind. What that was, I will tell you in the next part.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

PANSY'S PRESENTS.

PART II.

The birthday was on a Wednesday. And though it was only May the weather for a wonder was mild and sunny. Northclough for once was looking almost bright.

"It _is_ nice for you to have such a fine day to be six years old on, Miss Pansy dear," said nurse, when she came in to wake up the two little sisters and to give her own birthday present of a neat little pincushion for Pansy's toilet table. And the boys had something for her too, at least it was called "the boys'," to please Charley, though in reality it was Bob who had bought it, or the things to make "it" with. For the "it"

was a little blotting-book covered outside with thick cardboard on which pretty pictures were pasted. It was very cleverly made, for Bob was wonderfully neat-handed for such a little boy, and it had taken quite a lot of contrivance to get it done without his sister's finding out about it. And Ruth's present was a pen-wiper.

Pansy _was_ pleased.

"I can write to G.o.dmother now without having to ask mamma to lend me her writing-case," she said. "I suppose," she went on, "I shall have to write to her to-day; there's sure to be a useful present come from her,"

and Pansy sighed a little, for the writing to G.o.dmother was the one part of her birthday she did _not_ enjoy.

Nurse could not help smiling at what she would have called Miss Pansy's "old-fashioned" way of speaking. She always talked of G.o.dmother's "useful presents," because she had so often been told that frocks and jackets and so on were such nice, useful gifts. And perhaps I should have mentioned before, that G.o.dmother did not forget the little people at Northclough Vicarage at Christmas, something useful was sure to come then, for she was great aunt to them all as well as G.o.dmother to one.

But before nurse had time to speak, the door opened and the children's mother came in. They were at breakfast in the day nursery by this time.

She had a bright smile on her face and a small parcel in her hand.

"Good morning, darlings, to you all," she said, "and many, many happy returns to my Pansy. Papa told me to kiss you for him too, he won't be in till dinner-time I'm afraid. There now, a kiss for him and one for myself," Pansy was in her mother's arms long before this, "_and_ a present from G.o.dmother."

Mamma sat down on the nursery rocking-chair as she spoke, and laid the parcel on her knee, and Pansy, stooping down beside her, began to undo the string which fastened it.

"Is it not a useful present this time, mamma?" she asked, for certainly it did not look like a hat or a frock, or a hamper of china.

"I hope you will think it so," said her mother smiling, "and pretty too."

"A _book_," exclaimed the little girl, "and oh, yes, it _is_ a very pretty one. And oh, mamma, it's _two_ books, in a 'loverly'"--Pansy still said some words rather funnily--"case, all red leather, and, oh!

my own name, 'Pansy,' _how_ nice! What can they be? A prayer-book and a hymn-book, with such beautiful big letters, and 'reds' in the prayer-book. How I wish it was Sunday, for me to take them to church."

She was truly delighted--her little face all rosy with pleasure. Mamma could not resist giving her another kiss.

"You will take the greatest care of them, I know, dear," she said. "And now I have only a very tiny present from papa and me," and she held out a bright new shilling. "You may buy _anything_ you like with it, dear."

This was delightful news. What between her pride in her beautiful "church books," as she called them, and thinking over what her shilling would buy, the little girl had hard work to eat her breakfast that morning, even though, in honour of the birthday, it was an extra nice one.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

You will think I am a very long time getting to _the_ "pansy," which gives its name to this little story, but we are coming to it now.

There was a great consultation held in Pansy's room, and this was what the children decided; sixpence should be spent on a pair of ducks to float in a basin of water attracted by a magnet, a toy which they had seen in a shop window with the price marked in plain figures. And sixpence should be spent, for Pansy's own special pleasure, in a flower growing in a pot, such as they had often seen on the flower-stall below their windows. The ducks could be bought that very morning, which Pansy was glad of, as she knew that Bob and Ruth were even more anxious to have them than she was herself. But for the flower she would have to wait till the next day.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "The birthday pa.s.sed very happily,"]

However, the birthday pa.s.sed very happily, and it was very nice to wake in the morning with the feeling that part of its pleasures were still to come, and mamma promised to go with her herself to the stall to choose the flower.

It was to be a pansy. Not a _quite_ fully blown one, her mother advised her, for then it would be the sooner over, but one nearly so. There had been quite a good choice of them for the last week or two; the only difficulty would be what colour to have.

"Yellow ones are very pretty," said the little girl as she skipped along by her mother's side that Thursday morning on their way to the market, for though it was just below the vicarage windows, you had to make quite a round to get to it from the front door, "yellow ones, and those browny ones too are very nice, but I _think_ I like the purple ones best--I mean the violet-coloured ones--don't you mamma?"

"I think I do," her mother agreed. "They remind one of the dear little wild pansies, or dog violets, too."