LITMIR.BIZ

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woods and deep down in the watur, father comes to me.

      “‘Ransey,’ sez father, ‘fetch Jim; we’re goin’ on.’ And I goes and fetches Jim, and yokes him to and mounts; and father he put Babs up aside me, ’cause Jim’s good and never needs a whip.

      “‘Go on, Ransey,’ sez he, an’ steps quietly on board and takes the tiller.

      “Away we went – through the meadows and trees, and then through a long, quiet moor.

      “Father kep’ the barge well out, and she looked sailin’ among the stars – which it wasn’t the stars, on’y their ’flection, mum. Well, we was halfway through the moor, and Babs was gone sound asleep ’cross my arm, when I gives Jim his head and looks back.

      “An’, oh, mum, there was old dad standin’ holdin’ the tiller wi’ one hand. The moon was shinin’ on his face and on his hair, which is grey kind, and he kep’ lookin’ up and sayin’ somethin’.

      “Then there was a plash. Oh, I knew then it was dead mother; and – and – I jest let Jim go on – and – and – ”

      But Ransey’s story stopped right here. He was pursing up his lips and trying to swallow the lump in his throat; and Miss Scragley herself turned her head away to hide the moisture in her eyes.

      Grief does not stay long at a time in the hearts of children. It comes there all the same, nevertheless, and is quite as poignant while it does last as it is in the breasts of older folks. Children are like the traditional April day – sunshine and showers.

      “I think, mum,” said Ransey after a while, “it is time for us to bundle and go.”

      Miss Scragley watched the lad with considerable interest while he struck his little camp. First he scattered the remains of his fire and ashes carefully, so that there should be no danger to the wood. Then he prepared to hide his ship.

      “Did you make that pretty ship?” said Eedie.

      “Oh, yes; I can make beautiful ships and boats, ’cause I seed lots on ’em w’en father took me to Southampton. Oh, that seems millions and millions o’ years ago. And ye see, miss,” he added, “I’m goin’ to be a sailor anyhow, and sail all over the wide world, like father did, and by-and-by I’ll be rich enough to have a real ship of my own.”

      “Oh, how nice! And will Babs go with you?”

      “As long as Babs is quite little,” he answered, “I can’t go to sea at all, ’cause Babs would die like dead mother if I went away.”

      He had Babs in his arms by this time, and it was evident enough that the affection between these two little canal people was very strong indeed.

      Seated on his left shoulder, and hugging Ransey’s head towards her, Babs evidently thought she was in a position to give a harangue.

      She accordingly addressed herself to Eedie: —

      “My bloder ’Ansey is doin’ to drow a big, big man. As big as dad. My bloder ’Ansey is doin’ to be a sailor in s’ips, and Babs is doin’. ’Oo mufn’t (mustn’t) take my bloder away from Babs. ’Oor mudder mufn’t, and noboddy mufn’t.”

      Meanwhile her brother was nearly strangled by the vehemence of her affection. But he gently disengaged the little arm and set her on the moss once more. He speedily enveloped her in the shawl, and then hoisted her on his back.

      Next he hung his bag in front, and handed the fishing-rod to Bob.

      “We must all go now, lady.”

      “Oh, yes, and we too must go. We have to thank you for a very interesting half-hour.”

      Ransey wasn’t used to such politeness as this little speech indicated. What to say in reply did not readily occur to him.

      “Wish,” he said awkwardly and shyly, “I could talk as nice like as you and t’other young lady.”

      Miss Scragley smiled. She rather liked being thought a young lady even by a little canal boy like Ransey.

      “Oh, you will some day. Can you read?”

      “Ye-es. Mother taught me to read, and by-and-by I’ll teach Babs like one o’clock. I can read ‘Nick o’ the Woods’ and the ‘Rev’lations o’ Saint John;’ but Babs likes ‘Jack the Giant Killer’ better’n the Bible. An’ oh,” he added, somewhat proudly, “I got a letter to-day, and I could read that; and it was to say as how father was comin’ home in four days. And the postman cheeked us, and shook his head, threat’nin’ like, and I threw a big turmut and broke it.”

      “What! broke his head?”

      “Oh, no, mum, only jest the turmut. An’ Bob went after him, and down went postie. Ye would have larfed, mum.”

      “I’m afraid you’re a bad boy sometimes.”

      “Yes, I feels all over bad – sometimes.”

      “I like bad boys best,” said Eedie boldly, “they’re such fun.”

      “Babs,” said Ransey, “you’ll hang me dead if you hold so tight.”

      “Well, dears, I’m going to come and see you to-morrow, perhaps, or next day, and bring Babs a pretty toy.”

      “Babs,” said the child defiantly, “has dot a dolly-bone, all dlessed and boo’ful.” This was simply a ham-bone, on the ball of which Ransey had scratched eyes and a mouth and a nose, and dressed it in green moss and rags. And Babs thought nothing could beat that.

      As she rode off triumphantly on Ransey’s back, Babs looked back, held one bare arm on high, and shouted, “Hullay!”

      “What strange children!” said Miss Scragley to her niece. “They’re not at all like our little knights of the gutter down in the village where we visit. This opens up life to me in quite a new phase. I’m sure Captain Weathereye would be much interested. There is good, in those poor canal children, dear, only it wants developing. I wonder how we could befriend them without appearing officious or obtrusive. Consult the captain, did you say?”

      “I did not speak at all, aunt.”

      “Didn’t you? However, that would be best, as you suggested.”

      Miss Scragley did not call at Hangman’s Hall next day – it looked showery; but about twelve o’clock, while Ransey Tansey was stewing that leveret with potatoes and a morsel of bacon, and Babs was nursing her dolly-bone in the bassinette, where Ransey had placed her to be out of the way, some one knocked sharply and loudly at the door.

      The Admiral, swaying aloft in the gibbet-tree, sounded his tocsin, and Bob barked furiously.

      “Down, Bob!” cried Ransey, running to the door. He half expected the postman.

      He was mistaken, however, for there stood a smart but pale-faced flunkey in a brown coat with gilt buttons.

      Now Ransey could never thoroughly appreciate “gentlemen’s gentlemen” any more than he could gamekeepers.

      The flunkey had a large parcel under his arm, which he appeared to be rather ashamed of.

      “Aw!” he began haughtily, “am I right in my conjecture that this is ’Angman’s ’All?”

      “Your conjecture,” replied Ransey, mimicking the flunkey’s tone and manner, “is about as neah wight as conjectures gener’ly aw. What may be the naychure of your business?”

      “Aw! An’ may I enquiah if you are the – the – the waggamuffin who saw Miss Scwagley in the wood yestah-day?”

      “I’m the young gentleman” said Ransey, hitching up his suspender, “who had the honah of ’alf an hour’s convehsation with the lady. I am Ransey Tansey, Esq., eldest and only son of Captain Tansey of the Mewwy Maiden. And,” he added emphatically, “this is my dog Bob.”

      Bob uttered a low, ominous growl, and walked round behind the flunkey on a tour of inspection.

      The

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