THE PRETTY CHURCHYARD.”

It was late in the day when the aunt and niece seated themselves in the train for Littlebourne. Mrs. Rowles counted up her money, and then counted up the time.

“It will be eight o’clock before we get home,” she remarked; “it will be getting dark and near your bed-time.”

“I don’t care,” said Juliet; “I don’t want to go to bed.”

“Oh, no; but I shall be tired and sleepy. Juliet, have you ever been in the country?”

“No.”

“But you said you liked the Crystal Palace.”

“No, I didn’t,” was Juliet’s polite reply.

“I beg your pardon, my dear, I thought you did.”

“I said,” explained Juliet, slightly abashed by her aunt’s courteous manner “I said I wanted to go to the Crystal Palace. Father said once that he would take us on a bank holiday, but then we got poor, and so he never kept his word. We always have been poor, we never had mutton-chops but only three times; and now we are poorer than we used to be, and we don’t even get rice puddings.”

“Well, I’ll try and give you rice puddings, and suet ones too.”

“Oh, I don’t care,” said the child relapsing into her usual manner; “I don’t want your puddings.”

The carriage soon filled with other passengers, and there came over Mrs. Rowles a slight sensation of shame when she saw how they glanced at Juliet in her patched frock and untidy hat. And the neat country-woman felt that to walk with this London child through the village of Littlebourne, where every creature, down to the cows and cats and dogs, all knew the lock-keeper’s wife, would be a great trial of courage.

It was only now that Mrs. Rowles realized the condition of many of the working-class (so called, for harder work is done by heads than by hands) in the great city, who yet are not what is known as “poor.” The Mitchell family had drifted away from the Rowles family. A letter now and then passed between them, but Rowles had held such a prejudice against Mitchell’s employment that really no intercourse had taken place between the two families. Mrs. Rowles had been drawn, she knew not how, but by some sort of instinct, to visit her brother-in-law this day; and she had further been impelled to offer Juliet a trip to the country. But now she almost regretted it.

Juliet sat opposite her aunt, looking out blankly at the houses as the train passed through the western suburbs. After a while she stood up at the window. Fields and trees were beginning to be more frequent than at first. Soon the houses became rare, and the fields continuous.

Juliet’s lips were muttering something which Mrs. Rowles could not hear in the noise made by the train.

She leaned forward to the child. “What do you say?”

“Pretty churchyard!” said Juliet.

“What do you say?”

“Pretty churchyard’ pretty churchyard!”

“Whatever do you mean, my child!”

“I mean, this churchyard is bigger and prettier than the churchyards in London, where I used to play when I was little.”

Mrs. Rowles’s eyes filled with tears. She understood now that Juliet had only known trees and flowers by seeing them in the churchyards of London, disused for the dead, and turned into gardens grim enough for the living. And so to the child’s mind green grass and waving boughs seemed to be always disused churchyards. Such sad ignorance would seem impossible, if we did not know it to be a fact.

“But, Juliet, these are fields. Grass grows in them for the cows and sheep to eat, and corn to make us bread, and flowers to make us happy and to make us good.”

Juliet did not reply. She gazed out at the landscape through which they were passing, and which was growing every moment more soft and lovely as the sky grew mellower and the shadows longer. She almost doubted her aunt’s words. And yet this would be a very big churchyard; and certainly there were cows and sheep in sight, and there were red and white and yellow flowers growing beside the line. So she said nothing, but thought that she would wait and find out things for herself.

At Littlebourne station Mrs. Rowles and Juliet alighted. The ticket-collector looked hard at Juliet, and the cabman outside the gate said, “Got a little un boarded out, Mrs. Rowles?”

Mrs. Rowles shook her head and walked on. She bethought herself of a means by which to avoid most of her neighbours’ eyes. She would go round the field way, and not through the village. It was a much prettier walk, but rather longer.

“Are you tired, Juliet?” she asked kindly.

“Of course I am.”

“Well, we shall soon be home now.”

“It don’t matter,” said the child; “I’m ’most always tired.”

They went through some pasture-fields where cows lay about quiet and happy, and through corn-fields where green wheat and barley rustled in the evening breeze.

“You’re right,” muttered Juliet; “it ain’t all churchyard, ’cause they don’t have cows and green flowers in churchyards.”

“Do you like the country, my dear?”

“I don’t know yet. I ain’t seen any shops, nor any mutton-chops.”

“Well, you shall see them all by and by. Now we are going through a farmyard, where you will see cocks and hens, and perhaps some little pigs.”

But before they had time to look for either pigs or poultry they heard a succession of alternate fierce growls and short shrieks, and both Mrs. Rowles and Juliet stopped short.

The growls seemed to be those of a big dog, and the shrieks those of a little girl. Both sounds came from an inner yard of the farm, through which there was a public right of way. Something in the shrieks made Mrs. Rowles’s cheek turn pale, and something in the growls made Juliet’s face flush red.

“Oh, dear!” cried Mrs. Rowles, “it is some child in danger!”

“It is some horrid cruel dog!” said Juliet.

The aunt went cautiously through the gate into the inner yard, and the niece rushed through it boldly. What they saw was indeed alarming.

Little Emily Rowles was in a corner of the wall, shut in there on one side by a great high kennel, and on the other side by the huge mastiff who belonged to the kennel. He lay on the ground, his head on his paws, and his eyes fixed on the child; and whenever she made the slightest movement he growled in the fiercest manner. No wonder she uttered cries of dread and despair.

Before Mrs. Rowles could think what was best to do, Juliet had done it.

Fearless, because she did not understand the danger, Juliet rushed at the dog, seized him by his collar, and with all her strength pulled him away from the corner. He was so astonished at finding himself thus handled that all his fierceness, half of which was pretended, died out of him, and he looked up wildly at the new-comer, and forgot the other girl whom he had been bullying with such pleasure.

Emily had leaped into her mother’s arms, and was sobbing with excitement and relief.

“My child! my darling! how did it happen? How came you to get caught by that brute? How came you to be here at all?”

Emily was still unable to reply. Her mother carried her to a bench at the other side of the yard, and soothed her until she was calm again.

But Juliet stood beside the dog; he was ashamed of himself, and he bowed to a will stronger than his own. He felt that she was not afraid of him, and he was afraid of her. Not that he had had any intention of really hurting Emily; but it had seemed to him great fun, after doing nothing all day but doze in the shade, to keep a child in custody, and hear her cries for help.

“What made you come here, Emily?” said Mrs. Rowles again.

“Oh, father said Philip and I might come and meet you. And we did not know which way you would come, so Philip went by the road and I came by the fields.”

“But how did you get over by the dog’s kennel?”

“Oh, he was inside it, and I thought he was asleep. So I just went up to look in at him, and he bounced out and shut me into the corner; and he growled horribly, and would not let me come out.”

“Poor child! And all the folks in the hay-field, I suppose, and not a creature within call. I’ve often told you, Emily, not to go near strange dogs.”

“Yes, mother, I know. It was my own fault.”

“And if I had not happened to come this way ”

“I must have stayed there till the folks came from the hay-field. I should have pretty near died of fright. Mother, who is that little girl?”

Then Mrs. Rowles remembered her niece.

Juliet had remained within a few paces of the dog, and stood like a statue, looking straight before her, as if she did not wish to see Mrs. Rowles and Emily. Her face was pale now, her mouth set, and her brows knitted with their most sullen expression. Her aspect was anything but attractive.

“Come here, Juliet, my dear,” her aunt called out. “Let me thank you and kiss you.”

Juliet did not stir.

“I want to thank you and ” Emily, clasped in her mother’s arms, could not bring herself to add “kiss you.”

“I don’t want no thanks and no kisses,” said the London child.

“Oh, but you have been so brave and good.”

“I’m not a screaming coward like her,” said Juliet; “that’s all. Are we going to stay here all night?”

Emily whispered to her mother, “Who is she?”

“Your poor cousin from London. You must be very kind to her, poor girl; she is so disagreeable.”

Emily looked with a sort of awe at her sullen cousin.

Then Mrs. Rowles set her own child on the ground, and went and put her hand on Juliet’s shoulder, saying, “Emily wants to thank you for being so brave. You have a spirit of your own!”

Juliet coloured as if angry at being praised, and said, “It ain’t no use to have a spirit when you are stupid and awkward. I tore my sleeve with pulling at that dog.”

“Oh, that is nothing; that can be mended. Now we must be getting home, or father will wonder where we are.”

They went through the gate at the further side of the farm, and came out into fields. In one of these, but at a little distance, they saw the farmer and all his men and maids busily turning over the hay that it might be well dried by the early sun next morning. Juliet asked no questions, though she was surprised at every step by strange country customs; and it did not cross the minds of Mrs. Rowles and Emily to explain what they themselves knew so well. Indeed, Emily was still trembling from the fright she had undergone, and Mrs. Rowles’s thoughts were fully occupied.

They came to a stile over which they climbed, Juliet so awkwardly that she slipped into a ditch among sting-nettles.

“Oh, the horrid things!” she exclaimed; “they’ve bitten me!”

“It is only nettles,” said her aunt; “you’ve got stung.”

“I see the marks of their teeth,” persisted Juliet, rubbing the little spots made by the nettles.

Emily would have laughed at her cousin, but that she felt too much depressed by her own adventure.

And then they were on the towing-path, and the great river, all glowing with the reflected gold and red of the sunset sky, was gliding past them on its peaceful way.

“There!” said Mrs. Rowles, “do you know what that is, Juliet?”

“A river.”

“Yes, it is the Thames,”

“No, it ain’t; not my Thames.”

“Yes, my dear; though you do contradict me, it is the Thames for all that.”

“I know the Thames well enough,” said Juliet; “it is twice as broad as this. And it is all inky-like; and it has wharves and smoky chimneys and steamboats and masts all over it. This ain’t no Thames; I know bettor than that.”

“Oh, but, cousin Juliet,” Emily put in, “the Thames is young here, and it is old at London. Some day you will get old, and once on a time mother was a little girl like you.”

Still unconvinced the London child made no rejoinder.

Mrs. Rowles began to cross to the lock-house by the planks of the lock.

“Come carefully, Juliet, you are not used to this.”

Juliet marched across the narrow bridge with firm foot and steady eye. Emily followed nervously.

On the island they found Mr. Rowles; and Philip, who, not meeting his mother on the road from the station, had hurried home again. He and his father stared at Juliet.

“Well, I never!” cried Mr. Rowles. “Whom have we here?”

“Oh, Ned,” said his wife soothingly, “it is your own little niece, Juliet Mitchell. I thought you’d like to have her here a bit, seeing as they are none too well off, and she’s never been in the real country at all till now.”

Rowles whistled doubtfully. He stood there in his shirt sleeves, with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, and his black straw hat pushed back on his head. His eyes were fixed on his niece’s face with a gaze of inquiry, and a sort of dislike seemed to grow up in his heart and in hers.

“Oh, very well,” he said, at length. “Where’s your box?”

Juliet did not know what he meant.

“Where’s your box your luggage?”

“Haven’t got any,” said Juliet.

“Then where’s your Sunday frock?”

“Haven’t got one,” said Juliet; “it’s at the pawn-shop.”

Rowles whistled more fiercely.

“I say, Emma, I’ll be bound you found that fellow Mitchell in bed now, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Ned, I did; because ”

“I knew it. And I never knew any good come of lying in bed by day and sitting up at night to do your work, or pretend to do it.”

“But that is his business, Ned.”

“Then it is a bad business, say I.”

“And people must have morning papers. Besides, Thomas is ill.”

“And likely to be ill, I should say, sleeping by day and working by night.”

Mrs. Rowles drew her husband aside to tell him quietly the condition in which she had found his sister. He was softened by the sad story, but persisted in thinking that all Mitchell’s misfortunes arose from the fact that he worked by night and slept by day. “It is going against nature,” he said. “Why, the sun shows you what you ought to do. You don’t catch the sun staying up after daylight or going down in the morning.”

“But the moon and stars are up by night,” said Mrs. Rowles laughing.

“The moon’s a she; and as for the stars, they are little uns, and children are always contrary.”

Mr. Rowles grew good-tempered over his own wit, and at length allowed that Thomas Mitchell’s mode of life was a necessary evil, but an evil all the same. Then he said that he had not had any idea that the Mitchells were badly off; he had only been to see them twice since their marriage, when they had appeared to be comfortable. And he had always supposed that money was to be had in London almost for the asking. In fact, he was one of the old-fashioned sort, and never troubled himself about London ways; and he did not think his sister’s affairs any concern of his. But if Mary was so badly off, and it was a help to her to get Juliet out of the way, why Juliet might stay as long as she liked. One mouth more would not make much difference. He could not say fairer than that, could he?

Mrs. Rowles was quite content with the fairness of his speech; and she went into the house, brought out from her cupboard some odds and ends for supper, and then lighted the lamp and called in her husband and the children.

“Suppose you say grace, Juliet,” said Mr. Rowles. He quite expected to find that she did not know what he meant.

But she spoke the right words clearly and reverently.

When they had nearly finished their supper, Rowles suddenly turned to Juliet, saying, “Your father has his supper along of your breakfast, don’t he?”

“Yes,” replied Juliet, “when we have a breakfast.”

“Don’t you always have a breakfast?”

“Most days, when mother has got on with her work.”

Rowles turned away.

A cry of “Lock-man! Hie! Lock-man!” sounded on the calm evening air.

Rowles went out, and his voice was heard in conversation with that of another man; then the lifting up of the sluices broke the stillness, and the creaking of the lock-gate as it opened. After that Rowles came in again, laughing scornfully.

“It was the chap that slipped into the water this morning. He is a persevering chap, to be sure. He says he is determined to learn to row, and to swim, and to punt, and to fish. And he went down this afternoon, and now he’s gone up, and he is dead-beat already; and how he’ll get home he can’t tell for the life of him. Why, he knows just as much about boating as Juliet there. I’d like to see him and her double sculling. They’d just be a pair, they would.”

Juliet listened to everything but said little, and when she was ordered off to bed she silently followed Emily up to the attic, where Mrs. Rowles had already contrived to make a second little bed on the floor.

After she was in bed Juliet listened for a long while to the roar of the weir, wondering at what she thought must be distant thunder. Then the occasional twitter of a bird, or the soft lowing of a cow, or the splash of a fish leaping in the river, disturbed her from her thoughts and startled her. And once, when all was very dark and very silent, she heard the regular pulse of oars, and the clanking of chains, and the creaking of wood, and subdued voices; and she imagined robbers. But all became quiet again; and at last, at last, her ideas grew confused, and she fell asleep.