“But, I think, of all new-comers
Little children are the best.”

From this time, I think, Ted lost his fear of mountains and giants. It was not till a long time afterwards that he explained to his mother exactly how it had been, and by that time he was of course quite big enough to understand that Mr. Brand had only been joking. But still he did not much care about seeing that gentleman again. He generally managed to be out of the way when he saw the dog-cart with the gray horse driving in at the gate, and just once, when he would not have had time to run off without actual rudeness, which little Ted never was guilty of, he only waited to shake hands and say “Quite well, thank thoo,” before he disappeared in so unaccountable a manner that he could not be found as long as Mr. Brand’s visit lasted.

It was a good deal thanks to Mabel’s story that he grew to like his old friend the mountain again. But partly too, I daresay, he forgot his fears on account of several very interesting things that happened about this time. It was a great sorrow to him when Percy had to go back to school-that was one of little Ted’s lasting or rather returning sorrows, all through his childhood. Only, like many things in our lives, if we learn to look at them in the right way, it was certainly a trouble with a bright side to it, a cloud with a silver lining-a silver lining which shone indeed all the brighter for the gray outside-for was there not the delight, the delicious delight, of the coming back again, the showing all the changes in the garden since Percy was last there, the new toys and other little presents that Ted had received, and listening to Percy’s thrilling accounts of school-life, the relating his own adventures?

Still there were times, especially now that Ted was really growing very sensible, that he wished for some other companion in his simple daily life, some one who, like the little fishes, did not have to go to school. And now and then, when, in his rare expeditions to the sea-side town not far off, he saw little groups of brothers and sisters trotting along together, or when in the stories his mother read to him he heard of happy nursery parties, Ted used to wish he had a little “bruvver or sister, even a baby one would be very nice.” For deep down in his loving heart there was already the true manly spirit, the longing to have something to take care of and protect; something tinier and more tender even than wee Ted himself.

And to make his child-life complete this pretty thing came to him. With the autumn days, just when Ted was beginning to feel a little sad at the summer brightness going away, and his garden work had come to be chiefly helping old David to sweep up the fast-falling leaves, there came to Ted a dear little baby sister. She was the dearest little thing-bright-eyed and merry, and looking as if she was ready for all sorts of fun. She was stronger than Ted had been, and to tell the truth I think I must say prettier. For sweet and fair and dear as was Ted’s face both in baby- and boy-hood, he was not what one would call pretty. Not the sort of child whose proud nurse comes home with wonderful stories of ladies stopping her in the street to ask whose beautiful baby he was-not a splendidly vigorous, stalwart little man like a small eight-years-old of my acquaintance whose mother was lately afraid to walk about the streets of Berlin with him lest the old Emperor, as he sometimes does, should want to have him to make an officer of! No; Ted, though lithe and active as a squirrel, merry as a cricket, was not a “showy” child. He was just our own dear little Ted, our happy-hearted Christmas child.

But I suppose there never was in this world any one so happy but that it was possible for him to be happier. And this “more happiness” came to Ted in the shape of his baby sister, Narcissa. Boys who despise sisters, “girls” in any shape, big or little, don’t know what a great deal they lose. Ted was still a good way off the “big boy” stage, and indeed I don’t think anything could have made it possible for him to look at things as too many big boys do. By the time he reached schoolboy-hood, Narcissa was a dainty maiden of five or six, and quite able to stand up for herself in a little queenly way, even had her brother been less tender and devoted. And of the years between, though I would like to tell you something, I cannot tell you half nor a quarter. They were happy sunny years, though not quite without clouds of course. And the first summer of little Cissy’s life was a sort of bright opening to them.

It was again a very beautiful summer. The children almost lived out-of-doors. Poor nurse found it difficult to get the work in the house that fell to her share finished in the morning before Ted was tugging at her to “tum out into the garden, baby does so want to tum;” and baby soon learnt to clap her hands and chuckle with glee when her little hat was tied on and she was carried downstairs to her perambulator waiting at the door. And there was new interest for Ted in hunting for the loveliest wild flowers he could find, as baby showed, or Ted thought she did, a quite extraordinary love for the bouquets her little brother arranged for her.

“Her knows kite well which is the prettiest ones, doesn’t her, nurse?” he said one day when they were all three-all four rather, for of course Chevie was one of the group-established in their favourite place under the shade of a great tree, whose waving branches little Cissy loved so much that she would cry when nurse wheeled her away from it. “I think baby knows lots, though she can’t speak;” and baby, pleased at his evidently talking of her, burst into a funny crowing laugh, which seemed exactly as if she knew and approved of what he was saying.

“Baby’s a darling,” said nurse.

“How soon will her learn to speak?” Ted inquired gravely.

“Not just yet. She hasn’t got any teeth. Nobody can speak without teeth,” said nurse.

“I hope,” said Ted, more gravely still, “I hope Dod hasn’t forgotten them.”

Nurse turned away to hide a smile.

“No fear, Master Ted,” she said in a minute. “She’ll have nice little teeth by and by, you’ll see. They’ll be wee tiny white specks at first, and then they’ll grow quite big and strong enough to bite with. That’s how your teeth came. Not all of a sudden, you see.”

“Ses,” said Ted. “Nothing comes all in one sudden. The f’owers is weeny, weeny buds at first, and then they gets big. Nurse, I’m going to take my cart to get a lot of daisies down by the brook for baby. She likes to roll zem in her hands,” and off he set with his little blue cart and white horse, his best beloved possession, and which had done good service in its time, to fill it with flowers for Cissy.

A few minutes later, as he was manfully dragging the cart up the path again, gee-upping and gee-whoing at the horse, which was supposed to find the daisy heads a heavy load uphill, his mother came out to the garden.

“Ted, dear,” she said, “your father is going to drive me to A . It is a long time since you were there, and I should like to have my little boy to go about with me while your papa is busy. I have a good deal of shopping to do. Would you like to go with me?”

Ted gave a shout of pleasure. Then suddenly his glance fell on the little sister still in her perambulator under the big tree, and his eyes filled with tears.

“I would like dedfully to go,” he said, “but poor Cissy. I is so afraid Cissy will cry if I go.”

He lifted his wistful little face to his mother’s with an expression that went to her heart.

“Dear Ted,” she said; “you are a good, kind, little boy. But don’t make yourself unhappy about Cissy. She is too little to cry for your going away, though she will laugh to see you come back.”

Ted’s face cleared, but suddenly a rosy colour spread over it.

“Muzzer,” he said, in a low voice, tugging gently at her dress to make her stoop down, “muzzer, I sink I were going to cry not all for poor baby being sorry, but part ’cos I did so want to go.”

Mother understood his simple confession.

“Yes, dear,” she said, “I daresay you did, and it is right of you to tell me. My good little Ted,” she could not resist adding again, and again little Ted’s face grew red, but this time with pleasure at mother’s praise.

Baby bore the announcement, which he considered it his duty to make to her with great formality, very philosophically. Less philosophically did she take nurse’s wheeling her away from under her beloved tree with its fluttering branches, towards the house, where nurse had to go to prepare Ted for his expedition. In fact, I am sorry to say that so little did the young lady realise what was expected of her, that she burst into a loud roar, which was quite too much for Ted’s feelings.

“Dear baby, sweet baby,” he cried, “thoo mustn’t be tooked away from thoo’s tree. I’ll ask muzzer to deck me, nurse,” he went on eagerly, for his mother had returned to the house, “or I can nearly kite well deck myself. I’ll call thoo if I can’t find my things. I’ll run and ask muzzer,” and off he went, so eager to give no trouble, so ready and helpful that nurse thought it best to let him have his way, and to devote her attention to the discomposed Miss Baby.

Ted did not find his mother quite so quickly as he expected, though he peeped into the drawing-room and called her by name as he passed her own room upstairs, on his way to the nursery. The fact was that mother was in the kitchen consulting with cook as to the groceries required to be ordered, and it never came into Ted’s head to look for her there at this time of day. So he went straight on to the nursery, and managing with a good deal of tugging and pulling and coaxing to open his drawer in the chest, he got out his best little coat and hat and prepared to don them. But first he looked at his hands, which were none the whiter for their recent ravages among the daisies.

“Zem’s very dirty,” he said to himself; “zem must be washed.”

There was water in the jug, but Ted’s ambition was aroused, and great things were to be expected of a little boy who was big enough to “deck himself,” as he would have described the process.

“Ses, zem’s very dirty,” he repeated, contemplating the two sunburnt little paws in question. “Zem should have hot water. Hot water makes zem ze most clean.”

He glanced round, the hot water was not far to seek, for, though it was June, the weather was not very warm, and nurse generally kept a small fire burning in the day-nursery. And beside the fire, temptingly beside the fire, stood the kettle, into which Ted peeping, satisfied himself that there was water enough for his purpose. He would hardly have had patience to fetch it had it not been there, so eager was he for the delights of putting it on to boil. And, wonderful to say, he managed it; he got the kettle, heavy for him to lift, as you can imagine, safely on to the fire, and then, with immense satisfaction, sat down in front of it to watch the result. There was very little water in the kettle, but, though Ted did not think about that, it was all the less trying for his patience. And I hardly think either, that the water could have been quite cold in the first place, or else the fairies came down the chimney and blew up the fire with their invisible bellows to help little Ted, for certainly the kettle began to boil amazingly soon-first it simmered gently and then it began to sing more loudly, and at last what Ted called “moke” began to come out of the spout, and he knew that the kettle was boiling.

Ted was so used to hear nurse talking about the kettle “boiling” for tea, that it never came into his head that it was not necessary to have “boiling” water to wash his poor little hands. I don’t indeed know what might not have happened to the whole of his poor little body had not his mother at that moment come into the room. A queer sight met her eyes-there was Ted, more than half undressed, barefooted and red-faced, in the act of lifting off the steaming kettle, round the handle of which, with wonderful precaution, he had wrapped his pocket-handkerchief.

Ted’s mother kept her presence of mind. She did not speak till the kettle was safely landed on the floor, and Ted, with a sigh of relief, looked up and saw her at the door.

“I is decking myself, muzzer,” he said with a pleased smile, and a charming air of importance, “Poor baby cried, so I told nurse I would deck myself, and nurse didn’t mind.”

“Didn’t she?” said his mother, rather surprised.

“Oh, she thoughtened p’raps I’d find thoo, I amember,” Ted continued, correcting himself.

“But did nurse know you were going to boil water?” said his mother.

“Oh no,” said Ted, “it were only that my hands is so dirty. Zem needs hot water to make zem clean.”

“Hot water, but not boiling,” said his mother; “my dear little boy, do you know you might have scalded yourself dreadfully?”

“I put my hankerwick not to burn my hands,” said Ted, rather disconsolately.

“Yes, dear. I know you meant it for the best, but just think if you had dropped the kettle and burnt yourself. And nurse has always told you not to play with fire or hot water.”

“Ses,” said Ted, “but I weren’t playing. I were going to wash my hands to be nice to go out wif thoo,” and his blue eyes filled with tears. But they were soon wiped away, and when his mother had with the help of some of the hot water made face and hands as clean as could be, and smoothed the tangled curls and fastened the best little coat, Ted looked very “nice” indeed, I can assure you, for his drive to A .

It was a very happy drive. Perched safely between his father and mother, Ted was as proud as a king. It was all so pretty, the driving through the shady lanes, where the honeysuckle and wild-roses were just beginning to show some tints of colour, the peeps now and then of the sea below in its blue beauty, the glancing up sometimes at the mountain top, Ted’s old friend, along whose sides they were actually travelling-it was all delightful. And when they drew near the little town, and the houses began to stand closer, till at last they came in rows and streets, and the old mare’s hoofs clattered over the stones of the market-place so that the people in the sleepy little place came out to see who was coming, Ted’s excitement knew no bounds. He had almost forgotten A-, it was so long since he had been there-the sights of the shops and what appeared to him their wonderful contents, the sight even of so many people and children walking about, was almost too much for the little country child; it seemed to take his breath away.

He recovered his composure, however, when he found himself trotting about the streets with his mother. She had several shops to go to, each, to Ted, more interesting than the other. There was the ironmonger’s to visit, for cook had begged for a new preserving pan and the nursery tea-pot handle was broken; there were various milk jugs and plates to replace at the china shop; brown holland to get at the draper’s for Ted’s summer blouses. At two or three of the shops his mother, being a regular customer and having an account with them, did not pay, and among these was the grocer’s, where she had rather a long list of things needed for the store-closet, and while she was explaining about them all to the white-aproned young man behind the counter, Ted marched about the shop on a voyage of discovery on his own account. There were so many interesting things-barrels of sugar, white, brown, and darker brown still, neat piles of raisins and currants, closely fastened bottles of French plums, and rows of paper-covered tin boxes which Ted knew contained biscuits.

“What a kind man,” he said to himself, “to give muzzer all she wants,” as one after another of his mother’s requests was attended to. “Why, he lets muzzer take whatever her likes!” he added, as having brought his wanderings to a close for a minute, he stood beside her and saw her lifting a little square of honey soap out of a box which the grocer presented to her for examination, and, greatly impressed, Ted set off again on another ramble. Doubtless he too might take whatever he liked, and as the thought occurred to him he pulled up before another barrel filled with lumps, little and big, of half clear, whitey-looking stuff, something like very coarse lump sugar, only not so white, and more transparent. Ted knew what it was. It was soda, washing soda I believe it is usually called. Ted was, as I have said, very wide-awake about all household matters, for he always used his eyes, and very often-indeed rather oftener than was sometimes pleasant for the people about him if they wanted to be quiet-his tongue too, for he was great at asking questions.

“Soda’s very useful,” Ted reflected; “nurse says it makes things come cleaner.”

Just then his mother called him.

“Ted, dear,” she said, “I’m going.”

Ted started and ran after her, but just as he did so, he stretched out his hand and took a lump of soda out of the barrel. He did it quite openly, he didn’t mind in the very least if the shopman saw him-like the daisies in the field, so he thought, the soda and the sugar and the French plums and everything were there for him or for any one to help themselves to as they liked. But Ted was not greedy-he was far better pleased to get something “useful” for mother than anything for himself. He would have asked her what he had better take, if he had had time-he would have stopped to say “Thank you” to the grocer had he not been in such a hurry to run after his mother.

They walked quickly down the street. Ted’s mother was a little absent-minded for the moment-she was thinking of what she had ordered, and hoping she had forgotten nothing. And holding her little boy by the one hand she did not notice the queer thing he was holding in the other. Suddenly she stopped before a boot and shoe shop.

“I must get baby a pair of shoes,” she said. “She is such a little kicker, she has the toes of her cloth ones out in no time. We must get her a pair of leather ones I think, Ted.”

“Ses, I sink so,” said Ted.

So his mother went into the shop and asked the man to show her some little leather shoes. Ted looked on with great interest, but when the shoes were spread out on the counter and he saw that they were all black, he seemed rather disappointed.

“Muzzer,” he said in a low voice, tugging at his mother’s skirts, “I saw such bootly boo boots in the man’s winder.”

His mother smiled.

“Yes, dear,” she replied, “they’re very pretty, but they wouldn’t last so long, and I suspect they cost much more.”

Ted looked puzzled.

“What does thoo mean?” he said, but before his mother had time to explain, the active shopman had reached down the “bootly” boots and held them forward temptingly.

“They’re certainly very pretty,” said baby’s mother, who, to tell the truth, was nearly as much inclined for the blue boots as Ted himself. “What is the price of them?”

“Three and sixpence, ma’am,” replied the man.

“And the black ones, the little black shoes, I mean?”

“Two and six,” replied the man.

“A shilling difference, you see, Ted,” said his mother. But Ted only looked puzzled, and his mother, occupied with the boots, did not particularly notice him.

“I think,” she said at last, “I think I will take both. But as the blue boots will be best ones for a good while, give me them half a size larger than the little black shoes.”

The shopman proceeded to wrap them up in paper and handed them to Ted’s mother, who took out her purse and paid the money. The man thanked her, and, followed by her little boy, Ted’s mother left the shop.

Ted walked on silently, a very unusual state of things. He was trying to find out how to express what he wanted to ask, and the ideas in his head were so new and strange that he could not fit them with words all at once. His mother turned round to him.

“Would you like to carry the parcel of baby’s shoes for her?” she said.

“Oh ses,” said Ted, holding out his left hand. But as his mother was giving him the parcel she noticed that his right hand was already engaged.

“Why, what have you got there?” she asked, “a stone? Where did you get it? No, it’s not a stone-why, can it be a lump of soda?”

“Ses,” returned Ted with the greatest composure, “it are a lump of soda. I thought it would be very suseful for thoo, so I took it out of that nice man’s shop.”

“My dear little boy!” exclaimed his mother, looking I don’t know how. She was rather startled, but she could not help being amused too, only she thought it better not to show Ted that she was amused. “My dear little boy,” she said again, “do you not understand? The things in the shop belong to the man-they are his, not ours.”

“Ses,” said Ted. “I know. But he lets thoo take them. Thoo took soap and somesing else, and he said he’d send them home for thoo.”

“Yes, dear, so he did,” said his mother. “But I pay him for them. You didn’t see me paying him, because I don’t pay him every time. He puts down all I get in a book, and then he counts up how much it is every month, and then I send him the money. In some shops I pay as soon as I get the things. You saw me pay the shoemaker for little Cissy’s boots and shoes.”

“Ses,” said Ted, “I saw thoo take money out of thoo’s purse, but I didn’t understand. I thought all those kind men kept nice things for us to get whenever we wanted.”

“But what did you think money was for, little Ted? You have often seen money, shillings and sixpences and pennies? What did you think was the use of it?”

“I thought,” said Ted innocently, “I thought moneys was for giving to poor peoples.”

His mother could hardly resist stooping down in the street to kiss him. But she knew it was better not. Ted must be made to understand that in his innocence he had done a wrong thing, and the lesson of to-day must be made a plain and lasting one.

“What would poor people do with money if they could get all the things they wanted out of the shops for nothing?” she said quietly.

Ted considered a moment. Then he looked up brightly.

“In course!” he said. “I never thought of that.”

“And don’t you see, dear Ted, that it would be wrong to take things out of a shop without paying for them? They belong to the man of the shop-it would be just like some one coming to our house and taking away your father’s coat or my bonnet, or your little blue cart that you like so much, or-

“Or Cissy’s bootly boo boots,” suggested Ted, clutching hold more tightly of the parcel, as if he thought the imaginary thief might be at hand.

“Yes,” said his mother, “or Cissy’s new boots, which are mine now because I paid money for them to the man.”

“Ses,” said Ted. Then a very thoughtful expression came into his face. “Muzzer,” he said, “this soda was that man’s-sall I take it back to him and tell him I didn’t understand?”

“Yes,” said his mother. “I do think it is the best thing to do. Shall we go at once? It is only just round the corner to his shop.”

She said this thinking that little Ted would find it easier to do it at once, for she was sorry for her little boy having to explain to a stranger the queer mistake he had made, though she felt it was right that it should be done. “Shall we go at once?” she repeated, looking rather anxiously at the small figure beside her.

“Ses,” said Ted, and rather to her surprise his tone was quite bright and cheery. So they turned back and walked down the street till they came to the corner near which was the grocer’s shop.

Ted’s mother had taken the parcel of the little boots from him and held him by the hand, to give him courage as it were. But he marched on quite steadily without the least flinching or dragging back, and when they reached the shop it was he who went in first. He walked straight up to the counter and held out the lump of soda to the shopman.

“Please, man,” he said, “I didn’t know I should pay money for this. I didn’t understand till muzzer told me, and so I’ve brought it back.”

The grocer looked at him in surprise, but with a smile on his face, for he was a kind man, with little boys and girls of his own. But before he said anything, Ted’s mother came forward to explain that it was almost the first time her little boy had been in a shop; he had not before understood what buying and selling meant, but now that she had explained it to him, she thought it right for him himself to bring back the lump of soda.

“And indeed it was his own wish to do so,” she added.

The grocer thanked her. It was not of the least consequence to him of course he said, but still he was a sensible man and he respected Ted’s mother for what she had done. And then, half afraid that her little boy’s self-control would not last much longer, she took him by the hand, and bidding the shopman good-day they left the shop. As they came out into the street again she looked down at Ted. To her surprise his little face was quite bright and happy.

“He were a kind man,” said Ted; “he wasn’t vexed with Ted. He knew I didn’t understand.”

“Yes, dear,” said his mother, pleased to see the simple straightforward way in which Ted had taken the lesson; “but now, Ted, you do understand, and you would never again touch anything in a shop, would you?”

“Oh no, muzzer, in course not,” said Ted, his face flushing a little. “Ted would never take nothing that wasnt his-never; thoo knows that, muzzer?” he added anxiously.

“Yes, my dear little boy,” and this time his mother did stoop down and kiss him in the street.