Wealthy was waiting at the kitchen-door, and pounced on Eyebright the moment she appeared.  I want you to know Wealthy, so I must tell you about her.  She was very tall and very bony.  Her hair, which was black streaked with gray, was combed straight, and twisted round a hair-pin, so as to make a tight, solid knot, about the size of a half-dollar, on the back of her head.  Her face was kind, but such a very queer face that persons who were not used to it were a good while in finding out the kindness.  It was square and wrinkled, with small eyes, a wide mouth, and a nose that was almost flat, as if some one had given it a knock when Wealthy was a baby, and driven it in.  She always wore dark cotton gowns and aprons, as clean as clean could be, but made after the pattern of Mrs. Japhet’s in the Noah’s arks, ­straight up and straight down, with almost no folds, so as to use as little material as possible.  She had lived in the house ever since Eyebright was a baby, and looked upon her almost as her own child, ­to be scolded, petted, ordered about, and generally taken care of.

Eyebright could not remember any time in her life when her mother was not ill.  She found it hard to believe that mamma ever had been young and active, and able to go about and walk and do the things which other people did.  Eyebright’s very first recollections of her were of a pale, ailing person always in bed or on the sofa, complaining of headache and backache, and general misery, ­coming downstairs once or twice in a year perhaps, and even then being the worse for it.  The room in which she spent her life had a close, dull smell of medicines about it, and Eyebright went past its door and down the entry on tiptoe, hushing her footsteps without being aware that she did so, so fixed was the habit.  She was so well and strong herself that it was not easy for her to understand what sickness is, or what it needs; but her sympathies were quick, and though it was not hard to forget her mother and be happy when she was rioting out-of-doors with the other children, she never saw her without feeling pity and affection, and a wish that she could do something to please or to make her feel better.

Tea was so nearly ready that Wealthy would not let Eyebright go upstairs, but carried her instead into a small bedroom, opening from the kitchen, where she herself slept.  It was a little place, bare enough, but very neat and clean, as all things belonging to Wealthy were sure to be.  Then, she washed Eyebright’s face and hands, and brushed her hair, retying the brown bow, crimping with her fingers the ruffle round Eyebright’s neck, and putting on a fresh white apron to conceal the ravages of play in the school frock.  Eyebright was quite able to wash her own face, but Wealthy was not willing yet to think so; she liked to do it herself, and Eyebright cared too little about the matter, and was too fond of Wealthy beside, to make any resistance.

When the little girl was quite neat and tidy, ­“Go into the sitting-room,” said Wealthy, with a final pat.  “Tea will be ready in a few minutes.  Your pa is in a hurry for it.”

So Eyebright went slowly through the kitchen, which looked very bright and attractive with its crackling fire and the sunlight streaming through its open door, and which smelt delightfully of ham and eggs and new biscuit, ­and down the narrow, dark passage, on one side of which was the sitting-room, and on the other a parlor, which was hardly ever used by anybody.  Wealthy dusted it now and then, and kept her cake in a closet which opened out of it, and there were a mahogany sofa and some chairs in it, upon which nobody ever sat, and some books which nobody ever read, and a small Franklin stove, with brass knobs on top, in which a fire was never lighted, and an odor of mice and varnish, and that was all.  The sitting-room on the other side of the entry was much pleasanter.  It was a large, square room, wainscoted high with green-painted wood, and had a south window and two westerly ones, so that the sun lay on it all day long.  Here and there in the walls, and upon either side of the chimney-piece, were odd, unexpected little cupboards, with small green wooden handles in their doors.  The doors fitted so closely that it was hard to tell which was cupboard and which wall; anybody who did not know the room was always a long time in finding out just how many cupboards there were.  The one on the left-hand side of the chimney-piece was Eyebright’s special cupboard.  It had been called hers ever since she was three years old, and had to climb on a chair to open the door.  There she kept her treasures of all kinds, ­paper dolls and garden seeds, and books, and scraps of silk for patchwork; and the top shelf of all was a sort of hospital for broken toys, too far gone to be played with any longer, but too dear, for old friendship’s sake, to be quite thrown away.  The furniture of the sitting-room was cherry-wood, dark with age; and between the west windows stood a cherry-wood desk, with shelves above and drawers below, where Mr. Bright kept his papers and did his writing.

He was sitting there now as Eyebright came in, busy over something, and in the rocking-chair beside the fire-place was a gentleman whom she did not recognize at first, but who seemed to know her, for in a minute he smiled and said: ­

“Oho! here is my friend of this morning.  Is this your little girl, Mr. Bright?”

“Yes,” replied papa, from his desk; “she is mine ­my only one.  That is Mr. Joyce, Eyebright.  Go and shake hands with him, my dear.”

Eyebright shook hands, blushing and laughing, for now she saw that Mr. Joyce was the gentleman who had interrupted their play at recess.  He kept hold of her hand when the shake was over, and began to talk in a very pleasant, kind voice, Eyebright thought.

“I didn’t know that you were Mr. Bright’s little daughter when I asked the way to his house,” he said “Why didn’t you tell me?  And what was the game you were playing, which you said was so splendid, but which made you cry so hard?  I couldn’t imagine, and it made me very curious.”

“It was only about Lady Jane Grey,” answered Eyebright.  “I was Lady Jane, and Bessie, she was Margaret; and I was just going to be beheaded when you spoke to us.  I always cry when we get to the executions; they are so dreadful.”

“Why do you have them, then?  I think that’s a very sad sort of play for two happy little girls like you.  Why not have a nice merry game about men and women who never were executed?  Wouldn’t it be pleasanter?”

“Oh, no!  It isn’t half as much fun playing about people who don’t have things happen to them,” said Eyebright, eagerly.  “Once we did, Bessie and I. We played at George and Martha Washington, and it wasn’t amusing a bit, ­just commanding armies, and standing on platforms to receive company, and cutting down one cherry-tree!  We didn’t like it at all.  Lady Jane Grey is much nicer than that.  And I’ll tell you another splendid one, ‘The Children of the Abbey.’  We played it all through from the very beginning chapter, and it took us all our recesses for four weeks.  I like long plays so much better than short ones which are done right off.”

Mr. Joyce’s eyes twinkled a little, and his lips twitched; but he would not smile, because Eyebright was looking straight into his face.

“I don’t believe you are too big to sit on my knee,” he said; and Eyebright, nothing loth, perched herself on his lap at once.  She was such a fearless little thing, so ready to talk and to make friends, that he was mightily taken with her, and she seemed equally attracted by him, and chattered freely as to an old friend.

She told him all about her school, and the girls, and what they did in summer, and what they did in winter, and about Top-knot, and the other chickens, and her dolls, ­for Eyebright still played with dolls by fits and starts, and her grand plan for making “a cave” in the garden, in which to keep label-sticks and bits of string and her cherished trowel.

“Won’t it be lovely?” she demanded.  “Whenever I want any thing, you know, I shall just have to dig a little bit, and take up the shingle which goes over the top of the cave, and put my hand in.  Nobody will know that it’s there but me.  Unless I tell Bessie ­,” she added, remembering that almost always she did tell Bessie.

Mr. Joyce privately feared that the trowel would become very rusty, and Eyebright’s cave be apt to fill with water when the weather was wet; but he would not spoil her pleasure by making these objections.  Instead, he talked to her about his home, which was in Vermont, among the Green Mountains, and his wife, whom he called “mother,” and his son, Charley, who was a year or two older than Eyebright, and a great pet with his father, evidently.

“I wish you could know Charley,” he said; “you are just the sort of girl he would like, and he and you would have great fun together.  Perhaps some day your father’ll bring you up to make us a visit.”

“That would be very nice,” said Eyebright.  “But” ­shaking her head ­“I don’t believe it’ll ever happen, because papa never does take me away.  We can’t leave poor mamma, you know.  She’d miss us so much.”

Here Wealthy brought in supper, ­a hearty one, in honor of Mr. Joyce, with ham and eggs, cold beef, warm biscuit, stewed rhubarb, marmalade, and, by way of a second course, flannel cakes, for making which Wealthy had a special gift.  Mr. Joyce enjoyed every thing, and made an excellent meal.  He was amused to hear Eyebright say, “Do take some more rhubarb, papa.  I stewed it my own self, and it’s better than it was last time,” and to see her arranging her mother’s tea neatly on a tray.

“What a droll little pussy that is of yours!” he said to her father, when Eyebright had gone upstairs with the tray.  “She seems all imagination, and yet she has a practical turn, too.  It’s an odd mixture.  We don’t often get the two things combined in one child.”

“No, you don’t,” replied Mr. Bright.  “Sometimes I think she has too much imagination.  Her head is stuffed with all sorts of notions picked up out of books, and you’d think, to hear her talk, that she hadn’t an idea beyond a fairy-tale.  But she has plenty of common sense, too, and is more helpful and considerate than most children of her age.  Wealthy says she is really useful to her, and has quite an idea of cooking and housekeeping.  I’m puzzled at her myself sometimes.  She seems two different children rolled into one.”

“Well, if that is the case, I see no need to regret her vivid imagination,” replied his friend.  “A quick fancy helps people along wonderfully.  Imagination is like a big sail.  When there’s nothing underneath it’s risky; but with plenty of ballast to hold the vessel steady, it’s an immense advantage and not a danger.”

Eyebright came in just then, and as a matter of course went back to her perch upon her new friend’s knee.

“Do you know a great many stories?” she asked suggestively.

“I know a good many.  I make them up for Charley sometimes.”

“I wish you’d tell me one.”

“It will have to be a short one then,” said Mr. Joyce, glancing at his watch.  “Bright, will you see about having my horse brought round?  I must be off in ten minutes or so.”  Then, turning to Eyebright, ­“I’ll tell you about Peter and the Wolves, if you like.  That’s the shortest story I know.”

“Oh, do!  I like stories about wolves so much,” said Eyebright, settling herself comfortably to listen.

“Little Peter lived with his grandmother in a wood,” began Mr. Joyce in a prompt way, as of one who has a good deal of business to get through in brief time.

“They lived all alone.  He hadn’t any other boys to play with, but once in a great while his grandmother let him go to the other side of the wood, where some boys lived, and play with them.  Peter was glad when his grandmother said he might go.

“One day in the autumn, he said:  ’Grandmother, may I go and see William and Jack?’ Those were the names of the other boys.

“‘Yes,’ she said, ’you can go, if you will promise to come home at four o’clock.  It gets dark early, and I am afraid to have you in the wood later than that.’

“So Peter promised.  He had a nice time with William and Jack, and at four o’clock he started to go home; for he was a boy of his word.

“As he went along, suddenly, on the path before him, he saw a most beautiful gray squirrel, with a long bushy tail.

“‘Oh, you beauty!’ cried Peter.  ’I must catch you and carry you home to grandmother.’

“Now, this was humbug in Peter, because grandmother did not care a bit about gray squirrels.  But Peter did.

“So Peter ran to catch the squirrel, and the squirrel ran, too.  He did not go very fast, but kept just out of reach.  More than once, Peter thought he had laid hold of him, but the cunning squirrel always slipped through his fingers.

“At last the squirrel darted up into a thick tree, where Peter could not see him any more.  Then Peter began to think of going home.  To his surprise it was almost dark.  He had been running so hard that he had not noticed this before, nor which way he had come, and when he looked about him, he saw that he had lost his way.

“This was bad enough, but worse happened; for, pretty soon, as he plodded on, trying to guess which way he ought to go, he heard a long, low howl far away in the wood, ­the howl of a wolf.  Peter had heard wolves howl before, and he knew perfectly well what the sound was.  He began to run, and he ran and ran, but the howl grew louder, and was joined by more howls, and they sounded nearer every minute, and Peter knew that a whole pack of wolves was after him.  Wolves can run much faster than little boys, you know.  They had almost caught Peter, when he saw ­”

Mr. Joyce paused to enjoy Eyebright’s eyes, which had grown as round as saucers in her excitement.

“Oh, go on!” she cried, breathlessly.

“ ­when he saw a big hollow tree with a hole in one side.  There was not a moment to spare; the hole was just big enough for him to get into; and in one second he had scrambled through and was inside the tree.  There were some large pieces of bark lying inside, and he picked one up and nailed it over the hole with a hammer which he happened to have in his pocket.  So there he was, in a safe little house of his own, and the wolves could not get at him at all.”

“That was splendid,” sighed Eyebright, relieved.

“All night the wolves stayed by the tree, and scratched and howled and tried to get in,” continued Mr. Joyce.  “By and by the moon rose, and Peter could see them putting their noses through the knotholes in the bark, and smelling at him.  But the knotholes were too small, and, smell as they might, they could not get at him.  At last, watching his chance he whipped out his jack-knife and cut off the tip of the biggest wolf’s nose.  Then the wolves howled awfully and ran away, and Peter put the nose-tip in his pocket, and lay down and went to sleep.”

“Oh, how funny!” cried Eyebright, delighted.  “What came next?”

“Morning came next, and he got out of the tree and ran home.  His poor grandmother had been frightened almost to death, and had not slept a wink all night long; she hugged and kissed Peter for half an hour and then hurried to cook him a hot breakfast.  That’s all the story, ­only, when Peter grew to be a man, he had the tip of the wolf’s nose set as a breast pin, and he always wore it.”

Here Mr. Joyce set Eyebright down, and rose from his chair, for he heard his horse’s hoofs under the window.

“Oh, do tell me about the breast-pin before you go!” cried Eyebright.  “Did he really wear it?  How funny!  Was it set in gold, or how?”

“I shall have to keep the description of the breast-pin till we meet again,” replied Mr. Joyce.  “My dear,” and he stooped and kissed her, “I wish I had a little girl at home just like you.  Charley would like it too.  I shall tell him about you.  And if you ever meet, you will be friends, I am sure.”

Eyebright sat on the door-steps and watched him ride down the street.  The sun was just setting, and all the western sky was flushed with pink, the very color of a rosy sea-shell.

“Mr. Joyce is the nicest man that ever came here, I think,” she said to Wealthy, who passed through the hall with her hands full of tea-things.  “He told me a lovely story about wolves.  I’ll tell it to you when you put me to bed, if you like.  He’s the nicest man I ever saw.”

“Nicer than Mr. Porter?” asked Wealthy, grimly, walking down the hall.

Eyebright blushed and made no answer.  Mr. Porter was a sore subject, though she was only six years old when she knew him, and had never seen him since.

He was a young man who for one summer had rented a vacant room in Miss Fitch’s school building.  He took a great fancy to Eyebright, who was a little girl then, and he used to play with her, and carry her about the green in his arms.  Several times he promised her a doll, which he said he would fetch when he went home.  At last, he went home and came back, but no doll appeared and whenever Eyebright asked after it, he replied that it was “in his trunk.”

One day, he carelessly left open the door of his room and Eyebright, peeping in, spied it, and saw that his trunk was unlocked.  Now was her chance, she thought, and, without consulting anybody, she went in, resolved to find the doll for herself.

Into the trunk she dived.  It was full of things, all of which she pulled out and threw upon the floor, which had no carpet, and was pretty dusty.  Boots, and shirts, and books, and blacking-bottles, and papers, ­all were dumped one on top of the other; but though she went to the very bottom, no doll was to be found, and she trotted away, almost crying with disappointment, and leaving the things just as they lay, on the floor.

Mr. Porter did not like it at all, when he found his property in this condition, and Miss Fitch punished Eyebright, and Wealthy scolded hard; but Eyebright never could be made to see that she had done any thing naughty.

“He’s a wicked man, and he didn’t tell the trufe,” was all she would say.  Wealthy was deeply shocked at the affair, and never let Eyebright forget it, so that even now, after six years had passed, the mention of Mr. Porter’s name made her feel uncomfortable.  She left the door-step presently, and went upstairs to her mother’s room, where she usually spent the last half-hour before going to bed.

It was one of Mrs. Bright’s better days, and she was lying on the sofa.  She was a pretty little woman still, though thin and faded, and had a gentle, helpless manner, which made people want to pet her, as they might a child.  The room seemed very warm and close after the fresh door-step, and Eyebright thought, as she had thought many times before, “How I wish that mother liked to have her window open!” But she did not say so.  “Was your tea nice, mamma?” she asked, a little doubtfully, for Mrs. Bright was hard to please with food, probably because her appetite was so fickle.

“Pretty good,” her mother answered; “my egg was too hard, and I don’t like quite so much sugar in rhubarb, but it did very well.  What have you been about all day, Eyebright?”

“Nothing particular, mamma.  School, you know; and after school, some of the girls came into our hayloft and told stories, and we had such a nice time.  Then Mr. Joyce was here to tea.  He’s a real nice man, mamma.  I wish you had seen him.”

“How was he nice?  It seems to me you didn’t see enough of him to judge,” said her mother.

“Why, mamma, I can always tell right away if people are nice or not.  Can’t you?  Couldn’t you, when you were well, I mean?”

“I don’t think much of that sort of judging,” said Mrs. Bright, languidly.  “It takes a long time to find out what people really are, ­years.”

“Why, mamma!” cried Eyebright, with wide-open eyes.  “I couldn’t know but just two or three people in my whole life if I had to take such lots of time to find out!  I’d a great deal rather be quick, even if I changed my mind afterward.”

“You’ll be wiser when you’re older,” said her mother.  “It’s time for my medicine now.  Will you bring it, Eyebright?  It’s the third bottle from the corner of the mantel, and there’s a tea-cup and spoon on the table.”

Poor Mrs. Bright!  Her medicine had grown to be the chief interest of her life!  The doctor who visited her was one of the old-fashioned kind who believed in big doses and three pills at a time, and something new every week or two; but, in addition to his prescriptions, Mrs. Bright tried all sorts of queer patent physics which people told her of, or which she read about in the newspapers.  She also took a great deal of herb tea of different sorts.  There was always a little porringer of something steaming away on her stove, ­camomile, or boneset, or wormwood, or snakeroot, or tansy, and always a long row of fat bottles with labels on the chimney-piece above it.

Eyebright fetched the medicine and the cup, and her mother measured out the dose.

“I can’t help hoping that this is going to do me good,” she said.  “It’s something new which I read about in the ’Evening Chronicle,’ ­Dr. Bright’s Cosmopolitan Febrifuge.  It seems to work the most wonderful cures.  Mrs. Mulravy, a lady in Pike’s Gulch, Idaho, got entirely well of consumptive cancer by taking only two bottles; and a gentleman from Alaska writes that his wife and three children, who were almost dead of cholera collapse and heart-disease, recovered entirely after taking the Febrifuge one month.  It’s very wonderful.”

“I’ve noticed that those folks who get well in the advertisements always live in Idaho and Alaska and such like places, where people ain’t very likely to go a-hunting after them,” said Wealthy, who came in just then with a candle.

“Now, Wealthy, how can you say so!  Both these cures are certified to by regular doctors.  Let me see, ­yes, ­Dr. Ingham and Dr. H. B. Peters.  Here are their names on the bottle!”

“It’s easy enough to make up a name or two if you want ’em,” muttered Wealthy.  Then, seeing that Mrs. Bright looked troubled, she was sorry she had spoken, and made haste to add, “However, the medicine may be first-rate medicine, and if it does you good, Mrs. Bright, we’ll crack it up everywhere, ­that we will.”

Eyebright’s bedtime was come.  She kissed her mother for good-night with the feeling which she always had, that she must kiss very gently, or some dreadful thing might happen, ­her mother break in two, perhaps, or something.  Wealthy, who was in rather a severe mood for some reason, undressed her in a sharp, summary way, declined to listen to the wolf story, and went away, taking the candle with her.  But there was little need of a candle in Eyebright’s room that night, for the shutters stood open, and a bright full moon shone in, making every thing as distinct, almost, as it was in the daytime.  She was not a bit sleepy, but she didn’t mind being sent to bed, at all, for bedtime often meant to her only a second playtime which she had all to herself.  Getting up very softly, so as to make no noise, she crept to the closet, and brought out a big pasteboard box which was full of old ribbons and odds and ends of lace and silk.  With these she proceeded to make herself fine; a pink ribbon went round her head, a blue one round her neck, a yellow and a purple round either ankle, and round her waist, over her night-gown a broad red one, very dirty, to serve as a sash.  Each wrist was adorned with a bit of cotton edging, and, with a broken fan in her hand, Eyebright climbed into bed again, and putting one pillow on top of the other to make a seat, began to play, telling herself the story in a low, whispering tone.

“I am a Princess,” she said; “the most beautiful Princess that ever was.  But I didn’t know that I was a Princess at all, because a wicked fairy stole me when I was little, and put me in a lonely cottage, and I thought I wasn’t any thing but a shepherdess.  But one day, as I was feeding my sheep, a ne-cro-answer he came by and he said: ­

“‘Princess, why don’t you have any crown?’

“Then I stared, and said, ‘I’m not a Princess.’

“‘Oh, but you are,’ he said; ‘a real Princess.’

“Then I was so surprised you can’t think, Bessie. ­Oh, I forgot that Bessie wasn’t here.  And I said, ’I cannot believe such nonsense as that, sir.’

“Then the necroanswer laughed, and he said: ­

“’Mount this winged steed, and I will show you your kingdom which you were stolen away from.’

“So I mounted.”

Here Eyebright put a pillow over the foot-board of the bed, and climbed upon it, in the attitude of a lady on a side-saddle.

“Oh, how beautiful it is!” she murmured.  “How fast we go!  I do love horseback.”

Dear silly little Eyebright!  Riding there in the moonlight, with her scraps of ribbon and her bare feet and her night-gown, she was a fantastic figure, and looked absurd enough to make any one laugh.  I laugh, too, and yet I love the little thing, and find it delightful that she should be so easily amused and made happy with small fancies.  Imagination is like a sail, as Mr. Joyce had said that evening; but sails are good and useful things sometimes, and carry their owners over deep waters and dark waves, which else might dampen, and drench, and drown.