You will probably think that it was a dish of pork-and-beans, or an Indian pudding of the good, old-fashioned kind, which was shut up in the Oven.  Not at all.  You are quite mistaken.  The thing shut up in the Oven was Eyebright herself!  And the Oven was quite different from any thing you are thinking of, ­cold, not hot; wet, not dry; with a door made of green sea-water instead of black iron.  This sounds like a conundrum; and, as that is hardly fair, I will proceed to unriddle it at once and tell you all about it.

The Oven was a sort of cave or grotto in the cliffs, four miles from Scrapplehead, but rather less than three from the causeway.  Its real name was “The Devil’s Oven.”  Country people, and Maine country people above all others, are very fond of calling all sorts of strange and striking places after the devil.  If Eyebright had ever heard the whole name, perhaps she might not have ventured to go there alone as she did, in which case I should have no adventure to write about.  But people usually spoke of it for shortness’ sake as the “Oven,” and she had no idea that Satan had any thing to do with the place, nor, for that matter, have I.

It was from Mrs. Downs that she first heard about the Oven.  Mrs. Downs had been there once, years before.  It was a “natteral curosity,” she said, with all sorts of strange sea-creatures growing in pools, and the rocks were red and quite beautiful.  It wasn’t a dangerous place, either, and here Mr. Downs confirmed her.  You couldn’t get in after half-tide, but anybody could stay in for a week in ordinary weather, and not be drowned.  There were plenty of places a-top of the cave, where you could sit and keep dry even at high water, though it would be “sort of poky,” too.  Eyebright’s imagination was fired by this description, and she besought papa to take her there at once.  He promised that he would “some day,” but the day seemed long in coming, as holidays always do to busy people; and June passed, and July, and still the Oven was unvisited, though Eyebright did not forget her wish to go.

August came at last, ­the delicious north-of-Maine August, with hot, brilliant noons, and cool, balmy nights, so different from the murky, steamy August of everywhere else, ­and was half over, when one afternoon papa came in with a piece of news.

“What should you say, Eyebright, if I were to go off for the whole day to-morrow?” he asked.

“Why, papa Bright, what do you mean?  You can’t!  There isn’t anywhere to go to.”

“There’s Malachi.”

“Oh, papa, not in our little boat!”

“No, in a schooner belonging to Mr. Downs’s brother.  It has just put in with a load of lumber, and the captain has offered me a passage if I like to go.  He expects to get back to-morrow evening about nine o’clock.  Should you be lonesome, do you think, Eyebright, if I went?”

“Not a bit,” cried Eyebright, delighted at the idea of papa’s having a sail.  “I’ll do something or other that is pleasant.  Perhaps I’ll go and stay all day with Mrs. Downs.  Anyhow, I’ll not be lonely.  I’m glad the captain asked you to go, papa.  It’ll be nice, I think.”

But next morning, when she had given papa his early breakfast, watched him across the causeway, and seen the sails of the schooner diminish into two white specks in the distance, she was not sure that it was nice.  She sang at her dish-washing and clattered her cups and spoons, to make as much noise as possible; but for all she could do, the house felt silent and empty, and she missed papa very much.  Her plan had been to go to the village as soon as her work was done, and make Mrs. Downs a visit, but later another idea popped into her mind.  She would go to the Oven instead.

“I know about where it is,” she thought.  “If I keep close to the shore I can’t miss it, anyway.  Mr. Downs said it wasn’t more than two miles and three-quarters from the causeway.  Two miles and three-quarters isn’t a very long walk.  It won’t be half-tide till after ten.  I can get there by a little after nine if I start at once.  That’ll give me an hour to see the cave, and when I come back I’ll go down to the village and stay to dinner with Mrs. Downs.  I’ll take some bread and butter, though, because one does get so hungry up here if you take the least little walk.  What a good idea it is to do this!  I am glad papa went to Malachi, after all.”

Her preparations were soon made, and in ten minutes she was speeding across the causeway, which was safe walking still, though the tide had turned, ­her pocket full of bread and butter, and Genevieve in her arms.  She had hesitated whether or not to take Genevieve, but it seemed too sad to leave her all alone on the island, so it ended in her going too, in her best bonnet and a little blanket shawl.  The morning was most beautiful, dewy and fresh, and the path along the shore was scented with freshly cut hay from inland fields, and with spicy bayberry and sweet fern.  A belated wild rose shone here and there in the hedges, pale and pink.  Tangles of curly, green-brown fringe lay over the clustering Virgin’s Bower.  The blue lapping waves, as they rose and fell, were full of sea-weeds of a lovely red-brown tint, and a frolicsome wind played over the surface of the sea, and seemed to be whispering something funny to it, for the water trembled in the sun and dimpled as if with sudden laughter.

The way, as a general thing, lay close by the shore, winding over the tops of low cliffs covered with dry yellow grasses.  Now and then it dipped down to strips of shingle beach, or skirted little coves with boundaries of bushes and brambles edging the sand.  Miles are not easy to reckon when people are following the ins and outs of an irregular coast.  Half a dozen times Eyebright clambered to the water’s edge and peeped round the shoulder of a great rock, thinking that she must have got to the cave at last.  Yet nothing met her eyes but more rocks, and surf, and fissures brown with rust and barnacles.  At last, she came on a group of children, playing in the sand, and stopped to ask the way of them.

There were two thin, brown little girls in pink-and-gray gingham frocks, and pink-and-gray striped stockings appearing over the tops of high, laced boots.  They were exactly the same size, and made Eyebright think of grasshoppers, they were so wiry and active, and sprang about so nimbly.  Then there were three rosy, hearty-looking country children, and a pair of little boys, with sharp, delicately cut faces, who seemed to be brothers, for they looked like each other and quite unlike the rest.  All seven were digging holes in the sand with sticks and shovels, and were as much absorbed in their work as a party of diligent beavers.  When Eyebright appeared, with Genevieve in her arms, they stopped digging and looked at her curiously.

“Do you know how far the Oven is from here?” asked Eyebright.

“No,” and “What’s the Oven?” answered the children, and one of the gray-and-pink little girls added:  “My, what a big doll!” Eyebright scarcely heeded these answers, she was so delighted to see some children after her long fast from childhood.

“What are you making?” she asked.

“A fort,” replied one of the boys.

“Now, Fweddy, you said you’d call it a castle,” put in one of the girls.

“Well, castles are just the same things as forts.  My mother said so.”

“Is that your mother sitting there?” asked Eyebright catching a glimpse of a woman and a baby under a tree not far off.

“Oh, dear, no!  That’s Mrs. Waurigan.  She’s Jenny’s mother, you know, and ’Mandy’s and Peter Paul Rubens’s.  She’s not our mother at all.  My mother’s name is Mrs. Brown, and my papa is Dr. Azariah P. Brown.  We live in New York city.  Did you ever see New York city?”

“No, never.  I wish I had,” said Eyebright.

“It’s a real nice place,” went on the pink-and-gray midge.  “You’d better make haste and come and see it quick, ’cause it’s de-te-rotting every day; my papa said so.  Don’t you think Dr. Azariah P. Brown is a beau-tiful name?  I do.  When I’m mallied and have a little boy, I’m going to name him Dr. Azariah P. Brown, because it’s the beautifulest name in the world.”

“She’s ’gaged already,” said the other little sister.  “She’s ’gaged to Willy Prentiss.  And she’s got a ’gagement wing; only, she turns the stone round inside, so’s to make people b’lieve it’s a plain gold wing and she’s mallied already.  Isn’t that cheating?  It’s just as bad as telling a weal story.”

“No, it isn’t either!” cried the other, twirling a small gilt ring round on a brown finger, and revealing a gem made, apparently, of second-rate sealing-wax, and about the color of a lobster’s claw.  “No, it isn’t cheating, not one bit; ’cause sometimes the wing gets turned round all by itself, and then people can see that it isn’t plain gold.  And Nelly’s ’gaged, too, just as much as I am, only she hasn’t got any wing, because Harry Sin ­”

“Now, Lotty!” screamed Nelly, flinging herself upon her, “you mustn’t tell the name.”

“So your name is Lotty, is it?” said Eyebright, who had abandoned Genevieve to the embraces of Jenny, and was digging in the sand with the rest.

“No, it isn’t.  My really name is Charlotte P., only Mamma calls me Lotty.  I don’t like it much.  It’s such a short name, just Lotty.  Look here, you didn’t ever see me till to-day, so it can’t make much difference to you, so won’t you please call me Charlotte P.?  I’d like it so much if you would.”

Eyebright hastened to assure Charlotte P. of her willingness to grant this slight favor.

“Are these little boys your brothers, Lot ­Charlotte P., I mean?” she asked.

“Oh, no!” cried Nelly.  “Our bwother is lots and lots bigger than they are.  That’s Sinclair and Fweddy.  They ain’t no ’lation at all, ’cept that they live next door.”

“Their mamma’s a widow,” interposed Charlotte P.  “She plays on the piano, and a real handsome gentleman comes to see her ’most every day.  That’s what being a widow means.”

“Look here what I’ve found!” shouted Sinclair, who had gone farther down the beach.  “I guess it’s a shrimp.  And if I had a match I’d make a fire and cook it, for I read in a book once that shrimps are delicious.”

“Let me see him!  Let me see him!” clamored the little ones.  Then, in a tone of disgust:  “Oh, my! ain’t he horrid-looking and little.  He isn’t any bigger than the head of a pin.”

“That’s not true,” asserted Sinclair:  “he’s bigger than the head of my mamma’s shawl-pin, and that’s ever so big.”

“I don’t believe he’s good a bit,” declared Lotty.

“Then you shan’t have any of him when he’s cooked,” said Sinclair.  “I’ve got a jelly-fish, too.  He’s in a hole with a little water in it, but he can’t get out.  I mean to eat him, too.  Are jelly-fish good?” to Eyebright.

“I don’t believe they are,” she replied.  “I never heard of anybody’s eating them.”

“I like fishes,” went on Sinclair.  “My mamma says she guesses I’ve got a taste for nat-nat-ural history.  When I grow up I mean to read all the books about animals.”

“And what do you like?” asked Eyebright of the other little boy, who had not spoken yet, and whose fair baby face had an odd, almost satirical expression.

“Fried hominy,” was the unexpected reply, uttered in a sharp, distinct voice.  The children shouted and Eyebright laughed, but Freddy only smiled faintly in a condescending way.  And now Eyebright remembered that she was on her road to the cave, ­a fact quite forgotten for the moment, ­and she jumped up and said she must go.

“Perhaps Mrs. Waurigan will know where the Oven is,” she added.

“I guess so,” replied Lotty; “because she does know about a great many, many things.  Good-by! ­do come again to-morrow, and bring Dolly, won’t you?” and she gave Genevieve one kiss and Eyebright another.  “You’re pretty big to play with dolls, I think.  But then” ­meditatively ­“she’s a pretty big doll too.”

Mrs. Waurigan was knitting a blue-yarn stocking.  She could tell Eyebright nothing about the Oven.

“I know it’s not a great way off,” she said.  “But I’ve never been there.  It can’t be over a mile, if it’s so much as that; that I’m sure of.  Have you walked up all the way from Scrapplehead?  I want to know?  It’s a long way for you to come.”

“Not so far as New York city,” said Eyebright, laughing.  “Those little girls tell me they come from there.”

“Yes; the twins and Sinclair and Freddy all come from New York.  Their mother, Mis’ Brown, who is a real nice lady, was up here last year.  She took a desprit fancy to the place, and when the children had scarlet fever in the spring, and Lotty was so sick that the doctor didn’t think she’d ever get over it, she just packed their trunk and sent them right off here just as soon as they was fit to travel.  She said all she asked was that I’d feed ’em and do for ’em just as I do for my own; and you wouldn’t believe how much they’ve improved since they came.  They look peaked enough still, but for all that nobody’d think that they were the same children.”

“And did the little boys come with them?”

“Yes.  They’re neighbors, Miss’ Brown wrote, and their mother wanted to go to the Springs, or somewhere, so she asked mightn’t they come, too.  At first, I thought I couldn’t hardly manage with so many, but they haven’t been a bit of trouble.  Just set them anywheres down on the shore, and they’ll dig all day and be as happy as clams.  The only bad things is boots.  Miss’ Brown, she sent seven pairs apiece in the trunk, and, you would hardly believe it, they’re on the sixth pair already.  Rocks is dreadful hard on leather, and so is sand.  But I guess their Ma wont care so’s they go back strong and healthy.”

“I’m sure she won’t,” said Eyebright.  “Now I must be going, or I shan’t be able to get into the cave when I find it.”

“You’d better come in and get a bite of something to eat as you come back,” said Mrs. Waurigan.  “That’s the house just across that pasture.  ’T ain’t but a step out of your way.”

“Oh, thank you.  How kind you are!” replied Eyebright.  Then she said good-by and hurried on, thinking to herself, ­“Maine is full of good people, I do believe.  I wish Wealthy could come up here and see how nice they are.”

It seemed more than a mile to the Oven, but she made the distance longer than it was by continually going down to the water’s edge to make sure that she was not passing the cave without knowing it.  It was almost by accident that in the end she lighted upon it.  Strolling a little out of her way to pick a particularly blue harebell which had caught her eye, she suddenly found herself on the edge of a hollow chasm, and, peeping over, perceived that it must be the place she was in search of.  Scrambling down from her perch, which was about half-way up one side, she found herself in a deep recess, overhung by a large rock, which formed a low archway across its front.  The floor ran back for a long distance, rising gradually, in irregular terraces, till it met the roof; and here and there along these terraces were basin-like holes full of gleaming water, which must be the pools Mrs. Downs had talked about.

Eyebright had never seen a cave before, though she had read and played about caves all her life, so you can imagine her ecstasy and astonishment at finding herself in a real one at last.  It was as good as the “Arabian Nights,” she thought, and a great deal better than the cave in the “Swiss Family Robinson.”  Indeed, it was a beautiful place.  Cool green light filled it, like sunshine filtered through sea-water.  The rocky shelves were red, or rather a deep rosy pink, and the water in the pools was of the color of emerald and beautifully clear.  She climbed up to the nearest pool, and gave a loud scream of delight, for there, under her eye, was a miniature flower-garden, made by the fairies, it would seem, and filled with dahlia-shaped and hollyhock-shaped things, purple, crimson, and deep orange; which were flowers to all appearance, and yet must be animals; for they opened and shut their many-tinted petals, and moved and swayed when she dipped her fingers in and splashed the water about.  There were green spiky things, too, exactly like freshly fallen chestnut burrs, lettuce-like leaves, ­pale red ones, as fine as tissue-paper, ­and delicate filmy foliage in soft brown and in white.  Yellow snails clung to the sides of the pool, vivid in color as the blossom of a trumpet-creeper; and, as she lay with her face close to the surface of the water, a small, bright fish swam from under the leaves, and darted across the pool like a quick sun ray.  Never, even in her dreams, had Eyebright imagined any thing like it, and in her delight she gave Genevieve a great hug, and cried: ­

“Aren’t you glad I brought you, dear, and oh, isn’t it beautiful?”

There were several pools, one above another, and each higher one seemed more beautiful than the next below.  The very biggest “dahlia” of all ­Anemone was its real name, but Eyebright did not know that ­was in the highest of these pools, and Eyebright lay so long looking at it and giving it an occasional tickle with her forefinger to make it open and shut, that she never noticed how fast the tide was beginning to pour in.  At last, one great wave rolled up and broke almost at her feet, and she suddenly bethought herself that it might be time to go.  Alas! the thought came too late, as in another minute she saw.  The rocks at the side, down which she had climbed, were cut off by deep water.  She hurried across to the other side to see if it were not possible to get out there; but it was even worse, and the tide ran after as she scrambled back, and wetted her ankles before she could gain the place where she had been sitting before she made this disagreeable discovery.  That wasn’t safe either, for pretty soon a splash reached her there, and she took Genevieve in her arms and climbed up higher still, feeling like a hunted thing, and as if the sea were chasing her and would catch her if it possibly could.

It was a great comfort just then to recollect what Mr. Downs had said about the cave being safe enough for people who were caught there by the tide, “in ordinary weather.”  Eyebright worried a little over that word “ordinary,” but the sun was shining outside, and she could see its gleam through the lower waves; the water came in quietly, which proved that there wasn’t much wind; and altogether she concluded that there couldn’t be any thing extraordinary about this particular day.  I think she proved herself a brave little thing, and sensible, too, to be able to reason this out as she did, and avoid useless fright; but, for all her bravery, she couldn’t help crying a little as she sat there like a limpet among the rocks, and realized that the Oven door was fast shut, and she couldn’t get out for ever so many hours.  All of a sudden it came to her quite distinctly how foolish and rash it was to have come there all alone, without permission from papa, or letting anybody know of her intention.  It was one comfort that papa at that moment was in Malachi, and couldn’t be anxious about her; but, “Oh dear!” Eyebright thought, “how dreadfully he would feel if I never did get out, and he came back and found me gone, and nobody could tell him where I was.  I’ll never do such a bad, naughty thing again, never, ­if I ever do get out, that is ­” she reflected, as the water climbed higher and higher, and again she moved her seat to avoid it, still with the sense of being a hunted thing which the sea was trying to catch.

Her seat was now too far from the pools for her to note how the anémones and snails were enjoying their twice-a-day visit from the tide, how the petals quivered and widened, the weeds grew brighter, and the fish darted about with renewed life and vigor.  I don’t believe it would have been much comfort to her if she had seen them.  Fishes are unfriendly creatures; they never seem to care any thing about human beings, or whether they are feeling glad or sorry.  Genevieve, for all her being made of wax, was much more satisfactory.  What was particularly nice, she lent Eyebright her blanket-shawl to wear, for the cave had begun to feel very chilly.  The shawl was not large, but it was better than nothing; and with this round her shoulders, and Dolly cuddled in her arms, she sat on the very highest ledge of all and watched the water rise.  She couldn’t go any higher, so she hoped it couldn’t, either; and as she sat, she sang all the songs and hymns she knew, to keep her spirits up, ­“Out on an Ocean,” “Shining Shore” (how she wished herself on one!), “Rosalie, the Prairie Flower,” “Old Dog Tray,” and ever so many others.  It was a very miscellaneous concert, but did as well for Eyebright and the fishes as the most classical music could have done; better, perhaps, for Mozart and Beethoven might have sounded a little mournful, and “songs without words” would never have answered.  Songs with words were what were wanted in that emergency.

The tide halted at last, after filling the cave about two-thirds full.  Once sure that it had turned and was going down, Eyebright felt easier, and could even enjoy herself again.  She ate the bread and butter with a good appetite, only wishing there was more of it, and then made up a delightful story about robbers and a cave and a princess, in which she herself played the part of the princess, who was shut in the cave of an enchanter till a prince should come and release her through a hole in the top.  By the time that this happened and the princess was safely out, the uppermost pool was uncovered, and Eyebright clambered down the wet rocks and took another long look at it, “making believe” that it was a garden which a good fairy had planted to amuse the princess; and, indeed, no fairy could have invented a prettier one.  So, little by little, and following the receding sea, she was able at last, with a jump and a long step, to reach the rocky pathway by which she had come down, and two minutes later she was on top of the cliff again, and in the sunshine, which felt particularly warm and pleasant.  The sun was half-way down the sky; she had been in the cave almost six hours, and she knew it must be late in the afternoon.

Neither Mrs. Waurigan nor the party of children was visible as she passed the house.  They had probably gone in for tea, and she did not stop to look them up, for a great longing for home had seized upon her.  The tide delayed her a little while at the causeway, so that it was past six when she finally reached the island, and her boots were wet from the soaked sand; but she didn’t mind that a bit, she was so very glad to be safely there again.  She pulled them off, put on dry stockings and shoes, made the fire, filled the tea-kettle, set the table, and, after a light repast of bread and milk, curled herself up in the rocking-chair for a long nap, and did not wake till nearly nine, when papa came in, having been set ashore by the schooner’s boat as it passed by.  He had a large codfish in his hand, swung from a loop of string.

“Well, it has been a nice day,” he said, cheerfully, rubbing his hands.  “The wind was fair both ways.  We did some fishing, and I caught this big fellow.  I don’t know when I have enjoyed any thing so much.  What sort of a day have you had, little daughter?”

Eyebright began to tell him, but at the same time began to cry, which made her story rather difficult to understand.  Mr. Bright looked very grave when at last he comprehended the danger she had been in.

“I shan’t dare to go anywhere again,” he said.  “I thought I could trust you, Eyebright.  I supposed you were too sensible and steady to do such a wild thing as this.  I am very much surprised and very much disappointed.”

These words were the heaviest punishment which Eyebright could have had, for she was proud of being trusted and trustworthy.  Papa had sat down and was leaning his head on his hand in a dispirited way.  All his bright look was overclouded, ­the pleasant day seemed forgotten and almost spoiled.  She felt that it was her fault, and reproached herself more than ever.

“Oh, please don’t say that, papa,” she pleaded, tearfully.  “I can be trusted, really and truly I can.  I won’t ever go to any dangerous place alone again, really I won’t.  Just forgive me this time, and you’ll see how good I’ll be all the rest of my life.”

So papa forgave her, and she kept her promise, and never did go off on any thoughtless expeditions again, as long as she lived on Causey Island.