The Oriel Window. Molesworth Mrs.

was lovely, and everything alive seemed to be thinking so, as well as the little hero of the day – birds, trees, blossoms – even the insects that were beginning to find out that the warm days were coming, for a great fat blue-bottle was humming away with the loud summery hum which is the only nice thing about blue-bottles, I think. And not always nice either perhaps, to tell the truth. If one is busy learning some difficult lesson, or adding up long columns of figures, a blue-bottle's buzz is rather distracting. But this morning it was all right, seeming to give just the touch of summer sound which was wanting to the perfection of Ferdy's happiness as he lay there, rather lazily, I am afraid we must confess – a little sleepy still perhaps.

      What a nice beautiful place the world is, he thought to himself! How can people grumble at anything when the sun shines and everything seems so happy! In winter perhaps – well, yes, in winter, when it is very cold and grey, there might be something to be said on the other side, even though winter to such as Ferdy brings its own delights too. But in summer even the poor people should be happy; their cottages do look so pretty, almost prettier than big houses, with the nice little gardens in front, and roses and honeysuckle and traveller's joy climbing all over the walls and peeping in at the windows. Ferdy did not think he would at all mind living in a cottage, for Evercombe was a remarkably pretty village, and to all outside appearance the cottages were very neat and often picturesque, and the children had never been inside any, except a few of the clean and nicely kept ones where their mother knew that the people were good and respectable. So they had little idea as yet of the discomfort and misery that may be found in some cottage homes even in the prettiest villages, though their father and mother knew this well, and meant that Ferdy and Christine should take their part before long in trying to help those in need of comfort or advice.

      "I suppose," Ferdy went on thinking to himself – for once he got an idea in his head he had rather a trick of working it out – "I suppose there are some people who are really unhappy – poor people, who live in ugly dirty towns perhaps," and then his memory strayed to a day last year when he had driven with his father through the grim-looking streets of a mining village some distance from Evercombe. "That must be horrid. I wonder any one lives there! Or very old people who can't run about or scarcely walk, and who are quite deaf and nearly blind. Yes, they can't feel very happy. And yet they do sometimes. There's papa's old, old aunt; she seems as happy as anything, and yet I should think she's nearly a hundred, for she's grandpapa's aunt. She's not blind though; her eyes are quite bright and smily, and she's not so very deaf. And then she's not poor. Perhaps if she was very poor – " but no, another aged friend came into his mind – old Barley, who lived with his already old daughter in the smallest and poorest cottage Ferdy had ever been in.

      "And he's quite happy too," thought the little boy, "and so's poor Betsey, though she can't scarcely walk, 'cos of her rheumatism. It is rather funny that they are happy. The worst of all would be to be lame, I think – 'cept p'r'aps being blind. Oh dear! I am glad I'm not old, or lame, or blind, or things like that. But I say, I do believe the clock's striking seven, and – oh, there's Flowers! I might have run in to see Chrissie just for a minute or two first if I hadn't got thinking. I – " but then came an interruption.

      An eager tap at the door, – not Flowers's tap he knew at once, – and in reply to his as eager "Come in" a rush of little bare feet across the floor, and Chrissie's arms round his neck in a real birthday hug.

      "Flowers is just coming. I meant to wake so early. I've brought your present – mine's always the first, isn't it, darling?"

      And Chrissie settled herself at the foot of the bed, curling up her cold toes, and drawing her pink flannel dressing-gown more closely round her that she might sit there in comfort and regale her eyes on her brother's delight as he carefully undid the many papers in which her present to him was enfolded.

      It was a very pretty present, and Ferdy's natural good taste knew how to admire it, as his affectionate heart knew how to feel grateful to Chrissie for the real labour she had bestowed upon it. "It" was a writing-case, embroidered in silks of many lovely shades, and with a twisted monogram of Ferdy's initials – "F.. R." – "Ferdinand Walter Ross" – worked in gold threads in the centre of the cover. It was a very good piece of work indeed for a little girl of Chrissie's age, and promised well for her skill and perseverance in days to come. Ferdy's eyes sparkled with pleasure. "Oh, Chrissie," he said, "you've never made me anything quite as pretty as this! How clever you are getting, and how did you manage to work it all without my seeing?"

      "It was rather difficult," said Chrissie, with satisfaction in her tone. "Ever so many times I had to bundle it away just as I heard you coming. And do you know, Ferdy, it's a very ancient pattern – no, pattern isn't the word I mean."

      "Design?" said Ferdy. He knew some words of this kind better than Chrissie, as he was so often planning and copying carved wood and brasswork and such things.

      "Yes, that's what I mean – it's a very ancient design. Miss Lilly drew it for me from an old book-cover somebody lent her, and she helped me to arrange the colours. I am so pleased you like it, Ferdy, darling. I liked doing it because it was such pretty work, but if it hadn't been a present for you, I think I would have got tired of it – it was rather fiddly sometimes. And after working ever, ever so long, I didn't seem to have done hardly any."

      "I know," said Ferdy thoughtfully. "I think that's always the way with any really nice work. You can't scurry it up. And it wouldn't be worth anything if you could."

      But just then there came a tap at the door, and Flowers's voice sounding rather reproachful.

      "Miss Chrissie," she said, "I couldn't think where you'd gone to. I do hope you've got your dressing-gown and slippers on, or you will be sure to catch cold."

      "All right, Flowers," said Chrissie, "I'm quite warm;" and as the maid caught sight of the little pink-flannelled figure her face cleared, for, fortunately for her peace of mind, the pink toes were discreetly curled up out of sight.

      Who could expect a little girl to remember to put on her slippers on her brother's birthday morning, when she had been dreaming all night of the lovely present she had got for him?

      "Many happy returns of the day, Master Ferdy, my dear," Flowers went on, growing rather red, "and will you please accept a very trifling present from me?"

      She held out a little parcel as she spoke. It contained a boy's "housewife," if you ever saw such a thing. It was neatly made of leather, and held needles of different sizes, strong sewing cotton and thread, various kinds of useful buttons, a sturdy little pair of scissors, pins, black and white, small and large, and several other things such as a school-boy might be glad to find handy now and then.

      "Mother always gives one to my brothers when they leave home," said the maid, "and I thought as no doubt Master Ferdy will be going to school some day – "

      "It's capital, Flowers," Ferdy interrupted; "thank you ever so much; it's first-rate. I needn't wait till I go to school to use it. It's just the very thing I'm sure to want when I go yachting with papa next summer – this summer – in uncle's yacht. It's capital!"

      And Flowers, who had not been very long at the Watch House, and had felt rather uncertain as to how her gift would suit the young gentleman's taste, smiled all over with pleasure.

      Master Ferdy had certainly a very nice way with him, she thought to herself.

      "Miss Christine," she said aloud, "you really must come and get dressed, or instead of being ready earlier than usual, you'll be ever so much later."

      And Chrissie jumped down from the bed and went off to her own quarters.

      CHAPTER II

      THE PEACOCK'S CRY

      Half an hour or so later the children met again, and together made their way downstairs to the dining-room, Ferdy carefully carrying his presents, which had been increased by that of a nice big home-made cake from cook, and a smart little riding-whip from two or three of the other servants.

      Papa and mamma had not yet made their appearance; it was barely half-past eight.

      Ferdy's