Bessie on Her Travels. Mathews Joanna Hooe

she would sit for hours, her doll clasped in her arms, gazing her fill, and thinking her own thoughts. Happy, peaceful thoughts they were too, if one might judge by the expression of her sweet little face.

      “How my Bessie loves the sea, does she not?” said her father, sitting down beside her one time when he found her thus absorbed.

      “Yes, papa, dearly; but then I love the real sea better.”

      “But this is the real sea, darling.”

      “But I mean the real, real sea, papa; the true, very sea,” said the little girl.

      “I do not know how you could have more real sea than this, dear,” said her father, rather at a loss to know what she could mean. “We are many, many miles from land. You can see none on any side. It is water, water, the real true ocean, all around us, as far and farther than our eyes can reach. You do not mean that you would have it rough and stormy?”

      “Oh, no, papa!” Bessie answered, rather puzzled herself how to make her meaning plain to her father; “but I mean that kind of sea where the waves come slowly, slowly on the beach, all white and curly, and make that nice sound I like so much. It does not come in this kind of a sea.”

      “Oh, ho!” said her father, “I understand. It is the seashore you are longing for, even more than the open sea itself. Well, perhaps one of these days, you may be there again.”

      “Oh! do you think I might be, papa? Oh, that would be so delightful!” and she turned her little, eager, wistful face to her father with such a sparkle in her eye.

      “I think it more than likely that such a thing will come to pass, Bessie,” said Mr. Bradford; but he did not tell her what a pleasant surprise awaited her in the course of her summer travels.

      “Papa,” she said again presently, “do not these dear little waves we have to-day make you think of our Maggie? They seem just like her, as if they were dancing and laughing, and so glad and gay.”

      “Yes,” said her father, pleased at the pretty conceit of the affectionate little sister, “and God’s sunshine, pouring down upon these merry waves and touching them with light and sparkle, is like the love and tenderness which make our Maggie’s heart so gay and happy.”

      “And I am a little bit of Maggie’s sunshine: am I not, papa?” asked the sweet Bessie.

      The reply came in a squeeze, half a dozen smothering kisses, and a squeal meant to express affection and delight, from Maggie herself, who, coming up behind them and hearing Bessie’s question, answered after her own peculiar fashion.

      Yes: they were both true sunbeams, these two dear little girls: sunbeams as all children may be, because they were happy; happy because they were good and generous and loving; sunbeams to one another and to all around them, shedding light and brightness wherever they passed.

      “Bessie,” said Maggie, when she had done hugging and kissing her sister, “I’ve made a very surprising discovery. Do you see that little girl sitting over there? I’ve seen her before.”

      “Yes,” answered Bessie. “She’s a kind of errand girl and helps the stewardess. Yesterday morning when you were so sick she brought some ice for you; but I didn’t speak to her, ’cause I felt so bad about you.”

      “But, do you know who her father is, Bessie?”

      “No,” said Bessie. “Who?”

      “That man downstairs, the steam-clock man. Isn’t that very curious?”

      “Why, yes. How did you find out, Maggie?”

      “Well, Belle and Lily and I were there, while you looked at the water, and that child came and stood by us; and she looked so very wishful at our dolls, that I told her she might hold Bessie Margaret Marion a little while if she would be careful of her; and you don’t know how pleased she seemed then; and, Bessie, what do you think, the poor child never had a doll in her life, ’cept only a rag one, and she has no mother or sisters or any one but her father; and the captain lets her live with her father on board the steamer; and she tries to help the stewardess and run about; and she don’t like the sea a bit, she is so tired of being on it most all the time; and she’s just my age, only a year older; and Lily asked her if her father was a cross patch to her, and she was rather mad at that, and said no: he was good and kind as could be, and she loved him dearly. And so I told her Lily did not mean to make her mad, – only we thought perhaps she did not find him very interesting ’cause he would not talk much. But she did not seem to like that very much either: so I said, very quickly, that maybe the reason her father did not talk much was because he had so much thinking to do; and then she looked pleased again, and said yes, that was it, but he always talked enough to her. And then I told her I felt so very sorry for him, ’cause he had to walk up and down that little place, with nothing to do but to look at those old clock things; and I knew I never could be so strict with my duty, for I would be sure to laugh or talk or something.”

      “And didn’t she look pleased when you said that about her father?” asked Bessie, when Maggie had come to the end of this long story.

      “Oh, yes! And she said he did not like to do it, but he had to make a living,” answered Maggie.

      “I’m real sorry for both of them,” said Bessie. “You know, Maggie, we said we would like to be kind to him if we could, ’cause he had such a stupid time; and I s’pose he would be just as pleased if we did a kind thing to his girl.”

      “Yes,” said Maggie: “if he’s a dutiful father, he would. I was thinking we might give her a doll to amuse herself with.”

      “Not one of ours?” said Bessie, holding Margaret Colonel Horace fast, as if she thought she was to be taken from her at once.

      “Oh, no! We never could give up these dolls,” said Maggie. “We love them too much; and besides the Colonel gave them to us, so it would never do. But then, you know, we have some of our own money with us; and I thought when the steamer stopped going and we come to that part of the world that is land again, maybe we might find a toy-store and buy her a doll of her own.”

      “Yes,” said Bessie. “Papa, do they have stores in Savannah?”

      “Plenty,” answered papa, “and doubtless we shall find a toy-store without trouble.”

      “And we may buy Lucy a doll, may we not, papa?” said Maggie. “You see, it’s pretty hard for a child to have no relations, or dolls, or other advantages, except only a father.”

      “Yes,” said Mr. Bradford, laughing, “if you choose to spend your money to give pleasure to this little girl, who is so poorly off, you may certainly do so.”

      The children were delighted with their papa’s consent; and when Belle and Lily heard of the plan, they begged Maggie and Bessie to let them join in giving this pleasure to the poor child who had so few enjoyments. Maggie and Bessie readily agreed: and it was settled that when they reached Savannah, one of the first things to be done should be the purchase of a doll for Lucy Waters; for such was the name of the little girl.

      Our four young friends were not the only children on the steamer with whom Lucy had something to do, as you shall hear.

      “Father,” she said, as she sat upon his knee that evening, while he was off duty, “there are some nice little girls on board, this trip.”

      “Humph!” was all the answer she received; for, in spite of Lucy’s assertion that her father talked enough to her, he did not throw away too many words, even upon her: but Lucy was used to his way, and did not mind it, for she knew he loved her dearly.

      “There are,” she insisted. “One of them let me take her doll, and it can turn its head; and she let me do it, and move its arms too. And another one was kind to me when some other children said bad things to me. There they are, father: don’t you see them?” and she pointed to where Maggie and Bessie were sitting, with their father and mother.

      “Thought so,” said Waters, who was not really surly, but only silent and unsociable.

      “Why how, father! Did you know about