SENTIMENTAL TOMMY & Its Sequel, Tommy and Grizel (Illustrated Edition). J. M. Barrie

saucers with the blue spots on them. A razor-strop, now hard as iron, hung on a nail on the wall; it had not been used since the last time Aaron strutted through the Den with his sweetheart. One day later he had opened the door of the bird-cage, which still stood in the window, and let the yellow yite go. Many things were where no woman would have left them: clothes on the floor with the nail they had torn from the wall; on a chair a tin basin, soapy water and a flannel rag in it; horn spoons with whistles at the end of them were anywhere—on the mantelpiece, beneath the bed; there were drawers that could not be opened because their handles were inside. Perhaps the windows were closed hopelessly also, but this must be left doubtful; no one had ever tried to open them.

      The garret where Tommy and Elspeth were to sleep was reached by a ladder from the hallan; when you were near the top of the ladder your head hit a trap-door and pushed it open. At one end of the garret was the bed, and at the other end were piled sticks for firewood and curious dark-colored slabs whose smell the children disliked until Tommy said, excitedly, "Peat!" and then they sniffed reverently.

      It was Tommy, too, who discovered the tree-tops of the Den, and Elspeth seeing him gazing in a transport out at the window cried, "What is it, Tommy? Quick!"

      "Promise no to scream," he replied, warningly. "Well, then, Elspeth Sandys, that's where the Den is!"

      Elspeth blinked with awe, and anon said, wistfully, "Tommy, do you see that there? That's where the Den is!"

      "It were me what told you," cried Tommy, jealously.

      "But let me tell you, Tommy!"

      "Well, then, you can tell me."

      "That there is the Den, Tommy!"

      "Dagont!"

      Oh, that to-morrow were here! Oh, that Shovel could see these two to-morrow!

      Here is another splendid game, T. Sandys, inventor. The girl goes into the bed, the boy shuts the door on her, and imitates the sound of a train in motion. He opens the door and cries, "Tickets, please." The girl says, "What is the name of this place?" The boy replies, "It's Thrums!" There is more to follow, but the only two who have played the game always roared so joyously at this point that they could get no farther.

      "Oh, to-morrow, come quick, quick!"

      "Oh, poor Shovel!"

      To-morrow came, and with it two eager little figures rose and gulped their porridge, and set off to see Thrums. They were dressed in the black clothes Aaron Latta had bought for them in London, and they had agreed just to walk, but when they reached the door and saw the tree-tops of the Den they—they ran. Would you not like to hold them back? It is a child's tragedy.

      They went first into the Den, and the rocks were dripping wet, all the trees, save the firs, were bare, and the mud round a tiny spring pulled off one of Elspeth's boots.

      "Tommy," she cried, quaking, "that narsty puddle can't not be the Cuttle Well, can it?"

      "No, it ain't," said Tommy, quickly, but he feared it was.

      "It's c-c-colder here than London," Elspeth said, shivering, and Tommy was shivering too, but he answered, "I'm—I'm—I'm warm."

      The Den was strangely small, and soon they were on a shabby brae where women in short gowns came to their doors and men in night-caps sat down on the shafts of their barrows to look at Jean Myles's bairns.

      "What does yer think?" Elspeth whispered, very doubtfully.

      "They're beauties," Tommy answered, determinedly.

      Presently Elspeth cried, "Oh, Tommy, what a ugly stair! Where is the beauty stairs as is wore outside for show?"

      This was one of them and Tommy knew it. "Wait till you see the west town end," he said bravely; "it's grand." But when they were in the west town end, and he had to admit it, "Wait till you see the square," he said, and when they were in the square, "Wait," he said, huskily, "till you see the town-house." Alas, this was the town-house facing them, and when they knew it, he said hurriedly, "Wait till you see the Auld Licht Kirk."

      They stood long in front of the Auld Licht Kirk, which he had sworn was bigger and lovelier than St. Paul's, but—well, it is a different style of architecture, and had Elspeth not been there with tears in waiting, Tommy would have blubbered. "It's—it's littler than I thought," he said desperately, "but—the minister, oh, what a wonderful big man he is!"

      "Are you sure?" Elspeth squeaked.

      "I swear he is."

      The church door opened and a gentleman came out, a little man, boyish in the back, with the eager face of those who live too quickly. But it was not at him that Tommy pointed reassuringly; it was at the monster church key, half of which protruded from his tail pocket and waggled like the hilt of a sword.

      Speaking like an old residenter, Tommy explained that he had brought his sister to see the church, "She's ta'en aback," he said, picking out Scotch words carefully, "because it's littler than the London kirks, but I telled her—I telled her that the preaching is better."

      This seemed to please the stranger, for he patted Tommy on the head while inquiring, "How do you know that the preaching is better?"

      "Tell him, Elspeth," replied Tommy modestly.

      "There ain't nuthin' as Tommy don't know," Elspeth explained. "He knows what the minister is like too."

      "He's a noble sight," said Tommy.

      "He can get anything from God he likes," said Elspeth.

      "He's a terrible big man," said Tommy.

      This seemed to please the little gentleman less. "Big!" he exclaimed, irritably; "why should he be big?"

      "He is big," Elspeth almost screamed, for the minister was her last hope.

      "Nonsense!" said the little gentleman. "He is—well, I am the minister."

      "You!" roared Tommy, wrathfully.

      "Oh, oh, oh!" sobbed Elspeth.

      For a moment the Rev. Mr. Dishart looked as if he would like to knock two little heads together, but he walked away without doing it.

      "Never mind," Tommy whispered hoarsely to Elspeth. "Never mind, Elspeth, you have me yet."

      This consolation seldom failed to gladden her, but her disappointment was so sharp to-day that she would not even look up.

      "Come away to the cemetery, it's grand," he said; but still she would not be comforted.

      "And I'll let you hold my hand—as soon as we're past the houses," he added.

      "I'll let you hold it now," he said eventually; but even then Elspeth cried dismally, and her sobs were hurting him more than her.

      He knew all the ways of getting round Elspeth, and when next he spoke it was with a sorrowful dignity. "I didna think," he said, "as yer wanted me never to be able to speak again; no, I didna think it, Elspeth."

      She took her hands from her face and looked at him inquiringly.

      "One of the stories mamma telled me and Reddy," he said, "were about a man what saw such a beauty thing that he was struck dumb with admiration. Struck dumb is never to be able to speak again, and I wish I had been struck dumb when you wanted it."

      "But I didn't want it!" Elspeth cried.

      "If Thrums had been one little bit beautier than it is," he went on solemnly, "it would have struck me dumb. It would have hurt me sore, but what about that, if it pleased you!"

      Then did Elspeth see what a wicked girl she had been, and when next the two were observed by the curious (it was on the cemetery road), they were once more looking cheerful. At the smallest provocation they exchanged notes of admiration, such as, "Oh, Tommy, what a bonny barrel!" or "Oh, Elspeth, I tell yer that's a dyke, and there's just walls in London," but sometimes Elspeth would stoop hastily, pretending that she wanted to tie her bootlace, but really to brush away a tear, and there were moments when Tommy hung very limp.