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“‘No,’ said Roswald; ‘the basket I borrowed. It is my mother’s.’
“‘But have you got it full?’ said Sue.
“‘Pretty full,’ said Roswald, complacently.
“‘I never thought two cents would buy so much!’ said Sue.
“‘Didn’t you?’ said Roswald. ‘Ah, you’re not much of a market-woman yet, Sue. My arm is tired.’
“‘I’m sorry!’ said Sue. ‘But I am so glad you have got it for me.’
“‘So am I. Now is that porridge ready?’
“‘Ready this great while,’ said the little housekeeper, carefully dishing it out. ‘It’s been only waiting for you.’
Roswald looked at her with a curious, gentle, sorrowful expression, which was as becoming as it was rare in a boy of his years.
“‘Are you hungry, Sue?’
“‘Yes,’ said Sue, looking up from her dish with a face that spoke her perfectly satisfied with the dinner and the company. ‘Aren’t you?’
“‘Why, I ought to be. The air is sharp enough to give one an appetite. Sue–’
“‘What?’
“‘Do you eat your porridge alone?’
“‘Not to-day,’ said Sue, smiling, while an arch look came across her gentle eye.
“‘Does that mean that you are going to eat me with it? I shall beg leave to interpose a stay of proceedings upon that.’
“And sitting down, with an air of determination, he drew the porridge dish quite to his end of the chest-table, and looked at Sue as much as to say, ‘You don’t touch it.’
“‘What does that mean? Aren’t you going to let me have any?’ said Sue, laughing.
“‘No.’
“‘Why not?’
“‘I shall want all the porridge myself. You’ll have to take something else, Sue!’
“‘But I haven’t got anything else,’ said Sue, looking puzzled and amused.
“‘Well, if you give me my dinner, it’s fair I should give you yours,’ said Roswald; and rising, he brought his market-basket to the side of the table, and sat down again.
“‘It’s a pity I can’t serve things in their right order,’ he said, as he pulled out a quantity of apples from one end of the basket,—‘but you see the dinner has gone in here head foremost. I never saw anything so troublesome to pack. There’s a loaf of bread, now, that has no business to show itself so forward in the world; but here it comes– Sue, you’ll want a knife and fork.’
“And he set a deep, longish dish, with a cover, on the table, and then a flat round dish with a cover. Sue looked stupefied. Roswald glanced at her.
“‘Your appetite hasn’t gone, Sue, has it?’
“But she got up and came round to him, and put her face in her two hands down on his shoulder, and cried very hard indeed.
“‘Why, Sue!’ said Roswald, gently,—‘I never expected to see you cry for your dinner.’
“But Sue’s tears didn’t stop.
“‘I’ll put all the things back in the basket if you say so,’ said Roswald, smiling.
“‘I don’t say any such thing,’ said Sue, lifting up her tearful face and kissing his cheek; and then she went round to her seat and sat down with her head in her hands. Roswald, in his turn, got up and went to her, and took hold of her hands.
“‘Come, Sue,—what’s the matter? that isn’t fair. Look here, my porridge is growing cold.’
“And Sue laughed and cried together.
“‘Dear Roswald! what made you do so?’
“‘Do how?’
“‘Why,—do so. You shouldn’t. It was too good of you.’
“Roswald gave a merry little bit of a laugh, and began to take off the covers and put them on the counter.
“‘Come, Sue,—look up; I want my porridge, and I am waiting for you. Where shall I get a knife and fork?—in the pantry in the back room?’
“Sue jumped up, wiping away her tears, and run for the knife and fork; and from that time, throughout the rest of the meal, her face was a constant region of smiles.
“‘A roast chicken!—Oh, Roswald!—How mother will like a piece of that! How good it smells!’
“‘She’s had her dinner,’ said Roswald, who was carving: ‘you must take a piece of it first. I ought in conscience to have had a separate dish for the potatoes, but my market-basket was resolved not to take it. Some salt, Sue?’
“Sue ran for another knife and fork, and then began upon her piece of chicken; and Roswald helped himself out of his dish and eat, glancing over now and then at her.
“‘You can’t think how good it is, Roswald, after eating porridge so long,’ said Sue, with a perfectly new colour of pleasure in her face.
“‘This is capital porridge!’ said Roswald. ‘I’ll trouble you for a piece of bread, Sue.’
“‘Why, Roswald!—are you eating nothing but porridge?’
“‘Yes, and I tell you I should like a piece of bread with it.’
“‘Ah, do take something else!’ said Sue, giving him the bread. ‘The porridge will keep till another time.’
“‘I don’t mean it shall, much of it,’ said Roswald. ‘It’s the best dinner I’ve had in a great while.’
“Sue laid down her knife and fork to laugh at him, though the doing so had very near made her cry again.
“‘Please take some chicken, Roswald!’
“‘I’d rather not. I’ll take a piece of pie with you presently.’
“‘I should think chicken was enough,’ said Sue; ‘you needn’t have brought me pie.’
“‘I wanted some. It’s a mince pie, Sue. Do you remember that day after to-morrow is Christmas?’
“‘Christmas!—the day after to-morrow!’—said Sue. ‘No, I had forgot all about Christmas.’
“‘What shall we do to keep it?’
“‘Why nothing, I sha’n’t,’ said Sue, meekly. ‘I shall not eat porridge, Roswald. O if father could only come home—that would be enough keeping of Christmas! We shouldn’t want any thing else.’
“‘I’ll tell you how it’s going to be kept out of doors,’ said Roswald; ‘it is fixing for a fine fall of snow. The air is beginning to soften and grow hazy already. I like a snowy Christmas.’
“‘With snow on the ground; but not snowing?’ said Sue.
“‘Yes, both ways. Now, Sue,—have you another plate? or will you take it in your fingers?’
“Sue ran off for plates.
“‘How I wish I could give some of this to father!’ she said, as she tasted her first bit of the pie. ‘How will he get anything to eat, Roswald?’
“‘They will take care of that,’ said Roswald. ‘He will have a good dinner, Sue; you needn’t be concerned about it. If they didn’t feed their jurymen, you know, they might have no jury by the time the cause was got through, and that would be inconvenient. Hasn’t he been home at all?’
“‘No.’
“‘They do sometimes let them come home,’ said Roswald; ‘but in this case I suppose they are keeping everybody tight to the mark.’
“‘Why shouldn’t they let them come home at night?’ said Sue; ‘what would be the harm? They must sleep somewhere.’
“‘They are afraid, Sue, that if they let them out of sight, somebody may talk to them about the cause, and put wrong notions into their heads; so that they won’t give a true verdict.’
“‘What is a verdict?’ said Sue.
“‘It’s the jury’s decision. You see, Sue, all the people—all the lawyers, on both sides,—will bring all the proof they can to show whether Simon Ruffin did or didn’t shoot Mr. Bonnycastle. One side will try to prove he did, and the other side will try to prove he didn’t. The jury will hear all that is to be said, and then they will make up their minds what is the truth. When they are ready, the judge will ask them, ‘Gentlemen, are you agreed upon a verdict?’ and the foreman will say, ‘Yes.’ Then the judge will ask, ‘Is the prisoner at the bar guilty, or not guilty?’ and the foreman will say, according as they have decided, ‘Guilty,’ or ‘Not guilty;’ and that answer is the verdict.’
“‘And then he will be hung!’ said Sue.
“‘If they find he is guilty, he will; but they don’t condemn him; that’s the judge’s business. The jury only decide what is the truth.’
“‘Why must they have so many men to do that? why wouldn’t one do as well?’
“‘It would, if they could be always sure of having a man who couldn’t and wouldn’t make a mistake. It isn’t likely that twelve men will all make the same mistake.’
“‘And must they all be agreed?’ said Sue.
“‘They must all be agreed.’
“‘And if they are not, the man can’t be hanged?’
“‘No, nor set free.’
“‘I’m glad of that,’ said Sue.
“‘Why, Sue?’
“‘Because, if father isn’t sure that man is guilty,—I mean, that he shot Mr. Bonnycastle,—he won’t let them do anything to him.’
“‘It’s well you can’t be a juryman, Sue; you would never let any rogue have his rights.’
“‘Yes, I would,’ said Sue, gravely; ‘if I thought he deserved them.’
“‘I wouldn’t trust you,’ said Roswald. ‘I should like to have you on the jury if I was standing a trial for my life. You’d be challenged, though.’
“‘Challenged!’ said Sue.
“‘Yes.’
“‘What is that?’
“‘Why, Simon Ruffin, for instance, might say, ‘Mr. Peg is an old enemy of mine—he has a spite against me; he would not be a fair judge in my case.’ That would be challenging your father as an improper juryman, and he would he put out of the jury.’
“‘But father isn’t anybody’s enemy,’ said Sue.
“‘No, I know he isn’t,’ said Roswald, smiling; ‘but that’s an instance. Will you have some more pie, Sue?’
“‘No, thank you. I’ll put these things away, and see if mother wants anything; and then, if she don’t, I’ll come down, and we’ll talk.’
“While Sue cleared away the dishes, Roswald mended the fire.
“‘You may as well let the table stand, Sue,’ said he; ‘we shall want it again.’
“‘Why, are you coming to eat with me again?’ said Sue, laughing.
“‘I dare say I shall, if your father don’t come home,’ said Roswald.
“Sue soon came down-stairs, for her mother luckily did not want her; and the two drew their chairs together and had a very long conversation, in the course of which Roswald gave many details of his stay at Merrytown, and enlightened Sue as to the charms and beauties of a country village. Sue looked and listened, and questioned and laughed; till there came a knocking up-stairs, and then they separated. Sue went up to her mother again, and Roswald left the house.
“The room did not look desolate any more, though it was left again without anybody in it. There was the chest-table, and the contented-looking fire, and the two chairs. All this while we shoes lay in the corner, and nobody looked at us. It seemed as if we were never to get done.
“The fire had died, the afternoon had not quite, when Mrs. Lucy came again. Her knock brought Sue down. She had come to bring another little pail of soup, and a basket with some bread and tea and sugar.
“‘Don’t spend your money, my child,’ she said; ‘keep it till you want it more. This will last your mother to-morrow, and I will see that you have something stronger than porridge.’
“‘O I have, Mrs. Lucy,’ said Sue, with a grateful little face, which thanked the lady better than words; ‘I’ve got plenty for I don’t know how long.’
“‘You don’t look as if you were out of heart,’ said Mrs. Lucy. ‘You know who can send better times?’
“‘O yes, ma’am,’ said Sue. ‘He has already.’
“‘Trust him, dear; and let me know all you want.’
“Sue stood, sober and silent, while Mrs. Lucy went out at the door; and then she fell down on her knees before one of the chairs, and sunk her head on her hands; and was quite still for a minute or two, till the knocking sounded again. It was not a gentle tap on the floor, just to let Sue know she was wanted; it was an impatient, quarrelsome, vexatious, ‘rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!’ ’rat-tat!’ ’rat-tat!’ Sue ran up.
“The cobbler did not come home that night, and Roswald would stay in the house. Sue did all she could to hinder him; for indeed there was nothing for him to sleep on but the pile of leather scraps; but he would not be hindered.
“‘But your mother, Roswald?’ Sue gently urged.
“‘What of my mother?’
“‘She will want you.’
“‘How do you know that?’
“‘I should think she would,’ said Sue.
“‘Should you? Well, she thinks, and so do I, that you want me more.’
“‘How good you are, dear Roswald!’
“‘Not very, Sue,’ said Roswald, calmly.
“‘Do you know what Mrs. Lucy says?’ said Sue. ‘She says that you have your own way in everything.’
“‘Mrs. Lucy might have gone wider of the mark, I suppose,’ said Roswald, blowing up the fire.
“‘Mrs. Lucy is very good,’ said Sue. ‘She brought us some tea and sugar this afternoon.’
“‘Did she?’ said Roswald. ‘Then what will you do with what Mrs. Halifax sent?’
“‘Did she send us some?’ said Sue. ‘Oh, Roswald!’
“Roswald laughed at her; and Sue did not know what to do with herself; she went and fetched down a quantity of coverlids and things for Roswald to wrap himself in, and be warm during the night; and begged him to keep a good fire.
“The next day still the cobbler did not come home. It passed with no visiters except Roswald and Mrs. Lucy, who stepped in for a minute. Sue’s mother wanted her up-stairs pretty much the whole day; so there could be little fun going. Christmas-eve Roswald stayed in the house again. But he went off very early in the morning, without seeing Sue, after he had made the fire for her.
“The snow had not come so soon as Roswald thought it would. There was none on the ground Christmas-eve. But when Christmas-morning rose, the whole of Beachhead was softly and smoothly covered with white. It had fallen very fast and quietly during the night; the window-sills were piled up, the door-knob was six inches high, and the snow hung like thatch over the eaves of the houses. The streets were a soft, pure, printless spread of white.
“So they were early, when Roswald first went out. And whatever kept people’s feet within doors—whether the dark morning, for the snow still fell, or happy Christmas delays—there was yet hardly a foot-print but his to be seen in that part of the street when, some hours later, a sled drawn by a horse and carrying two men and a barrel, drew up before Mr. Peg’s door. Sue had heard the tinkle of the three bells which the horse bore on his neck; and, as it told of the first sleighing that year, she went to the window to see. There was the sled and one man and the barrel; the other man had jumped off, and was knocking at the front door.
“‘Very queer!’ thought Sue;—‘what can they want here?’—but she ran down-stairs and opened the door. The barrel was rolling up over the snow to the house, and the two men were behind pushing it. The cold air, and the yet falling snow, and the white street, the men, and the barrel rolling up towards Sue! Sue was bewildered. But that barrel must go somewhere, and she held the door open.
“‘What is it?’ said Sue. ‘It doesn’t belong here, does it?’
“‘There’s ‘Mr. Peg’ on it,’ said one of the men; ‘and this is Mr. Peg’s house, ain’t it?’
“‘What is it?’ said Sue, in astonishment, as the barrel now stood up on end at the end of her chest-table.
“‘It’s a barrel of flour, I guess,’ said the man. ‘Looks like it; and it come from Mr. Hoonuman’s.’
“‘Flour!’ said Sue.
“But the men with their heavy snow shoes clumped out again, and shut the door behind them with a bang. Sue stood and looked.
“There was the barrel, full-sized, standing on end, one side of it still lightly coated with snow; and there were the snow-marks on the floor of the feet that had been there. It wasn’t a dream. It was a real barrel, and even the snow wasn’t in a hurry to melt away.
“Suddenly it flashed into Sue’s little mind that it might be a Christmas!—and then whoever sent it ought to have been there, when the unwonted rosy colour sprang to her cheeks and made her for a minute look like a well-to-do child. And whoever sent it ought to have seen, a minute after, the bended head, and heard the thanksgiving that was not spoken, and the prayer, earnest and deep, for a blessing on the friend that had sent it.
“Sue had lifted her head, but had not moved from a foothold, when Roswald opened the door.
“‘O Roswald! do you see this?’
“‘Merry Christmas, Sue!’ said Roswald, gaily.
“‘O Roswald, do you know what this is?”
“‘It is very like a barrel of flour,’ said Roswald. ‘I should be surprised if it was anything else!’
“‘But, Roswald, who sent it?’
“‘Why, Sue!—Santa Claus, to be sure. Don’t you know what day it is?’
“‘It didn’t come down chimney,’ said Sue; ‘that I know. Dear Roswald, don’t you know who sent it?’
“‘If Santa Clans had taken me into his confidence, you know, Sue, it would not be an honest thing to betray. I wonder what you can do with a barrel of flour, now you have got it.’
“‘Do?’ said Sue;—but just then there was another knock at the door. Roswald opened it. In came a boy with a long string of fine black and blue fish, which Mrs. Binch had sent to Sue.
“‘Beachhead is waking up,’ said Roswald.
“‘O Roswald!’ said Sue, beginning to get into the spirit of the thing,—‘did you ever see anything like those fish? O tell Mrs. Binch I thank her a great many times, please,—a great many times; I am very much obliged to her, and so is father.—O Roswald!—do see!—’
“‘There’s your mother knocking, Sue,’ said Roswald. ‘Run off, and I’ll take care of these fish. You get ready for breakfast.’
“Sue went off in one direction, and Roswald in another. He was the first to come back, with a beautifully cleaned fish, which he soon had upon the coals. He went on to set the table, and get the bread and the tea; and by that time Sue came, as happy and as humble as possible, to enjoy her breakfast. Whether or not Roswald had had another breakfast before, he at any rate kept her company in hers, both talking and eating. The fish was declared to be the finest that could come out of the sea, and Roswald was probably adjudged to be the best cook on land; if he had been, his work could not have given better satisfaction.
“Roswald had to go away after breakfast, and told Sue his mother would want him at dinner, and he could not be there again before evening; but then he would come. Sue was satisfied with everything.
“Her day was spent for the most part up stairs. But there were some breaks to it. A servant came in the course of the morning, bringing some bottles of wine for her mother, from Mrs. Halifax. Sue was already in a state of happiness that could hardly be heightened, and was in fact endeavouring to bear it with the help of her Bible, for it was in her hand whenever she came down stairs. But her eyes sparkled afresh at this gift, because it came from Mrs. Halifax, and because it was what her mother wanted. Sue could not wait. She begged the man to open one of the bottles for her; which with no little difficulty was done, without a corkscrew; and then, when he had gone, Sue poured out a little into a teacup, and went up stairs with such a face—joy and love were dancing a waltz in it.
“A little before noon there came another knock at the door. A modest knock this was, so gentle that Sue probably did not hear it. The knocker had not patience, or was not scrupulous; he opened the door halfway, and pushed in a square wooden box, nailed up and directed; after which he went away again, leaving it to tell its own tale.
“It seemed to tell nothing that Sue could understand. She looked at it, when next she came down, with all her eyes, and on all sides; but it was fast nailed up; she could not by any means open it, and she could not tell what was inside. She easily guessed that it was another ‘Christmas;’ but in what form? She sat and looked at it, with a face of infinite delight. She walked round it. Nothing was to be made of it but a pine-box, tolerably heavy, with her own name and her father’s in large black letters on the upper side. Those letters did look lovely. Sue read them a great many times that day, and sat and gazed at the wooden box; but she could do nothing with it till Roswald came. He came at last, towards the edge of the evening. Sue was watching for him.
“‘O Roswald, there you are!—here’s another!’
“‘Another what?’ said Roswald, gravely.
“‘Another Christmas—look here.’
“‘Looks very like Christmas,’ said Roswald.
“‘Dear Roswald, won’t you get a hammer!’
“‘A hammer,’ said Roswald. ‘I suppose Mr. Joist will lend me one.’
“He went to borrow it, and opened the box. Sue watched with breathless interest while the hammer did its work, and the pieces of the cover came up one by one.
“‘Now, Sue!’—said Roswald, as he stepped back and began to draw the nails out of the wood.
“Sue drew the things out of the box with slow and cautious fingers, that seemed almost afraid of what they found. She did not say a word, but one or two half-breathed ‘oh’s!’ There was a nice and complete outfit of clothes for her. On the top lay a paper written with,
“‘For little Susan Peg, from some friends that love her.’
“When she got to the bottom, Sue looked up.
“‘Oh, Roswald!’
“‘Who sent me these?’
“‘Some friends of little Susan Peg, that love her,’ said Roswald.
“‘Did you know about it?’
“‘I heard my mother speak about it, Sue.’
“‘Did she do it?’
“‘Not she alone. Mrs. Lucy and some other ladies all had a hand in it.’
“‘O how good they are!—’
“It was long before Sue could get up from the box. Roswald stood, hammer in hand, looking at her and smiling. At last Sue packed the box again.
“‘I don’t deserve it all,’ she said; ‘but then I don’t deserve anything. Now I guess we’ll have some tea.’
“‘I’ll go and carry back this hammer,’ said Roswald, ‘and then I’m ready. I’m very thirsty.’
“‘O dear Roswald!’ said Sue, ‘won’t you just open that barrel of flour first?—it will save going for the hammer again; and mother thinks she wants some pop-robin.’
“‘But what’s pop-robin good for without milk?’ said Roswald, as they went to the barrel, which he had rolled into the pantry.
“‘O now I might get a halfpenny’s worth of milk,’ said Sue;—‘it’s for mother; and now we have so many things, we might afford it.’
“‘See you don’t,’ said Roswald. ‘Mother sends you word—there are enough nails in this barrel-head!—she says you may have as much milk as you want from her cow, whenever you will come for it or I will bring it; so between us I guess it’ll be safe to count upon it.’
“He was hammering at the barrel-head, and Sue standing by looking very pleased, her little hand gratefully resting on his shoulder, when another hand was laid on hers. Sue turned.
“‘Father!’ she exclaimed. ‘O father!—are you home?—O I’m so glad!—’
“The cobbler’s grey head was stooped almost to the barrel-top, and Sue’s arms were round his neck; and how many times they kissed each other I don’t believe either of them knew. It seemed impossible for Sue to loose her hold.
“‘And you are here, my boy,’ said the cobbler, turning to Roswald,—‘doing my work!’
“‘No, sir, I have been doing mine,’ said Roswald.
“‘O father, he has taken such care of me!’ said Sue.
“‘I warrant him,’ said the cobbler. ‘If I could only have known that Roswald Halifax was in town, I could have minded my business with some quietness.’
“‘And is it done, father?’ said Sue.
“‘It is done, my child.’
“‘And what have you done with that man?’
“‘We have declared him upon our judgment, Not Guilty.’
“‘O I’m so glad!’ said Sue.
“They came back to their tea, all three; and more black fish was broiled; and all the Christmas was told over; and well-nigh all the trial. The jury had been kept in all Christmas-day to agree upon their verdict.
“From that day the cobbler’s affairs improved. Whether his friends exerted themselves to better his condition, now that they knew it; or whether Mr. Ruffin’s friends did; or whether neither did, but other causes came into work, certain it is that from that time the cobbler’s hands had something to do; and more and more till they had plenty. So it came to pass that this poor pair of shoes didn’t get finished till about a month ago; and then Mr. Krinken must take it into his head that we would fit his little boy, and bought us;—for which we owe him a grudge, as we wanted decidedly to spend our lives with Mr. Peg and his little brown-headed daughter.”
“Did Mrs. Peg get well?” said Carl.
“Yes, long ago, and came down-stairs; but she was no improvement to her family, though her getting well was.”
“I am very sorry that story is done,” said Carl. “I want to hear some more about Roswald Halifax.”
“There is no more to tell,” said the shoe.
If Carl had been puzzled on Friday as to what story he would hear, he was yet more doubtful on Saturday. There lay the pine-cone, the hymn-book, and the stocking, on the old chest, and there sat Carl on the floor beside them,—sometimes pulling his fingers, and sometimes turning over the three remaining story-tellers, by way of helping him to make up his mind. As a last resort he was taking a meditative survey of the ends of his toes, when a little shrill voice from the chest startled him; and the pine-cone began without more ado.