On a certain lovely afternoon the three happiest people in the world (so they styled themselves, and they ought to know) were gathered together in a certain spot, which was next to the prettiest spot in the world.
"You should have had the prettiest, Pink," said Hilda, "but we could not get your chair down into the glen, you know. My poor, dear Pink, you have never seen the glen, have you?"
"No," answered Pink Chirk, cheerily. "But I have heard so much about it, I really feel as if I had seen it, almost. And indeed I don't think it can be much lovelier than this place."
However that might be, the place they had chosen was certainly pretty enough to satisfy any one. Not far from Mrs. Chirk's cottage was a little pine-grove1, easy of access, and with trees far enough apart to allow the wheeled chair to pass between them. And in the grove, just in a little open space where two or three trees had been cut away, was a great black rock, with ferns growing in all its cracks and crannies, and a tiny birch-tree waving like a green and white plume2 on its top. And at the foot of the rock—oh, what a wonderful thing!—a slender thread of crystal water came trickling3 out, as cold as ice and as clear as—as itself; for nothing else could be so clear. Bubble had made a little wooden trough to hold this fairy stream, and it gurgled along the trough and tumbled over the end of it with as much agitation4 and consequence as if it were the Niagara River in person. And under the rock and beside the stream was a bank of moss5 and ferns most lovely to behold6, most luxurious7 to sit upon. On this bank sat Queen Hildegarde, with Bubble at her feet as usual; and beside her, in her chair, sat sweet Pink, looking more like a white rose than ever, with her fresh white dimity gown and her pretty hat. Hilda was very busy over a mysterious-looking basket, from whose depths she now drew a large napkin, which she spread on the smooth green moss. A plate of sandwiches came next, and some cold chicken, and six of Dame8 Hartley's wonderful apple-turnovers.
"Now, Bubble," said Hilda, "where are those birch-bark cups that you made for us? I have brought nothing to drink out of."
"I'll fetch 'em, Miss Hildy," cried Bubble, springing up with alacrity9. "I clean forgot 'em. Say, Pink, shall I—? would you?" and he made sundry10 enigmatical signs to his sister.
"Yes, certainly," said Pink; "of course."
The boy ran off, and Hilda fell to twisting pine tassels11 together into a kind of fantastic garland, while Pink looked on with beaming eyes.
"Pink," said Hilda, presently, "how is it that you speak so differently from Bubble and your mother,—so much better English, I mean? Have you—but no; you told me you never went to school."
"It was Faith," said Pink, with a look of tender sadness,—"Faith Hartley. She wanted to be a teacher, and we studied together always. Dear Faith! I wish you had known her, Miss Graham."
"You promised not to call me Miss Graham again, Pink," said Hildegarde, reproachfully. "It is absurd, and I won't have it."
"Well, Hilda, then," said Pink, shyly. "I wish you had known Faith, Hilda; you would have loved her very much, I know."
"I am sure I should," said Hilda, warmly. "Tell me more about her. Why did she want to teach when she was so happy at home?"
"She loved children very much," said Pink, "and liked to be with them. She thought that if she studied hard, she could teach them more than the district school teachers about here generally do, and in a better way. I think she would have done a great deal of good," she added, softly.
"Oh! why did she die?" cried Hilda. "She was so much needed! It broke her father's heart, and her mother's, and almost yours, my Pink. Why was it right for her to die?"
"It was right, dear," said Pink, gently; "that is all we can know. 'Why' isn't answered in this world. My granny used to say,—
"'Never lie!
Never pry13!
Never ask the reason why!'"
Hilda shook her head, and was about to reply earnestly; but at this moment Bubble came bounding back with something in his arms,—something covered with an old shawl; something alive, which did not like the shawl, and which struggled, and made plaintive14 little noises, which the boy tried vainly to repress.
"Say, Miss Hildy," he cried, eagerly, "do ye like—be still, ye critter; hesh, I tell ye!—do you like purps?"
"'SAY, MISS HILDY,—DO YOU LIKE PURPS?'"
"'SAY, MISS HILDY,—DO YOU LIKE PURPS?'"
"'Purps,' Bubble?" repeated Hilda, wonderingly. "What are they? And what have you there,—your poor old cat? Let her go! For shame, you naughty boy!"
"Puppies, he means," whispered Pink.
"'Cause if ye do," cried the breathless Bubble, still struggling with his shrouded15 captive, "I've got one here as—Wal, thar! go 'long, ye pesky critter, if ye will!" for the poor puppy had made one frantic16 effort, and leaped from his arms to the ground, where it rolled over and over, a red and green plaid mass, with a white tail sticking out of one end. On being unrolled, it proved to be a little snow-white, curly creature, with long ears and large, liquid eyes, whose pathetic glance went straight to Hilda's heart.
"Oh, the little darling!" she cried, taking him up in her arms; "the pretty, pretty creature! Is he really for me, Bubble? Thank you very much. I shall love him dearly, I know."
"I'm glad ye like him," said Bubble, looking highly gratified. "Hosy Grout giv him an' another one to me yes'day, over 't the village. He was goin' to drownd 'em, an' I wouldn' let him, an' he said I might hev 'em ef I wanted 'em. I knew Pink would like to hev one, an' I thought mebbe you liked critters, an' so—"
"Good Bubble!" said Hilda, stroking the little dog's curly head. "And what shall I call him, Pink? Let us each think of a name, and then choose the best."
There was a pause, and then Bubble said, "Call him Scott, after the bold Buckle-oh!"
"Or Will, for 'the wily Belted Will,'" said Pink, who was as inveterate17 a ballad18-lover as her brother.
"I think Jock is a good name," said Hildegarde,—"Jock o' Hazeldean, you know. I think I will call him Jock." The others assented19, and the puppy was solemnly informed of the fact, and received a chicken-bone in honor of the occasion. Then the three friends ate their dinner, and very merry they were over it. Hildegarde crowned Pink with the pine-tassel wreath, and declared that she looked like a priestess of Diana.
"No, she don't," said Bubble, looking up from his cold chicken; "she looks like Lars Porsena of Clusium sot in his ivory cheer, on'y she ain't f'erce enough. Hold up yer head, Pinky, an' look real savage20, an' I'll do Horatius at the Bridge."
Pink did her best to look savage, and Zerubbabel stood up and delivered "Horatius" with much energy and appropriate action, to the great amusement of his audience. A stout21 stick, cut from a neighboring thicket22, served for the "good Roman steel;" and with this he cut and slashed23 and stabbed with furious energy, reciting the lines meanwhile with breathless ferocity. He slew24 the "great Lord of Luna," and on the imaginary body he—
"Right firmly pressed his heel,
And thrice and four times tugged25 amain,
Ere he wrenched26 out the steel."
But when he cried—
"What noble Lucumo comes next
To taste our Roman cheer?"
the puppy, who had been watching the scene with kindling27 eyes, and ears and tail of eager inquiry28, could bear it no longer, but flung himself valiantly29 into the breach30, and barked defiance31, dancing about in front of Horatius and snapping furiously at his legs. Alas32, poor puppy! He was hailed as "Sextus," and bade "welcome" by the bold Roman, who forthwith charged upon him, and drove him round and round the grove till he sought safety and protection in the lap of Lars Porsena herself. Then the bridge............