Rosie and Hugh; or, Lost and Found. A story

Chapter I

" With great care and perfect quiet, I think we shall get her round," said the doctor, as he left the house one morning, promising to call again in the evening. " Perfect quiet !" sighed Mr. Stanley, as he went into his study, after taking leave of the doctor. " It sounds easy enough to give her that, but I could more easily procure her the costliest remedies. ' Perfect quiet,' how can eight children be kept perfectly still ?" And judging by the noise that just then disturbed the silence of the house, it was difficult to keep the eight children quiet. Not that they were bad or unkind children ; they loved their mother, who had been ill some weeks, dearly, and would have done anything in their power to make her better. They did try to move quietly, and not to slam the doors ; and for some little time after father or nurse reminded them, they did succeed in making less noise ; but, alas ! they soon forgot again.

Just now, coming in fresh and eager from their country walk, and having no one to re mind them to be quiet, for Jane, the nurse maid, had gone round to the back door with the perambulator, they had caused the distur bance which called their father from his thoughts of how to keep them quiet, and which brought nurse running to the top of the stairs to whisper to them that mother was trying to sleep a little, and that they must be very quiet and still. " How can you all go upstairs in your thick boots V cries Hugh, in a loud whisper, sitting down on the lowest step to take his off; "just when nurse has told us mother is going to sleep." " Dear, thoughtful boy !" says old nurse, who is still on the landing, and the other children creep softly upstairs, feeling very guilty that they have not thought of the same thing themselves.

When suddenly a loud crash is heard, followed in a moment by another equally loud. " What can it be ?" they all cry, and leaning over the banisters they soon see the cause of the noise. Hugh had been thoughtful enough in taking off his boots downstairs, but by the time they were off, he had for gotten all about ivhy he was doing it, and had flung them across the hall and through the open pantry door, where they struck against some trays and made noise enough to wake the soundest sleeper in the world. Even the sick-nurse who takes care of mother comes out, and says, "Dear! dear! Mrs. Nurse, can't you keep those children a little quieter V and father comes out of his study, and says, " Hush !" he would like to box Hugh's ears, but is afraid he would cry out and make matters worse. Poor Hugh creeps upstairs with his shoe less feet, feeling as if it were no use to try and be thoughtful ; he had thought of mother and tried to be quiet, and after all it was he who made most noise.

By the time he reaches his room he feels very much inclined to cry, when there comes a gentle knock at the door, and in comes Rosie. <c Never mind, Hughie, dear," she says ; " you did try to be quiet, and the rest of us didn't even think about it." 1—2 ROSIE AND HUGn. So Hugh feels comforted, and by the time he has brushed his hair, and washed his face and hands, he is quite his own bright self again, and goes down to tea with his arm round Ptosie's neck. The schoolroom is empty, but in a minute or two nurse comes down, bringing the three nursery children with her ; she does not much like trusting all three to Rosie and Hugh alone, but she is wanted in a great hurry to sit with mother while the sick-nurse has her tea ; so she puts baby in Rosie's lap, tells Hugh to see that the other two don't get into mischief, and goes off in a great hurry.

Rosie and Hugh like having charge of the nursery children, and manage to amuse them very wrell, considering they are not veiy big children themselves. " Tea not ready yet !" cries Willie, coming in and leaving the door open ; " and whatever are all the babies down here for ?" " I'm not a baby," screams Maude, angrily, for nothing insults her more than to be called one. "No more is Frankie. Are you, Frankie, dear ?" " Frankie not a baby !" agrees that young gentleman, readily; but he takes no great interest in the dispute, and the question drops. But not before Cousin Ethel has caught the sound of their voices as she comes downstairs. " Really, Rosie and Hugh, you are too thoughtless," she says. " Hugh has startled aunt out of her sleep once this evening and made her dreadfully restless and feverish, and no one knows what may be the result, and now here you are in charge of all the nursery children, allowing them to quarrel at the top of their voices, and have never even shut the door."

And as she says the last words, speaking very loudly, she pushes the door angrily as if it were the offender, and the result is it slams loudly, causing even more noise than poor Hugh had made with his boots, of which she had just spoken so severely. Ethel gets very red, and pretends to be too deeply occupied in making tea to hear the laughter in which the boys are indulging at her expense. Rosie whispers to them to stop, and begins telling the nursery children a fairy tale, which takes the attention of the boys as well, until nurse comes to fetch her charges and carries them off, thanking Rosie for taking care of them for her. " Dear me !" said Mr. Stanley, as he went upstairs that evening, " I certainly thought I heard a noise, but I can't see anything ; the children must surely be all in bed and asleep by this time."

But again the sound comes, and this time it is unmistakably a sob, and looking more closely round the landing, Mr. Stanley sees a little roll of white and pink and a curly head of light hair. Those curls can only belong to one person, Mr. Stanley knows, and stooping down he says, " Hugh ! Hugh ! why, my boy, what is the matter 1" Gradually the roll of pink and white uncurls itself, and Hugh stands there in his white night-shirt and little pink flannel dressing gown. His cheeks are red and swollen with tears, and he has evidently been there some time, for he is shivering with cold. Father carries him at once to his dressing room where a bright fire is burning, he is so afraid of his crying on the landing and dis turbing mother. " She isn't dead ? oh, she isn't dead, is she V sobs Hugh, as soon as his tears will let him speak.

" No one is dead, dear boy ; what has frightened you like this ? I think you must have been dreaming." " No ! no ! I wasn't dreaming, but Ethel said I had made mother so much worse with my boots, and I thought, perhaps, she would die ; and then I came to her door and listened, but I couldn't hear anything, and then I thought she might be dead. Oh, she isn't, she can't be ; do say she isn't." " Dead ! no indeed," replied Mr. Stanley. " The doctor came this evening after you had gone to bed, and he thinks her much better, and hopes that in a month or two she will be as strong as ever again ; but what did Ethel mean about your boots making mother worse ?" " The noise I suppose," replied Hugh. But crying is tiring woi'k, especially when one cries at night ; and Hugh's eyelids grew so heavy he could hardly keep awake a moment longer.

So his father carried him upstairs to the room where the other boys lay fast asleep ; and kissing him, and telling him to thank God for His great goodness in making the dear mother better, he left him ; and Hugh was asleep almost before his father had shut the door. Mr. and Mrs. Stanley and the children live in an old-fashioned country house, surrounded by a large garden, in Somersetshire. The house is some distance from a railway station ; the nearest is at Clevedon, a sea-side place about three or four miles off; from there it is only half an hour by rail to the large city of Bristol. Mrs. Stanley went into Bristol several times a year for shopping, and the children thought it a great treat to go with her, especially when, as was sometimes the case, they drove all the way instead of going by train.

Only six of the eight children are really the children of Mr. and Mrs. Stanley. Harry, the eldest, is twelve years old, Hugh nine, Willie eight, Maude five, Frank two, and baby, May, only eight months. Ethel is the orphan daughter of Mr. Stan ley's brother, who was an officer in India, and died three years ago, when Ethel was nine years old. Ethel came home from India when she was only three years old, so she does not remember much of her father. She thinks sometimes that she remembers his kissing her when he said " good-bye " on board the ship which brought her to England, and telling her to be a good girl and make haste and grow up, in order that she might come out to India again and live with him. But perhaps Ethel does not really remember it all so well as she thinks she does, for the aunt who brought her to England has talked to her so often of her father, that Ethel hardly knows what she really remembers of herself and what has been told her by her aunt.

Ethel's mother died when Ethel was quite a little baby, so she never knew a mother's love and care. A sister of her mother's took charge of her when her mother died and brought her to England, when it was no longer safe for the little girl to remain in India ; for, as I dare say you have heard, the climate of India is too hot for little English girls' and boys, except when they are quite babies. Major Stanley was very grieved to part with his little Ethel, his only child ; but he knew it was necessary for her good that he should part with her for. a time, and he was thankful to trust his darling to so loving a guardian as Aunt Jessie ; and he looked for ward to his child rejoining him in India when her education was completed. Little did he think that long before that day arrived he himself would have gone on a longer journey to a more distant land; a land where his child could not join him yet, but to which God would surely bring her some day, the land where his wife and baby boy awaited him.

A year after her father's death Ethel's Aunt Jessie died also, then indeed Ethel did feel lonely. Never having known her mother, Aunt Jessie had completely taken the place of one to her, and the poor little girl felt as if in losing her she had lost her all. But she was not left long to mourn alone ; directly he heard of Aunt Jessie's death Mr. Stanley went to fetch his little orphan niece, and from that time Ethel had been treated exactly the same as his own children, sharing their studies and amusements, their pleasures and griefs. At first it had seemed very strange to her to be amongst so many children, for she had hitherto lived alone with her aunt. The games the little Stanleys played seemed to her so rough and noisy until she had been with them some weeks, but after that she was as eager and merry as Hugh himself.

Not that things always went smoothly by any means ; Ethel was apt to be rather dicta torial in her manner, and to expect every one to give way to her, which the boys did not at all approve of, and even gentle little Rosie was vexed sometimes ; but on the whole they were very good friends, and Ethel was much less overbearing than when she first came. Her love for her aunt made her try to please her, and she knew she could give her no greater pleasure than that of seeing her trying to overcome her faults.

Chapter II

And who was Rosie ? That is a question no one could answer satisfactorily. If you had asked the boys, they would have told you she was their little sister ; and Hugh would have said she was his twin sister. Only father and mother and nurse know that she is not really sister to the others. Mother could not bear that Rosie should know that she had not really any one belong ing to her, and she and father love her quite as much as they do their own little ones. Rosie is just the same age as Hugh, and when first she came to them, father called her playfully, " Hugh's twin sister," and she has been called so ever since, and certainly no twins could love each other better than do Rosie and Hugh. Rosie was only two years old when she became Mrs. Stanley's little girl, so she can remember no other home, and has never had a suspicion that she is not mother's own little daughter.

I will tell you the story of Rosie's coming to mother in Mrs. Stanley's words, as she told it to the boys later on, when it was no longer a secret that Rosie had belonged to some one else before she came to father and mother. " Your father and I were staying in Switzer land that summer," said Mrs. Stanley, beginning her story ; " we were at Lucerne, that most beautiful of all the lovely Swiss places, and we were staying at a pension, or board ing-house, with a garden sloping down to the lake. We had only you three elder boys with us in those days ; Harry was five years old, Hugh two, and Willie, who was the baby then, was not quite one. " One day your father and I went onan excursion to a village called Fluelen, which is quite at the other end of the lake to Lucerne, leaving you little boys at home with nurse.

As we were returning in the evening, we noticed amongst the passengers on the steamer, a pale, worn, but very gentle and ladylike woman, who had with her a little merry child of two years old, who played about the deck, and was much noticed by our fellow-passengers. " The lady called the little girl Rosie, and once we overheard her calling her, her ' fatherless darling ;' so we felt -sure the poor lady was a widow, though she did not wear the dress of one. " Poor thing ! she looked so tired and worn, that by-and-by when Rosie, wearied with playing about the deck, fell fast asleep in her mother's lap, I begged the tired mother to let me relieve her of her burthen, and took Rosie in my arms ; little did I think at that moment how soon she was to be to me as my own child ! " How beautiful Lucerne looked in the quiet evening light, as we came towards the quay ; above it stood the towers of the walls, standing out sharply against the clear sky, whilst to the right rose the quaint towers of the cathedral.

"Just before we landed Rosie's mother asked us if we could tell her of any quiet boarding-house, where she and Rosie could rest a few days, before continuing their jour ney over the Brunig Pass to Interlachen. "We advised her to try Madame Kay's pension, where we ourselves were staying, and suggested that she should accompany us there. " She gratefully accepted our proposal, and as she had no luggage except a small hand bag, we agreed to walk the short distance between the landing-stage and Madame Kay's house. " But, alas ! the poor lady had over-rated her strength, and before the short quarter-of an-hour's walk was half accomplished, she was suffering sadly. " ' Give me the child,' I said ; and the poor mother was glad to give Rosie once more to me, and to accept the support of your father's arm ; but in spite of all the assistance we could give her, she was quite exhausted by the time we reached Madame Kay's. "Whatever Madame Kay's feelings may have been at seeing the arrival of a new boarder in such a state of weakness, with a young child, and no servant and no luggage, she showed nothing but the warmest kindness, helping me to put the poor lady to bed, whilst nurse took charge of Rosie, and gave her some bread and milk for supper.

Rosie soon ceased the cry which she had raised on first losing sight of her mother, and seemed as pleased to be with nurse as if she had known her all her life. " As soon as the poor lady was a little re covered from her exhaustion, she asked Madame Kay if she would be so kind as to send to the post-office in the morning and inquire if there were any letters for Mrs. Winbold. " A little later I took Rosie up to her mo ther's room, and offered to remain with them during the night, but the lady replied that she need not trouble me to do that, rest was all she wanted, and she was quite easy and comfort able now; so after undressing Rosie and laying her, already fast asleep, in bed, I prepared to leave the room, hoping the poor tired lady would soon fall asleep. "'Good-night,' she said, 'and may God bless you and yours for the kindness you have shown to a stranger.

I am very weary,' she added ; ' I think I shall soon sleep.' "Alas! she slept, and was still sleeping when I went to her room early next morning ; sleeping so peacefully, so calmly ; but it was a sleep from which she would never, never waken more on earth. No, not even at her darling's cry of ' Mother ! Mother ! Rosie wants mother !' "But Rosie was very young ; her thoughts were easily drawn away from the mother, who lay so quietly upstairs with an expression of joy and youthfulness, very different from the worn, weary look we had noticed on the previous night, and which contrasted strangely with her grey hair. "Rosie cried for her mother for a short time; but soon, forgetting her trouble, she was playing merrily with you little boys in the garden. "We laid the poor mother to rest in the part of the cemetery reserved for strangers ; for in those days the beautiful little English ceme tery, the gift of an English family residing in Lucerne, was yet unmade.

Alas that she whose thought and desire that little English churchyard was, should have been amongst the first to be laid in that consecrated ground. "There was little question as to what should become of Rosie ; she seemed to belong to us from the very first, and won our hearts by her merry loving ways. Who could for a moment have thought of sendingthe little one away ? and, indeed, in that foreign land, where could we have sent her to ? "To me it seemed as if God had sent her to us to fill the place of the little daughter He took so early to Himself; the little sister you never knew, but whose grave you have seen in the churchyard. " Your father put the following advertisement in the Times : — " ' The friends of a widow lady, of the name of Winbold, are requested to apply to Mr. S , Solicitor, 14, M Street, London.

Mrs. Winbold was tall, very pale, and had grey hair ; she had wTith her a young child called Rosie. " ' The advertiser, who met with Mrs. Win bold in Switzerland, will be glad to hear from any of her relations or friends as soon as possible, as he has very sad news to communi cate.' " " We also inquired at the post-office, but no letter was there for Mrs. Winbold, and though we desired the post-master to send any that should arrive addressed to that name, to Madame Kay's, none came. "Previous to this we had carefully examined the little travelling-bag, expecting in its con tents to find some clue to little Rosie's friends ; but no, there was nothing there beyond a little linen marked with the letter ' W ;' a Prayer-book, on the fly-leaf of which was written, ' To my dearest child, from her loving mother ;' and the photograph of a gentle man.

" We showed this photograph to Rosie, and, as we expected, she immediately recognized it as her father, crying out joyfully directly she saw it, ' Father, that Rosie's father ;' then shaking her curly head, she said slowly and pitifully, ' Poor father, father dead.' " Poor child, she was too young to know the meaning of the word ' dead,' but felt it was something sorrowful; no doubt her mother had suid the words to her. " Day after day passed, and still no news came in answer to our advertisement, and in the meantime we had grown so fond of Rosie that we could hardly bear the idea of parting with her. Still we felt it to be our duty to make every effort to restore her to those who had right to the charge of her. It might be there were some loving hearts in England growing faint and sick with hope de ferred, to whom it would be a relief to have some news of their dear ones, even though that news, as far as the mother was concerned, would confirm their worst fears.

" Daily we looked in the newspapers to see if any one were advertising for Rosie and her mother ; and one day an advertisement ap peared which, at the first glance, seemed so like a description of them that I felt it must be the notice I had so often looked for and expected. Never till then did I realize how completely Rosie was as a daughter to me; she had been with us then some weeks, and we were again in England. " The words seemed to swim before my eyes, I could only read that a lady and her child were missing. Holding the paper to your father, I cried, ' How can we part with her ! Oh, Henry, read it quickly.' " He took the paper hastily from me, and in a moment he cried, ' Why, Mary, you can't have read the advertisement at all ! You have, indeed, frightened yourself for nothing ; listen to this,' and then he read it to me. ' Missing, a young married lady, supposed to be in Italy, and her child, a little girl of the name of Katie.

The lady's name is Warden ; she has light hair, and a bright colour in her cheeks ;' and then followed the address to which she, or any one who had met with her, wrere requested to communicate. " I laughed to think that I could for a moment have imagined that such a description could apply to our Rosie's widowed mother ; and ran upstairs to kiss my little daughter, as I called her, over and over again. " And so time went on till even your father o and I scarcely thought of her as other than our own child." This was Rosie's story, as mother told it to the boys later on ; but, as I said before, at the time I am now writing about, the fact that Ptosie was not one of father and mother's own little ones, was quite unknown by the children.

Chapter III

" Father has a letter from Aunt Jane this moi-ning, and he says he will tell us about it after breakfast," said Harry, as the children all sat round the breakfast-table next morning. " I only hope it's not to say that she is coming to visit its again." " So do I ! so do I !" respond all the others at once. They have a lively remembrance of Aunt Jane's visit to them a year ago, and that remembrance is not so affectionate as might be wished. Aunt Jane means to be very kind, but she does not understand children ; she thinks one quiet steady little girl might be a very agree able companion, but the little Stanleys are not quiet, or very steady, and there are so many of them. Aunt Jane shudders even yet when she thinks of certain incidents which took place during her last visit to her nephew's house.

She remembers with a sigh how one day five of her great-nephews and nieces at once tried to bring her the inkstand for which she had expressed a wish. They meant well no doubt, but that did not prevent the inkstand upsetting and the ink running in long black streaks down the front of her violet silk dress. Under these circumstances it speaks well for the real kindness of Aunt Jane's heart, that on hearing of Mrs. Stanley's illness she has written to her nephew to offer to take charge of Rosie and Hugh for a month or two till their mother is strong again. " I do trust, children, that you will try to be as quiet and good as possible," said Mr. Stanley to Hugh and Rosie, after telling them of Aunt Jane's invitation, and that he had written to accept it for them. " Your aunt is used to such a quiet orderly house that it will be a great trial to her if you are noisy and rough ; and it will repay her kindness badly to cause her any annoyance that you can avoid."

The children say little, but their downcast looks show that they are not delighted at the prospect of a visit to Aunt Jane. " You will not have too long to pack in," adds Mr. Stanley as the children leave the room. " For I know that Mr. Wilson is going from Bristol to Exeter to-morrow, and I shall ask him to be so good as to see you safely so far on your journey." What a bustle there was for the rest of the day. Nurse was in despair at not having longer time to prepare Miss Rosie's dresses for her visit ; and is sure that Master Hugh ought to have a number of things which there is no time to get him. " Holloa !" cries Harry, coming suddenly into the schoolroom that evening, and finding Rosie curled up in the arm-chair sobbing as if her heart would break. " Don't cry like that, little one," he said.

" Torquay is a very nice place ; such a splendid sea and a jolly beach, ever so much nicer than at Cleve don. And Aunt Jane isn't so very bad ; I shouldn't wonder if you and Hugh were to enjoy yourselves very much after all; and you will have holidays you know, so don't be a goose and frighten yourself for nothing." "Oh, it isn't that, it isn't that," sobs Rosie. " But it is so very dreadful to have to go away whilst mother is so ill ; and father and the doctor say I mustn't even see her to say ' good-bye,' lest it should excite her. Oh, dear ! oh, dear!" cried the poor child, her sobs growing louder and louder. " But look here, Rosie," said Harry, lifting her out of the chair and sitting down with her on his lap. " As long as mother is ill we are none of us allowed to see her, so you won't be any worse off than the rest of us ; and when mother is well enough to be with us again, you and Hugh will come home; so don't shed such bucketsful of tears, but give me a kiss and promise to write me some nice long letters when you are at Torquay."

" And will you answer my letters ?" asks Rosie in a much more cheerful tone ; her brother's kind words have already made the dreaded visit seem much less formidable. " Of course I will," he replies, lifting her off his lap and rushing offto get ready for tea, as he hears Jane coming with the tray. The children are off at last. It is the first time they have ever been away from home without father or mother ; and it is con sidered a great event by the entire household. Cook has made sundry packages of sand wiches, cake and biscuits. The gardener has filled a basket with flowers and apples for Aunt Jane ; and nurse has given them so many injunctions about keeping their clothes clean, not wearing their best things on the beach, never getting their feet wet or for getting to put on their warm ties, that they are quite confused by so many directions.