"I hope," said Jonas, wearily shifting the child from one arm to the
other, "that there'll be some good place there to sit down."

When we reached Chester, we went directly to the inn called "The Gentle
Boar," which was selected by Euphemia entirely on account of its name,
and we found it truly a quaint and cosey little house. Everything was
early English and delightful. The coffee-rooms, the bar-maids, the
funny little apartments, the old furniture, and "a general air of the
Elizabethan era," as Euphemia remarked.

"I should almost call it Henryan," said Pomona, gazing about her in
rapt wonderment.

We soon set out on our expeditions of sight-seeing, but we did not keep
together. Euphemia and I made our way to the old cathedral. The ancient
verger who took us about the edifice was obliged to show us everything,
Euphemia being especially anxious to see the stall in the choir which
had belonged to Charles Kingsley, and was much disturbed to find that
under the seat the monks of the fifteenth century had carved the
subject of one of Baron Munchausen's most improbable tales.

"Of course," said she, "they did not know that Charles Kingsley was to
have this stall, or they would have cut something more appropriate."

"Those old monks 'ad a good deal of fun in them," said the verger,
"hand they were particular fond of showing up quarrels between men and
their wives, which they could do, you see, without 'urting each other's
feelings. These queer carvings are hunder the seats, which turn hup in
this way, and I've no doubt they looked at them most of the time they
were kneeling on the cold floor saying their long, Latin prayers."

"Yes, indeed!" said Euphemia. "It must have been a great comfort to the
poor fellows."

"We went all through that cathedral," exclaimed Pomona, when she came
in the next day. "The old virgin took us everywhere."

"Verger," exclaimed Euphemia.

"Well, he looked so like a woman in his long gown," said Pomona, "I
don't wonder I mixed him. We put two shillin's in his little box,
though one was enough, as I told Jonas, and then he took us round and
pointed out all the beautiful carvin's and things on the choir, the
transits, and the nave, but when Jonas stopped before the carved figger
of the devil chawin' up a sinner, and asked if that was the transit of
a knave, the old feller didn't know what he meant. An' then we wandered
alone through them ruined cloisters and subterraneal halls, an' old
tombstones of the past, till I felt I don't know how. There was a girl
in New Jersey who used to put on airs because her family had lived in
one place for a hundred years. When I git back I'll laugh that girl to
scorn."

After two days of delight in this quaint old town we took the train
Londonward. Without consultation Jonas bought tickets for himself and
wife, while I bought Euphemia's and mine. Consequently our servants
travelled first-class, while we went in a second-class  carriage. We
were all greatly charmed with the beautiful garden country through
which we passed. It was harvest time, and Jonas was much impressed by
the large crops gathered from the little fields.

"I might try to do something of that kind when I go back," he afterward
said, "but I expect I'd have to dig a little hole for each grain of
wheat, and hoe it, and water it, and tie the blade to a stick if it was
weakly."

"An' a nice easy time you'd have of it," said Pomona; "for you might
plant your wheat field round a stump, and set there, and farm all
summer, without once gettin' up."

"And that is Windsor!" exclaimed Euphemia, as we passed within view of
that royal castle. "And there lives the Sovereign of our Mother
Country!"

I was trying to puzzle out in what relationship to the Sovereign this
placed us, when Euphemia continued:--

"I am bound to go to Windsor Castle! I have examined into every style
of housekeeping, French flats and everything, and I must see how the
Queen lives. I expect to get ever so many ideas."

"All right," said I; "and we will visit the royal stables, too, for I
intend to get a new buggy when we get back."

We determined that on reaching London we would go directly to lodgings,
not only because this was a more economical way of living, but because
it was the way in which many of Euphemia's favorite heroes and heroines
had lived in London.

"I want to keep house," she said, "in the same way that Charles and
Mary Lamb did. We will toast a bit of muffin or a potted sprat, and
we'll have a hamper of cheese and a tankard of ale, just like those old
English poets and writers."

"I think you are wrong about the hamper of cheese," I said. "It
couldn't have been as much as that, but I have no doubt we'll have a
jolly time."

We got into a four-wheeled cab, Jonas on the seat with the driver, and
the luggage on top. I gave the man a card with the address of the house
to which we had been recommended. There was a number, the name of a
street, the name of a place, the name of a square, and initials
denoting the quarter of the town.

"It will confuse the poor man dreadfully," said Euphemia. "It would
have been a great deal better just to have said where the house was."

The man, however, drove to the given address without mistake. The house
was small, but as there were no other lodgers, there was room enough
for us. Euphemia was much pleased with the establishment. The house was
very well furnished, and she had expected  to find things old and
stuffy, as London lodgings  always were in the books she had read.

"But if the landlady will only steal our tea," she said, "it will make
it seem more like the real thing."

As we intended to stay some time in London, where I had business to
transact for the firm with which I was engaged, we immediately began to
make ourselves as much at home as possible. Pomona, assisted by Jonas,
undertook at once the work of the house. To this the landlady, who kept
a small servant, somewhat objected, as it had been her custom to attend
to the wants of her lodgers.

"But what's the good of Jonas an' me bein' here," said Pomona to us,
"if we don't do the work? Of course, if there was other lodgers, that
would be  different, but as there's only our own family, where's  the
good of that woman and her girl doin' anything?"

And so, as a sort of excuse for her being in Europe, she began to get
the table ready for supper, and sent Jonas out to see if there was any
place where he could buy provisions. Euphemia and I were not at all
certain  that the good woman of the house would be satisfied  with this
state of things; but still, as Jonas and Pomona were really our
servants, it seemed quite proper that they should do our work. And so
we did not interfere, although Euphemia found it quite sad, she said,
to see the landlady standing idly about,  gazing solemnly upon Pomona
as she dashed from place to place engaged with her household duties.

After we had been in the house for two or three days, Pomona came into
our sitting-room one evening and made a short speech.

"I've settled matters with the woman here," she said, "an' I think
you'll like the way I've done it. I couldn't stand her follerin' me
about, an' sayin' 'ow they did things in Hingland, while her red-faced
girl was a-spendin' the days on the airy steps, a-lookin' through the
railin's. 'Now, Mrs. Bowlin',' says I, 'it'll just be the ruin of you
an' the death of me if you keep on makin' a picter of yourself like
that lonely Indian a-sittin' on a pinnacle in the jographys, watchin'
the inroads of civilization, with a locomotive an' a cog-wheel in
front, an' the buffalo an' the grisly a-disappearin' in the distance.
Now it'll be much better  for all of us,' says I, 'if you'll git down
from your peak, and try to make up your mind that the world has got to
move. Aint there some place where you kin go an' be quiet an'
comfortable, an' not a-woundin' your proud spirit a-watchin' me bake
hot rolls for breakfast an' sich?' An' then she says she'd begun to
think pretty much that way herself, an' that she had a sister a-livin'
down in the Sussex Mews, back of Gresham Terrace, Camberwell Square,
Hankberry Place, N.W. by N., an' she thought she might as well go there
an' stay while we was here. An' so I says that was just the thing, and
the sooner done the happier she'd be. An' I went up stairs and helped
her pack her trunk, which is a tin one, which she calls her box, an' I
got her a cab, an' she's gone."

"What!" I cried; "gone! Has she given up her house entirely to us?"

"For the time bein' she has," answered Pomona, "for she saw very well
it was better thus, an' she's comin' every week to git her money, an'
to see when we're goin' to give notice. An' the small girl has been
sent back to the country."

It was impossible for Euphemia and myself to countenance this
outrageous piece of eviction; but in answer to our exclamations of
surprise and reproach, Pomona merely remarked that she had done it for
the woman's own good, and, as she was perfectly satisfied, she didn't
suppose there was any harm done; and, at any rate, it would be "lots
nicer" for us. And then she asked Euphemia what she was going to have
for breakfast the next morning, so that Jonas could go out to the
different mongers and get the things.

"Now," said Euphemia, when Pomona had gone down stairs, "I really feel
as if I had a foothold on British soil. It doesn't seem as if it was
quite right, but it is perfectly splendid."

And so it was. From that moment we set up an English Rudder Grange in
the establishment which Pomona had thus rudely wrenched, as it were,
from the claws of the British Lion. We endeavored to live as far as
possible in the English style, because we wanted to try the manners and
customs of every country. We had tea for breakfast and ale for
luncheon, and we ate shrimps, prawns, sprats, saveloys, and Yarmouth
bloaters. We "took in the Times," and, to a certain extent, we
endeavored to cultivate the broad vowels. Some of these things we did
not like, but we felt bound to allow them a fair trial.

We did not give ourselves up to sight-seeing as we had done at Chester,
because now there was plenty of time to see London at our leisure. In
the mornings I attended to my business, and in the afternoons Euphemia
and I generally went out to visit some of the lions of the grand old
city.

Pomona and Jonas also went out whenever a time could be conveniently
arranged, which was done nearly every day, for Euphemia was anxious
they should see everything. They almost always took their child, and to
this Euphemia frequently objected.

"What's the good," she said, "of carrying a baby not two years old to
the Tower of London, the British Museum, and the Chapel of Henry VII.?
She can't take any interest in the smothered princes, or the Assyrian
remnants. If I am at home, I can look after her as well as not."

"But you see, ma'am," said Pomona, "we don't expect the baby'll ever
come over here ag'in, an' when she gits older, I'll tell her all about
these things, an' it'll expan' her intelleck a lot more when she feels
she's seed 'em all without knowin' it. To be sure, the monnyments of
bygone days don't always agree with her; for Jone set her down on the
tomb of Chaucer the other day, an' her little legs got as cold as the
tomb itself, an' I told him that there was too big a difference between
a tomb nigh four hundred years old an' a small baby which don't date
back two years, for them to be sot together that way; an' he promised
to be more careful after that. He gouged a little piece out of
Chaucer's tomb, an' as we went home we bought a copy of the old
gentleman's poems, so as we could see what reason there was for keepin'
him so long, an' at night I read Jone two of the Canterbury Tales. 'You
wouldn't 'a' thought,' says Jone, 'jus' by lookin' at that little piece
of plaster, that the old fellow could 'a' got up such stories as
them.'"

"What I want to see more'n anything else," said Pomona to us one day,
"is a real lord, or some kind of nobleman of high degree. I've allers
loved to read about 'em in books, and I'd rather see one close to, than
all the tombs and crypts and lofty domes you could rake together; an' I
don't want to see 'em neither in the streets, nor yet in a House of
Parliament, which aint in session; for there, I don't believe, dressin'
in common clothes as they do, that I could tell 'em from other people.
What I want is to penetrate into the home of one of 'em, and see him as
he really is. It's only there that his noble blood'll come out."

"Pomona," cried Euphemia, in accents of alarm, "don't you try
penetrating into any nobleman's home. You will get yourself into
trouble, and the rest of us, too."

"Oh, I'm not a-goin' to git you into any trouble, ma'am," said Pomona;
"you needn't be afeard of that." And she went about her household
duties.

A few days after this, as Euphemia and I were going to the Tower of
London in a Hansom cab--and it was one of Euphemia's greatest delights
to be bowled over the smooth London pavements in one of these vehicles,
with the driver out of sight, and the horse in front of us just as if
we were driving ourselves, only without any of the trouble, and on
every corner one of the names of the streets we had read about in
Dickens and Thackeray, and with the Sampson Brasses, and the
Pecksniffs, and the Mrs. Gamps, and the Guppys, and the Sir Leicester
Dedlocks, and the Becky Sharps, and the Pendennises, all walking about
just as natural as in the novels--we were surprised to see Pomona
hurrying along the sidewalk alone. The moment our eyes fell upon her a
feeling of alarm arose within us. Where was she going with such an
intent purpose in her face, and without Jonas? She was walking
westward, and we were going to the east. At Euphemia's request I
stopped the cab, jumped out, and ran after her, but she had disappeared
in the crowd.

"She is up to mischief," said Euphemia.

But it was of no use to worry our minds on the subject, and we soon
forgot, in the ancient wonders of the Tower, the probable
eccentricities of our modern handmaid.

We returned; night came on; but Pomona was still absent. Jonas did not
know where she was, and was very much troubled; and the baby, which had
been so skilfully kept in the background by its mother that, so far, it
had never annoyed us at all, now began to cry, and would not be
comforted. Euphemia, with the assistance of Jonas, prepared the evening
meal, and when we had nearly eaten it, Pomona came home. Euphemia asked
no questions, although she was burning with curiosity to know where
Pomona had been, considering that it was that young woman's duty to
inform her without being asked.

When Pomona came in to wait on us, she acted as if she expected to be
questioned, and was perfectly willing to answer, but Euphemia stood
upon her dignity, and said nothing. At last Pomona could endure it no
longer, and standing with a tray in her hand, she exclaimed:--

"I'm sorry I made you help git the dinner, ma'am, and I wouldn't 'a'
done it for anything, but the fact is I've been to see a lord, an' was
kep' late."

"What!" cried Euphemia, springing to her feet; "you don't mean that!"

And I was so amazed that I sat and looked at Pomona without saying a
word.

"Yes," cried Pomona, her eyes sparkling with excitement, "I've seen a
lord, and trod his floors, and I'll tell you all about it. You know I
was boun' to do it, and I wanted to go alone, for if Jone was with me
he'd be sure to put in some of his queer sayin's an' ten to one hurt
the man's feelin's, and cut off the interview. An' as Jone said this
afternoon he felt tired, with some small creeps in his back, an' didn't
care to go out, I knew my time had come, and said I'd go for a walk.
Day before yesterday I went up to a policeman an' I asked him if he
could tell me if a lord, or a earl, or a duke lived anywhere near here.
First he took me for crazy, an' then he began to ask questions which he
thought was funny, but I kep' stiff to the mark, an' I made him tell me
where a lord did live,--about five blocks from here. So I fixed things
all ready an' today I went there."

"You didn't have the assurance to suppose he'd see you?" cried
Euphemia.

"No, indeed, I hadn't," said Pomona, "at least under common
circumstances. You may be sure I racked my brains enough to know what I
should do to meet him face to face. It wouldn't do to go in the common
way, such as ringin' at the front door and askin' for him, an' then
offerin' to sell him furniter-polish  for his pianner-legs. I knowed
well enough that any errand like that would only bring me face to face
with his bailiff, or his master of hounds, or something of that kind.
So, at last, I got a plan of my own, an' I goes up the steps and rings
the bell, an' when the flunkey, with more of an air of gen'ral
upliftedness about him than any one I'd seen yet, excep' Nelson on top
of his pillar, opened the door an' looked at me, I asked him,--

"'Is Earl Cobden in?'

"At this the man opened his eyes, an' remarked:--

"'What uv it if he is?'

"Then I answers, firmly:--

"'If he's in, I want yer to take him this letter, an' I'll wait here.'"

"You don't mean to say," cried Euphemia, "that you wrote the earl a
letter?"

"Yes, I did," continued Pomona, "and at first the man didn't seem
inclined to take it. But I held it out so steady that he took it an'
put it on a little tray, whether nickel-plated or silver I couldn't
make out, and carried it up the widest and splendidest pair o' stairs
that I ever see in a house jus' intended to be lived in. When he got to
the fust landin' he met a gentleman, and give him the letter. When I
saw this I was took aback, for I thought it was his lordship a-comin'
down, an' I didn't want to have no interview with a earl at his front
door. But the second glance I took at him showed me that it wasn't him.
He opened it, notwithstanding', an' read it all through from beginnin'
to end. When he had done it he looked down at me, and then he went back
up stairs a-follered by the flunk, which last pretty soon came down
ag'in an' told me I was to go up. I don't think I ever felt so much
like a wringed-out dish-cloth as I did when I went up them palatial
stairs. But I tried to think of things that would prop me up. P'r'aps,
I thought, my ancient ancestors came to this land with his'n; who
knows? An' I might 'a' been switched off on some female line, an' so
lost the name an' estates. At any rate, be brave! With such thoughts as
these I tried to stiffen my legs, figgeratively speakin'. We went
through two or three rooms (I hadn't time to count 'em) an' then I was
showed into the lofty presence of the earl. He was standin' by the
fire-place, an' the minnit my eyes lit upon him I knowed it was him."

"Why, how was that?" cried Euphemia and myself almost in the same
breath.

"I knowed him by his wax figger," continued Pomona, "which Jone and I
see at Madame Tussaud's wax-works. They've got all the head people of
these days there now, as well as the old kings and the pizeners. The
clothes wasn't exactly the same, though very good on each, an' there
was more of an air of shortenin' of the spine in the wax figger than in
the other one. But the likeness was awful strikin'.

"'Well, my good woman,' says he, a-holdin' my open letter in his hand,
'so you want to see a lord, do you?'"

"What on earth did you write to him?" exclaimed Euphemia. "You mustn't
go on a bit further until you have told what was in your letter."

"Well," said Pomona, "as near as I can remember, it was like this:
'_William, Lord Cobden, Earl of Sorsetshire an' Derry. Dear Sir. Bein'
brought up under Republican institutions, in the land of the free--'_ I
left out '_the home of the brave_' because there wasn't no use crowin'
about that jus' then--'_I haven't had no oppertunity of meetin' with a
individual of lordly blood. Ever since I was a small girl takin' books
from the circulatin' libery, an' obliged to read out loud with divided
sillerbles, I've drank in every word of the tales of lords and other
nobles of high degree, that the little shops where I gen'rally got my
books, an' some with the pages out at the most excitin' parts,
contained. An' so I asks you now, Sir Lord--_' I did put _humbly_, but
I scratched that out, bein' an American woman--'_to do me the favor of
a short audience. Then, when I reads about noble earls an' dukes in
their brilliant lit halls an' castles, or mounted on their champin'
chargers, a-leadin' their trusty hordes to victory amid the glittering
minarets of fame, I'll know what they looks like._' An' then I signed
my name.

"'Yes, sir,' says I, in answer to his earlship's question," said
Pomona, taking up her story, "'I did want to see one, upon my word.'

"'An' now that you have seen him,' says he, 'what do you think of him?'

"Now, I had made up my mind before I entered this ducal pile, or put my
foot on one ancestral stone, that I'd be square and honest through the
whole business, and not try no counterfeit presentiments with the earl.
So I says to him:--

"'The fust thing I thinks is, that you've got on the nicest suit of
clothes that I've ever seed yit, not bein' exactly Sunday clothes, and
yit fit for company, an' if money can buy 'em--an' men's clothes is
cheap enough here, dear only knows--I'm goin' to have a suit jus' like
it for Jone, my husband.' It was a kind o' brown mixed stuff, with a
little spot of red in it here an' there, an' was about as gay for plain
goods, an' as plain for gay goods, as anythin' could be, an' 'twas easy
enough to see that it was all wool. 'Of course,' says I, 'Jone'll have
his coat made different in front, for single-breasted, an' a buttonin'
so high up is a'most too stylish for him, 'specially as fashions 'ud
change afore the coat was wore out. But I needn't bother your earlship
about that.'

"'An' so,' says he, an' I imagine I see an air of sadness steal over
his features, 'it's my clothes, after all, that interest you?'

"'Oh, no,' says I, 'I mention them because they come up fust. There is,
no doubt, qualities of mind and body--'

"'Well, we won't go into that,' said his earlship, 'an' I want to ask
you a question. I suppose you represent the middle class in your
country?'

"'I don't know 'zactly where society splits with us,' says I, 'but I
guess I'm somewhere nigh the crack.'

"'Now don't you really believe,' says he, 'that you and the people of
your class would be happier, an' feel safer, politically speakin', if
they had among 'em a aristocracy to which they could look up to in
times of trouble, as their nat'ral born gardeens? I ask yer this
because I want to know for myself what are the reel sentiments of yer
people.'

"'Well, sir,' says I, 'when your work is done, an' your kitchen cleaned
up, an' your lamp lit, a lord or a duke is jus' tip-top to read about,
if the type aint too fine an' the paper mean beside, which it often is
in the ten-cent books; but, further than this, I must say, we aint got
no use for 'em.' At that he kind o' steps back, and looks as if he was
goin' to say somethin', but I puts in quick: 'But you mustn't think, my
earl,' says I, 'that we undervallers you. When we remembers the field
of Agincourt; and Chevy Chase; an' the Tower of London, with the block
on which three lords was beheaded, with the very cuts in it which the
headsman made when he chopped 'em off, as well as two crooked ones
a-showin' his bad licks, which little did he think history would
preserve forever; an' the old Guildhall, where down in the ancient
crypt is a-hangin' our Declaration of Independence along with the Roman
pots and kittles dug up in London streets; we can't forgit that if it
hadn't 'a' been for your old ancestral lines as roots, we'd never been
the flourishin' tree we is.'

"'Well,' said his earlship, when I'd got through, an' he kind o' looked
as if he didn't know whether to laugh or not, 'if you represent the
feelin's of your class in your country, I reckon they're not just ready
for a aristocracy yit.'

"An' with that he give me a little nod, an' walked off into another
room. It was pretty plain from this that the interview was brought to a
close, an' so I come away. The flunk was all ready to show me out, an'
he did it so expeditious, though quite polite, that I didn't git no
chance to take a good look at the furniter and carpets, which I'd 'a'
liked to have done. An' so I've talked to a real earl, an' if not in
his ancestral  pile, at any rate in the gorgeousest house I ever see.
An' the brilliantest dream of my youth has come true."

When she had finished I rose and looked upon her.

"Pomona," said I, "we may yet visit many foreign countries. We may see
kings, queens, dukes, counts, sheikhs, beys, sultans, khedives, pashas,
rajahs, and I don't know what potentates besides, and I wish to say
just this one thing to you. If you don't want to get yourself and us
into some dreadful scrape, and perhaps bring our journeys to a sudden
close, you must put a curb on your longing for communing with beings of
noble blood."

"That's true, sir," said Pomona, thoughtfully, "an' I made a pretty
close shave of it this time, for when I was talkin' to the earl, I was
just on the p'int of tellin' him that I had such a high opinion of his
kind o' folks that I once named a big black dog after one of 'em, but I
jus' remembered in time, an' slipped on to somethin' else. But I
trembled worse than a peanut woman with a hackman goin' round the
corner to ketch a train an' his hubs just grazin' the legs of her
stand. An' so I promise you, sir, that I'll put my heel on all
hankerin' after potentates."

And so she made her promise. And, knowing Pomona, I felt sure that she
would keep it--if she could.




POMONA'S DAUGHTER.


In the pretty walk, bordered by bright flowers and low, overhanging
shrubbery, which lies back of the Albert Memorial, in Kensington
Gardens, London, Jonas sat on a green bench, with his baby on his knee.
A few nurses were pushing baby-carriages about in different parts of
the walk, and there were children playing not far away. It was drawing
toward the close of the afternoon, and Jonas was thinking it was nearly
time to go home, when Pomona came running to him from the gorgeous
monument, which she had been carefully inspecting.

"Jone," she cried, "do you know I've been lookin' at all them great men
that's standin' round the bottom of the monnyment, an' though there's
over a hundred of 'em, I'm sure, I can't find a American among 'em!
There's poets, an' artists, an' leadin' men, scraped up from all parts,
an' not one of our illustrious dead. What d'ye think of that?"

"I can't believe it," said Jonas. "If we go home with a tale like that
we'll hear the recruiting-drum from Newark to Texas, and, ten to one,
I'll be drafted."

"You needn't be makin' fun," said Pomona; "you come an' see for
yourself. Perhaps you kin' find jus' one American, an' then I'll go
home satisfied."

"All right," said Jonas.

And, putting the child on the bench, he told her he'd be back in a
minute, and hurried after Pomona, to give a hasty look for the desired
American.

Corinne, the offspring of Jonas and Pomona, had some peculiarities. One
of these was that she was accustomed to stay where she was put. Ever
since she had been old enough to be carried about, she had been carried
about by one parent or the other; and, as it was frequently necessary
to set her down, she had learned to sit and wait until she was taken up
again. She was now nearly two years old, very strong and active, and of
an intellect which had already begun to tower. She could walk very
well, but Jonas took such delight in carrying her that he seldom
appeared to recognize her ability to use her legs. She could also talk,
but how much her parents did not know. She was a taciturn child, and
preferred to keep her thoughts to herself, and, although she sometimes
astonished us all by imitating remarks she had heard, she frequently
declined to repeat the simplest words that had been taught her.

Corinne remained on the bench about a minute after her father had left
her, and then, contrary to her usual custom, she determined to leave
the place where she had been put. Turning over on her stomach, after
the manner of babies, she lowered her feet to the ground. Having
obtained a foothold, she turned herself about and proceeded, with
sturdy steps, to a baby-carriage near by which had attracted her
attention. This carriage, which was unattended, contained a baby,
somewhat smaller and younger than Corinne, who sat up and gazed with
youthful interest at the visitor who stood by the side of her vehicle.
Corinne examined, with a critical eye, the carriage and its occupant.
She looked at the soft pillow at the baby's back, and regarded with
admiration the afghan crocheted in gay colors which was spread over its
lap, and the spacious gig-top which shielded it from the sun. She
stooped down and looked at the wheels, and stood up and gazed at the
blue eyes and canary hair of the little occupant. Then, in quiet but
decided tones, Corinne said:--

"Dit out!"

The other baby looked at her, but made no movement to obey. After
waiting a few moments, an expression of stern severity spreading itself
the while over her countenance, Corinne reached over and put her arms
around the fair-haired child. Then, with all her weight and strength,
she threw herself backward and downward. The other baby, being light,
was thus drawn bodily out of its carriage, and Corinne sat heavily upon
the ground, her new acquaintance sprawling in her lap. Notwithstanding
that she bore the brunt of the fall upon the gravel, Corinne uttered no
cry; but, disengaging herself from her encumbrance, she rose to her
feet. The other baby imitated her, and Corinne, taking her by the hand,
led her to the bench where she herself had been left.

"Dit up!" said Corinne.

This, however, the other baby was unable to do; but she stood quite
still, evidently greatly interested in the proceedings. Corinne left
her and walked to the little carriage, into which she proceeded to
climb. After some extraordinary exertions, during which her fat legs
were frequently thrust through the spokes of the wheels and ruthlessly
drawn out again, she tumbled in. Arranging herself as comfortably as
she knew how, she drew the gay afghan over her, leaned back upon the
soft pillow, gazed up at the sheltering gig-top, and resigned herself
to luxurious bliss. At this supreme moment, the nurse who had had
charge of the carriage and its occupant came hurrying around a corner
of the path. She had been taking leave of some of her nurse-maid
friends, and had stayed longer than she had intended. It was necessary
for her to take a suitable leave of these ladies, for that night she
was going on a journey. She had been told to take the baby out for an
airing, and to bring it back early. Now, to her surprise, the afternoon
had nearly gone, and hurrying to the little carriage she seized the
handle at the back and rapidly pushed it home, without stopping to look
beneath the overhanging gig-top, or at the green bench, with which her
somewhat worried soul had no concern. If anything could add to
Corinne's ecstatic delight, it was this charming motion. Closing her
eyes contentedly, she dropped asleep.

The baby with canary hair looked at the receding nurse and carriage
with widening eyes and reddening cheeks. Then, opening her mouth, she
uttered the cry of the deserted; but the panic-stricken nurse did not
hear her, and, if she had, what were the cries of other children to
her? Her only business was to get home quickly with her young charge.

About five minutes after these events, Jonas and Pomona came hurrying
along the path. They, too, had stayed away much longer than they had
intended, and had suddenly given up their search for the American, whom
they had hoped to find in high relief upon the base of the Albert
Memorial. Stepping quickly to the child, who still stood sobbing by the
bench, Jonas exclaimed, "You poor itty--!"

And then he stopped suddenly. Pomona also stood for a second, and then
she made a dash at the child, and snatched it up. Gazing sharply at its
tear-smeared countenance, she exclaimed, "What's this?"

The baby did not seem able to explain what it was, and only answered by
a tearful sob. Jonas did not say a word; but, with the lithe quickness
of a dog after a rat, he began to search behind and under benches, in
the bushes, on the grass, here, there, and everywhere.

About nine o'clock that evening, Pomona came to us with tears in her
eyes, and the canary-haired baby in her arms, and told us that Corinne
was lost. They had searched everywhere; they had gone to the police;
telegrams had been sent to every station; they had done everything that
could be done, but had found no trace of the child.

"If I hadn't this," sobbed Pomona, holding out the child, "I believe
I'd go wild. It isn't that she can take the place of my dear baby, but
by a-keepin' hold of her I believe we'll git on the track of Corinne."

We were both much affected by this news, and Euphemia joined Pomona in
her tears.

"Jonas is scourin' the town yet," said Pomona. "He'll never give up
till he drops. But I felt you ought to know, and I couldn't keep this
little thing in the night-air no longer. It's a sweet child, and its
clothes are lovely. If it's got a mother, she's bound to want to see it
before long; an' if ever I ketch sight of her, she don't git away from
me till I have my child."

"It is a very extraordinary case," I said. "Children are often stolen,
but it is seldom we hear of one being taken and another left in its
place, especially when the children are of different ages, and totally
unlike."

"That's so," said Pomona. "At first, I thought that Corinne had been
changed off for a princess, or something like that, but nobody couldn't
make anybody believe that my big, black-haired baby was this
white-an'-yaller thing."

"Can't you find any mark on her clothes," asked Euphemia, "by which you
could discover her parentage? If there are no initials, perhaps you can
find a coronet or a coat of arms."

"No," said Pomona, "there aint nothin'. I've looked careful. But
there's great comfort to think that Corinne's well stamped."

"Stamped!" we exclaimed. "What do you mean by that?"

"Why, you see," answered Pomona, "when Jone an' I was goin' to bring
our baby over here among so many million people, we thought there might
be danger of its gittin' lost or mislaid, though we never really
believed any such thing would happen, or we wouldn't have come. An' so
we agreed to mark her, for I've often read about babies bein' stole an'
kept two or three years, and when found bein' so changed their own
mothers didn't know 'em. Jone said we'd better tattoo Corinne, for them
marks would always be there, but I wouldn't agree to have the little
creature's skin stuck with needles, not even after Jone said we might
give her chloryform; so we agreed to stamp initials on her with
Perkins's Indelible Dab. It is intended to mark sheep, but it don't
hurt, and it don't never come off. We put the letters on the back of
her heels, where they wouldn't show, for she's never to go barefoot,
an' where they'd be easy got at if we wanted to find 'em. We put R.G.
on one heel for the name of the place, and J.P. on the other heel for
Jonas an' me. If, twenty years from now," said Pomona, her tears
welling out afresh, "I should see a young woman with eyes like
Corinne's, an' that I felt was her, a-walking up to the bridal altar,
with all the white flowers, an' the floatin' veils, an' the crowds in
the church, an' the music playin', an' the minister all ready, I'd jist
jerk that young woman into the vestry-room, an' have off her shoes an'
stockin's in no time. An' if she had R.G. on one heel, an' J.P. on the
other, that bridegroom could go home alone."

We confidently assured Pomona that with such means of identification,
and the united action of ourselves and the police, the child would
surely be found, and we accompanied her to her lodgings, which were now
in a house not far from our own.

When the nurse reached home with the little carriage it was almost
dark, and, snatching up the child, she ran to the nursery without
meeting any one. The child felt heavy, but she was in such a hurry she
scarcely noticed that. She put it upon the bed, and then lighting the
gas she unwrapped the afghan, in which the little creature was now
almost entirely enveloped. When she saw the face, and the black hair,
from which the cap had fallen off, she was nearly frightened to death,
but, fortunately for herself, she did not scream. She was rather a
stupid woman, with but few ideas, but she could not fail to see that
some one had taken her charge, and put this child in its place. Her
first impulse was to run back to the gardens, but she felt certain that
her baby had been carried off; and, besides, she could not, without
discovery, leave the child here or take it with her; and while she
stood in dumb horror, her mistress sent for her. The lady was just
going out to dinner, and told the nurse that, as they were all to start
for the Continent by the tidal train, which left at ten o'clock that
night, she must be ready with the baby, well wrapped up for the
journey. The half-stupefied woman had no words nor courage with which
to declare, at this moment, the true state of the case. She said
nothing, and went back to the nursery and sat there in dumb
consternation, and without sense enough to make a plan of any kind. The
strange child soon awoke and began to cry, and then the nurse
mechanically fed it, and it went to sleep again. When the summons came
to her to prepare for the journey, in cowardly haste she wrapped the
baby, so carefully covering its head that she scarcely gave it a chance
to breathe; and she and the lady's waiting-maid were sent in a cab to
the Victoria Station. The lady was travelling with a party of friends,
and the nurse and the waiting-maid were placed in the adjoining
compartment of the railway-carriage. On the six hours' channel passage
from Newhaven to Dieppe the lady was extremely sick, and reached France
in such a condition that she had to be almost carried on shore. It had
been her intention to stop a few days at this fashionable
watering-place, but she declared that she must go straight on to Paris,
where she could be properly attended to, and, moreover, that she never
wanted to see the sea again. When she had been placed in the train for
Paris she sent for the nurse, and feebly asked how the baby was, and if
it had been seasick. On being told that it was all right, and had not
shown a sign of illness, she expressed her gratification, and lay back
among her rugs.

The nurse and the waiting-maid travelled together, as before, but the
latter, wearied by her night's attendance upon her mistress, slept all
the way from Dieppe to Paris. When they reached that city, they went
into the waiting-room until a carriage could be procured for them, and
there the nurse, placing the baby on a seat, asked her companion to
take care of it for a few minutes. She then went out of the station
door, and disappeared into Paris.

In this way, the brunt of the terrible disclosure, which came very
soon, was thrown upon the waiting-maid. No one, however, attached any
blame to her: of course, the absconding nurse had carried away the
fair-haired child. The waiting-maid had been separated from her during
the passage from the train to the station, and it was supposed that in
this way an exchange of babies had been easily made by her and her
confederates. When the mother knew of her loss, her grief was so
violent that for a time her life was in danger. All Paris was searched
by the police and her friends, but no traces could be found of the
wicked nurse and the fair-haired child. Money, which, of course, was
considered the object of the inhuman crime, was freely offered, but to
no avail. No one imagined for an instant that the exchange was made
before the party reached Paris. It seemed plain enough that the crime
was committed when the woman fled.

Corinne, who had been placed in the charge of a servant until it was
determined what to do with her, was not at all satisfied with the new
state of affairs, and loudly demanded her papa and mamma, behaving for
a time in a very turbulent way. In a few days, the lady recovered her
strength, and asked to see this child. The initials upon Corinne's
heels had been discovered, and, when she was told of these, the lady
examined them closely.

"The people who left this child," she exclaimed, "do not intend to lose
her! They know where she is, and they will keep a watch upon her, and
when they get a chance they will take her. I, too, will keep a watch
upon her, and when they come for her I shall see them."

Her use of words soon showed Corinne to be of English parentage, and it
was generally supposed that she had been stolen from some travellers,
and had been used at the station as a means of giving time to the nurse
to get away with the other child.

In accord with her resolution, the grief-stricken lady put Corinne in
the charge of a trusty woman, and, moreover, scarcely ever allowed her
to be out of her sight.

It was suggested that advertisement be made for the parents of a child
marked with E.G. and J.P. But to this the lady decidedly objected.

"If her parents find her," she said, "they will take her away; and I
want to keep her till the thieves come for her. I have lost my child,
and as this one is the only clue I shall ever have to her, I intend to
keep it. When I have found my child, it will be time enough to restore
this one."

Thus selfish is maternal love.

Pomona bore up better under the loss than did Jonas. Neither of them
gave up the search for a day; but Jonas, haggard and worn, wandered
aimlessly about the city, visiting every place into which he imagined a
child might have wandered, or might have been taken, searching even to
the crypt in the Guildhall and the Tower of London. Pomona's mind
worked quite as actively as her husband's body. She took great care of
"Little Kensington," as she called the strange child from the place
where she had been found; and therefore could not go about as Jonas
did. After days and nights of ceaseless supposition, she had come to
the conclusion that Corinne had been stolen by opera singers.

"I suppose you never knew it," she said to us, "for I took pains not to
let it disturb you, but that child has notes in her voice about two
stories higher than any operer prymer donner that I ever heard, an'
I've heard lots of 'em, for I used to go into the top gallery of the
operer as often as into the theayter; an' if any operer singer ever
heard them high notes of Corinne's,--an' there was times when she'd let
'em out without the least bit of a notice,--it's them that's took her."

"But, my poor Pomona," said Euphemia, "you don't suppose that little
child could be of any use to an opera singer; at least, not for years
and years."

"Oh, yes, ma'am," replied Pomona; "she was none too little. Sopranners
is like mocking-birds; they've got to be took young."

No arguments could shake Pomona's belief in this theory. And she daily
lamented the fact that there was no opera in London at that time that
she might go to the performances, and see if there was any one on the
stage who looked mean enough to steal a child.

"If she was there," said Pomona, "I'd know it. She'd feel the scorn of
a mother's eye on her, an' her guilty heart would make her forget her
part."

Pomona frequently went into Kensington Gardens, and laid traps for
opera singers who might be sojourning in London. She would take Little
Kensington into the gardens, and, placing her carefully in the corner
of a bench, would retire to a short distance and pretend to be absorbed
in a book, while her sharp eyes kept up the watch for a long-haired
tenor, or a beautifully dressed soprano, who should suddenly rush out
from the bushes and seize the child.

"I wouldn't make no fuss if they was to come out," she said. "Little
Kensington would go under my arm, not theirn, an' I'd walk calmly with
'em to their home. Then I'd say: 'Give me my child, an' take yourn,
which, though she probably hasn't got no voice, is a lot too good for
you; and may the house hurl stools at you the next time you appear, is
the limit of a mother's curse.'"

But, alas for Pomona, no opera singers ever showed themselves.

These days of our stay in London were not pleasant. We went about
little, and enjoyed nothing. At last Pomona came to us, her face pale
but determined.

"It's no use," she said, "for us to keep you here no longer, when I
know you've got through with the place, and want to go on, an' we'll
go, too, for I don't believe my child's in London. She's been took
away, an' we might as well look for her in one place as another. The
perlice tells us that if she's found here, they'll know it fust, an'
they'll telegraph to us wherever we is; an' if it wasn't fur nuthin'
else, it would be a mercy to git Jone out of this place. He goes about
like a cat after her drowned kittens. It's a-bringin' out them chills
of hisn, an' the next thing it'll kill him. I can't make him believe in
the findin' of Corinne as firm as I do, but I know as long as Perkins's
Indelible Dab holds out (an' there's no rubbin' nor washin' it off)
I'll git my child."

I admitted, but not with Pomona's hopefulness, that the child might be
found as easily in Paris as here.

"And we've seen everything about London," said Euphemia, "except
Windsor Castle. I did want, and still want, to see just how the Queen
keeps house, and perhaps get some ideas which might be useful; but Her
Majesty is away now, and, although they say that's the time to go
there, it is not the time for me. You'll not find me going about
inspecting domestic arrangements when the lady of the house is away."

So we packed up and went to Paris, taking Little Kensington along.
Notwithstanding our great sympathy with Corinne's parents, Euphemia and
myself could not help becoming somewhat resigned to the affliction
which had befallen them, and we found ourselves obliged to enjoy the
trip very much. Euphemia became greatly excited and exhilarated as we
entered Paris. For weeks I knew she had been pining for this city. As
she stepped from the train she seemed to breathe a new air, and her
eyes sparkled as she knew by the prattle and cries about her that she
was really in France.

We were obliged to wait some time in the station before we could claim
our baggage, and while we were standing there Euphemia drew my
attention to a placard on the wall. "Look at that!" she exclaimed.
"Even here, on our very entrance to the city, we see signs of that
politeness which is the very heart of the nation. I can't read the
whole of that notice from here, but those words in large letters show
that it refers to the observance of the ancient etiquettes. Think of
it! Here in a railroad station people are expected to behave to each
other with the old-time dignity and gallantry of our forefathers. I
tell you it thrills my very soul to think I am among such a people, and
I am glad they can't understand what I say, so that I may speak right
out."

I never had the heart to throw cold water on Euphemia's noble emotions,
and so I did not tell her that the notice merely requested travellers
to remove from their trunks the _anciennes etiquettes_, or old railway
labels.

We were not rich tourists, and we all took lodgings in a small hotel to
which we had been recommended. It was in the Latin Quarter, near the
river, and opposite  the vast palace of the Louvre, into whose
labyrinth  of picture-galleries Euphemia and I were eager to plunge.

But first we all went to the office of the American Consul, and
consulted him in regard to the proper measures to be taken for
searching for the little Corinne in Paris. After that, for some days,
Jonas and Pomona spent all their time, and Euphemia and I part of ours,
in looking for the child. Euphemia's Parisian exhilaration continued to
increase, but there were some things that disappointed her.

"I thought," said she, "that people in France took their morning coffee
in bed, but they do not bring it up to us."

"But, my dear," said I, "I am sure you said before we came here that
you considered taking coffee in bed as an abominable habit, and that
nothing could ever make you like it."

"I know," said she, "that I have always thought it a lazy custom, and
not a bit nice, and I think so yet. But still, when we are in a strange
country, I expect to live as other people do."

It was quite evident that Euphemia had been looking forward for some
time to the novel experience of taking her coffee in bed. But the
gray-haired old gentleman who acted as our chambermaid never hinted
that he supposed we wanted anything of the kind.

Nothing, however, excited Euphemia's indignation so much as the
practice of giving a _pourboire_ to cabmen and others. "It is simply
feeding the flames of intemperance," she said. When she had occasion to
take a cab by herself, she never conformed to this reprehensible
custom. When she paid the driver, she would add something to the
regular fare, but as she gave it to him she would say in her most
distinct French: "_Pour manger. Comprenezvous_?" The _cocher_ would
generally nod his head, and thank her very kindly, which he had good
reason to do, for she never forgot that it took more money to buy food
than drink.

In spite of the attractions of the city, our sojourn in Paris was not
satisfactory. Apart from the family trouble which oppressed us, it
rained nearly all the time. We were told that in order to see Paris at
its best we should come in the spring. In the month of May it was
charming. Then everybody would be out-of-doors,  and we would see a
whole city enjoying life. As we wished to enjoy life without waiting
for the spring, we determined to move southward, and visit during the
winter those parts of Europe which then lay under blue skies and a warm
sun. It was impossible, at present, for Pomona and Jonas to enjoy life
anywhere, and they would remain in Paris, and then, if they did not
find their child in a reasonable time, they would join us. Neither of
them understood French, but this did not trouble them in the slightest.
Early in their Paris wanderings they had met with a boy who had once
lived in New York, and they had taken him into pay as an interpreter.
He charged them a franc and a half a day, and I am sure they got their
money's worth.