At this point Amabel’s overwrought energies suddenly failed her, and she burst out crying. “I don’t know how I shall get over the wall,” said she.
“Don’t ’ee cry, Miss. I’ll help you,” said Jan.
“I can’t walk any more,” sobbed Amabel, who was, indeed, tired out.
“I’ll take ’ee on my back,” said Jan. “Don’t ’ee cry.”
With a good deal of difficulty, Amabel was hoisted up, and planted her big feet in Jan’s hands. It was no light pilgrimage for poor Jan, as he climbed the winding path. Amabel was peevish with weariness; her bundles were sadly in the way, and at every step a cup-moss or _marchantia_ dropped out, and Amabel insisted upon its being picked up. But they reached the wall at last, and Jan got her over, and made two or three expeditions after the missing mosses, before the little lady was finally content.
“Good-by, Bogy,” she said, at last, holding up her face to be kissed. “And thank you very much. I’m not frightened of you, Bogy.”
As Jan kissed her, he said, smiling, “What is your name, love?”
To her parents and guardians, Amabel made the following statement: “I’ve seen Bogy. I like him. He doesn’t sleep in the cellar, so Nurse told a story. And he didn’t take me away, so that’s another story. He says his prayers, and he goes to church, so he can’t be the Bad Man. He makes pictures with leaves. He carried me on his back, but not in a bag”—
At this point the outraged feelings of Lady Craikshaw exploded, and she rang the bell, and ordered Miss Amabel to be put to bed with a dose of rhubarb and magnesia (without sal-volatile), for telling stories.
“The eau-de-Cologne, mamma dear, please,” said Lady Louisa, as the door closed on the struggling, screaming, and protesting Amabel. “Isn’t it really dreadful? But Esmerelda Ammaby says Henry used to tell shocking stories when he was a little boy.”
THE PAINT-BOX.—MASTER LINSEED’S SHOP.—THE NEW SIGN-BOARD.—MASTER SWIFT AS WILL SCARLET.
ON Sunday morning Jan took his place in church with unusual feelings. He looked here, there, and everywhere for the little damsel of the wood, but she was not to be seen. Meanwhile she had not sent the paint box, and he feared it would never come. He fancied she must be the Squire’s little daughter, but he was not sure, and she certainly was not in the big pew, where the back of the Squire’s red head and Lady Louisa’s aquiline nose were alone visible. She was a dear little soul, he thought. He wondered why she called him Bogy. Perhaps it was a way little ladies had of addressing their inferiors.