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_ If Sancho's abduction made a stir, one may easily
imagine with what warmth and interest he was
welcomed back when his wrongs and wanderings
were known. For several days he held regular levees,
that curious boys and sympathizing girls might see
and pity the changed and curtailed dog. Sancho behaved
with dignified affability, and sat upon his mat
in the coach-house pensively eying his guests, and
patiently submitting to their caresses; while Ben and
Thorny took turns to tell the few tragical facts which
were not shrouded in the deepest mystery. If the
interesting sufferer could only have spoken, what
thrilling adventures and hair-breadth escapes he might
have related. But, alas! he was dumb; and the secrets
of that memorable month never were revealed.
The lame paw soon healed, the dingy color slowly
yielded to many washings, the woolly coat began to
knot up into little curls, a new collar, handsomely
marked, made him a respectable dog, and Sancho
was himself again. But it was evident that his sufferings
were not forgotten; his once sweet temper was a
trifle soured; and, with a few exceptions, he had lost
his faith in mankind. Before, he had been the most
benevolent and hospitable of dogs; now, he eyed all
strangers suspiciously, and the sight of a shabby man
made him growl and bristle up, as if the mernory of
his wrongs still burned hotly within him.
Fortunately, his gratitude was stronger than his
resentment, and he never seemed to forget that he
owed his life to Betty, -- running to meet her whenever
she appeared, instantly obeying her commands,
and suffering no one to molest her when he walked
watchfully beside her, with her hand upon his neck,
as they had walked out of the almost fatal backyard
together, faithful friends for ever.
Miss Celia called them little Una and her lion, and
read the pretty story to the childien when they
wondered what she meant. Ben, with great pains,
taught the dog to spell "Betty," and surprised her
with a display of this new accomplishment, which
gratified her so much that she was never tired of
seeing Sanch paw the five red letters into place, then
come and lay his nose in her hand, as if he added,
"That's the name of my dear mistress."
Of course Bab was glad to have eveiything pleasant
and friendly again; but in a little dark corner of her
heart there was a drop of envy, and a despeiate desire
to do something which would make every one in
her small world like and piaise her as they did Betty.
Trying to be as good and gentle did not satisfy her;
she must do something brave or surprising, and no
chance for distinguishing herself in that way seemed
likely to appear. Betty was as fond as ever, and
the boys were very kind to her; but she felt that
they both liked "little Beteinda," as they called her,
best, because she found Sanch, and never seemed to know
that she had done any thing brave in defending
him against all odds. Bab did not tell any one how
she felt, but endeavored to be amiable, while waiting
for her chance to come; and, when it did arrive,
made the most of it, though there was nothing heroic
to add a charm.
Miss Celia's arm had been doing very well, but
would, of course, be useless for some time longer.
Finding that the afternoon readings amused herself
as much as they did the children, she kept them
up, and brought out all her old favorites enjoying a
double pleasure in seeing that her young audience
relished them as much as she did when a child for
to all but Thorny they were brand new. Out of one
of these stories came much amusement for all, and
satisfaction for one of the party.
"Celia, did you bring our old bows?" asked her
brother, eagerly, as she put down the book from
which she had been reading Miss Edgeworth's capital
story of "Waste not Want not; or, Two Strings
to your Bow."
"Yes, I brought all the playthings we left stored
away in uncle's garret when we went abroad. The
bows are in the long box where you found the mallets,
fishing-rods, and bats. The old quivers and a
few arrows are there also, I believe. What is the
idea now? asked Miss Celia in her turn, as Thorny
bounced up in a great hurry.
"I'm going to teach Ben to shoot. Grand fun
this hot weather; and by-and-by we'll have an
archery meeting, and you can give us a prize. Come
on, Ben. I've got plenty of whip-cord to rig up the
bows, and then we'll show the ladies some first-class
shooting."
"I can't; never had a decent bow in my life. The
little gilt one I used to wave round when I was a
Coopid wasn't worth a cent to go," answered Ben,
feeling as if that painted "prodigy" must have been
a very distant connection of the respectable young
person now walking off arm in arm with the lord of
the manor.
"Practice is all you want. I used to be a capital
shot, but I don't believe I could hit any thing but a
barn-door now," answered Thorny, encouragingly.
As the boys vanished, with much tramping of boots
and banging of doors, Bab observed, in the young-
ladyish tone she was apt to use when she composed
her active little mind and body to the feminine task
of needlework, --
"We used to make bows of whalebone when we
were little girls, but we are too old to play so now."
"I'd like to, but Bab won't, 'cause she 's most
'leven years old," said honest Betty, placidly rubbing
her needle in the "ruster," as she called the family
emery-bag.
"Grown people enjoy archery, as bow and arrow
shooting is called, especially in England. I was
reading about it the other day, and saw a picture of
Queen Victoria with her bow; so you needn't be
ashamed of it, Bab," said Miss Celia, rummaging
among the books and papers in her sofa corner to
find the magazine she wanted, thinking a new play
would be as good for the girls as for the big boys.
"A queen, just think!" and Betty looked much impressed
by the fact, as well as uplifted by the knowledge
that her friend did not agree in thinking her
silly because she preferred playing with a halmless
home-made toy to firing stones or snapping a pop-gun.
"In old times, bows and arrows were used to fight
great battles with; and we read how the English archers
shot so well that the air was dark with arrows, and
many men were killed."
"So did the Indians have 'em; and I've got some
stone arrow-heads, -- found 'em by the river, in the
dirt!" cried Bab, waking up, for battles interested her
more than queens.
"While you finish your stints I'll tell you a little
story about the Indians," said Miss Celia, lying
back on her cushions, while the needles began to
go again, for the piospect of a story could not be
resisted.
"A century or more ago, in a small settlement on
the banks of the Connecticut, -- which means the Long
River of Pines, -- there lived a little girl called Matty
Kilburn. On a hill stood the fort where the people ran
for protection in any danger, for the country was new
and wild, and more than once the Indians had come
down the river in their canoes and burned the houses,
killed men, and carried away women and children.
Matty lived alone with her father, but felt quite safe
in the log house, for he was never far away. One
afternoon, as the farmers were all busy in their fields,
the bell rang suddenly, -- a sign that there was danger
near, -- and, dropping their rakes or axes, the men
hurried to their houses to save wives and babies, and
such few treasures as they could. Mr. Kilburn caught
up his gun with one hand and his little girl with the
other, and ran as fast as he could toward the fort. But
before he could reach it he heard a yell, and saw the
red men coming up from the river. Then he knew it
would be in vain to try to get in, so he looked about for
a safe place to hide Matty till he could come for her.
He was a brave man, and could fight, so he had no
thought of hiding while his neighbors needed help;
but the dear little daughter must he cared for first.
"In the corner of the lonely pasture which they
dared not cross, stood a big hollow elm, and there the
farmer hastily hid Matty, dropping her down into the
dim nook, round the mouth of which youg shoots had
grown, so that no one would have suspected any hole
was there.
"Lie still, child, till I come; say your prayers and
wait for father,' said the man, as he parted the leaves
for a last glance at the small, frightened face looking up
at him.
"' Come soon,' whispered Matty, and tried to smile
bravely, as a stout settler's girl should.
"Mr. Kilburn went away, and was taken prisoner
in the fight, carried off, and for years no one knew
whether he was alive or dead. People missed Matty,
but supposed she was with her father, and never
expected to see her again. A great while afterward the
poor man came back, having escaped and made his way
through the wilderness to his old home. His first question
was for Matty, but no one had seen her; and when
he told them where he had left her, they shook their
heads as if they thought he was crazy. But they
went to look, that he might be satisfied; and he was;
for they they found some little bones, some faded
bits of cloth, and two rusty silver buckles marked with
Matty's name in what had once been her shoes. An
Indian arrow lay there, too, showing why she had
never cried for help, but waited patiently so long for
father to come and find her."
If Miss Celia expected to see the last bit of hem done
when her story ended, she was disappointed; for not a
dozen stitches had been taken. Betty was using her
crash towel for a handkerchief, and Bab's lay on the
ground as she listened with snapping eyes to the little
tragedy.
"Is it true?" asked Betty, hoping to find relief in
being told that it was not.
"Yes; I have seen the tree, and the mound where
the fort was, and the rusty buckles in an old farmhouse
where other Kilburns live, near the spot where it
all happened," answered Miss Celia, looking out the
picture of Victoria to console her auditors.
"We'll play that in the old apple-tree. Betty can
scrooch down, and I'll be the father, and put leaves on
her, and then I'll be a great Injun and fire at her. I
can make arrows, and it will be fun, won't it?" cried
Bab, charmed with the new drama in which she could
act the leading parts.
"No, it won't!" I don't like to go in a cobwebby
hole, and have you play kill me, I'll make a nice fort
of hay, and be all safe, and you can put Dinah down
there for Matty. I don't love her any more, now her
last eye has tumbled out, and you may shoot her just
as much as yon like."
Before Bab could agree to this satisfactory arrangement,
Thorny appeared, singing, as he aimed at a fat
robin, whose red waistcoat looked rather warm and
winterish that August day, --
"So he took up his bow,
And he feathered his arrow,
And said, 'I will shoot
This little cock-sparrow.'"
But he didn't," chirped the robin, flying away,
with a contemptuous flirt of his rusty-black tail.
"That is exactly what you must promise not to do,
boys. Fire away at your targets as much as you like,
but do not harm any living creature," said Miss Celia,
as Ben followed armed and equipped with her own long-
unused accoutrements.
"Of course we won't if you say so; but, with a little
practice, I could bring down a bird as well as that
fellow you read to me about with his woodpeckers and
larks and herons," answered Thorny, who had much
enjoyed the article, while his sister lamented over the
destruction of the innocent birds.
"You'd do well to borrow the Squire's old stuffed
owl for a target; there would be some chance of your
hitting him, he is so big," said his sister, who always
made fun of the boy when he began to brag.
Thorny's only reply was to send his arrow straight
up so far out of sight that it was a long while coming
down again to stick quivering in the ground near by,
whence Sancho brought it in his mouth, evidently
highly approving of a game in which he could join.
"Not bad for a beginning. Now, Ben, fire away."
But Ben's experience with bows was small, and, in
spite of his praiseworthy efforts to imitate his great
exemplar, the arrow only turned a feeble sort of somersault
and descended perilously near Bab's uplifted nose.
"If you endanger other people's life and liberty in
your pursuit of happiness, I shall have to confiscate
your arms, boys. Take the orchard for your archery
ground; that is safe, and we can see you as we sit
here. I wish I had two hands, so that I could paint
you a fine, gay target;" and Miss Celia looked
regretfully at the injured arm, which as yet was of
little use.
"I wish you could shoot, too; you used to beat all
the girls, and I was proud of you," answered Thorny,
with the air of a fond elder brother; though, at the
time he alluded to, he was about twelve, and hardly up
to his sister's shoulder.
"Thank you. I shall be happy to give my place to
Bab and Betty if you will make them some bows and
arrows; they could not use those long ones."
The young gentlemen did not take the hint as
quickly as Miss Celia hoped they would; in fact, both
looked rather blank at the suggestion, as boys generally
do when it is proposed that girls -- especially
small ones -- shall join in any game they are playing.
"P'r'aps it would be too much trouble," began
Betty, in her winning little voice.
"I can make my own," declared Bab, with an
independent toss of the head.
"Not a bit; I'll make you the jolliest small bow
that ever was, Belinda," Thorny hastened to say,
softened by the appealing glance of the little maid.
"You can use mine, Bab ; you've got such a strong
fist, I guess you could pull it," added Ben, remembering
that it would not be amiss to have a comrade who
shot worse than he did, for he felt very inferior to
Thorny in many ways, and, being used to praise, had
missed it very much since he retired to private life.
"I will be umpire, and brighten up the silver arrow
I sometimes pin my hair with, for a prize, unless we
can find something better," proposed Miss Celia, glad
to see that question settled, and every prospect of the
new play being a pleasant amusement for the hot
weather.
It was astonishing how soon archery became the
fashion in that town, for the boys discussed it
enthusiastically all that evening, formed the
"William Tell Club" next day, with Bab and Betty as
honorary members, and, before the week was out, nearly every
lad was seen, like young Norval, " With bended bow
and quiver full of arrows," shooting away, with a
charming disregard of the safety of their fellow
citizens. Banished by the authorities to secluded
spots, the members of the club set up their targets
and practised indefatigably, especially Ben, who soon
discovered that his early gymnastics had given hin a
sinewy arm and a true eye; and, taking Sanch into
partnership as picker-up, he got more shots out of an
hour than those who had to run to and fro.
Thorny easily recovered much of his former skill,
but his strength had not fully returned, and he soon
grew tired. Bab, on the contrary, threw herself into
the contest heart and soul, and tugged alvay at the
new bow Miss Celia gave her, for Ben's was too heavy.
No other girls were admitted, so the outsiders got up
a club of their own, and called it "The Victoria," the
name being suggested by the magazine article, which
went the rounds as a general guide and reference
book. Bab and Betty belonged to this club and
duly reported the doings of the boys, with whom they
had a right to shoot if they chose, but soon waived
the right, plainly seeing that their absence would be
regarded in the light of a favor.
The archery fever raged as fiercely as the base-ball
epidemic had done before it, and not only did the
magazine circulate freely, but Miss Edgeworth's story,
which was eagerly read, and so much admired that
the girls at once mounted green ribbons, and the
boys kept yards of whip-cord in their pockets like the
provident Benjamin of the tale.
Every one enjoyed the new play very much, and
something grew out of it which was a lasting pleasure
to many, long after the bows and arrows were forgotten.
Seeing how glad the children were to get a new
story, Miss Celia was moved to send a box of books
-- old and new -- to the town library, which was
but scantily supplied, as country libraries are apt to
be. This donation produced a good effect; for other
people hunted up all the volumes they could spare
for the same purpose, and the dusty shelves in the
little room behind the post-office filled up amazingly.
Coming in vacation time they were hailed with delight,
and ancient books of travel, as well as modern tales,
were feasted upon by happy young folks, with plenty
of time to enjoy them in peace.
The success of her first attempt at being a public
benefactor pleased Miss Celia veru much, and suggested
other ways in which she might serve the quiet
town, where she seemed to feel that work was waiting
for her to do. She said little to any one but the
friend over the sea, yet various plans were made then
that blossomed beautifully by-and-by. _
Read next: CHAPTER XIX. SPEAKING PIECES
Read previous: CHAPTER XVII. BETTY'S BRAVERY
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