Brave and True | Page 5

Don't you cry, little missy; he's on'y swallowed more water than's good for him. Now then, perk up, my lad."
Poor Ned's eyes opened at this, and he stared wildly at the man, then, as if utterly bewildered, at Cook, and lastly at Tizzy, who clung sobbing to him, where he had been laid on the grass, streaming with water.
"Tiz!" he cried faintly.
"Teddy! Teddy!" she wailed. "Oh, don't die! What would poor Mamma do?"
"Die?" he said confusedly. "Why--what? Here," he cried, as recollection came back with a rush, "oh, Tizzy, don't say you've lost the kite!"
"Lost the kite!" cried Cook, furiously now. "Oh, you wicked, wicked boy! What will your Mar say?"
"As she was precious glad I was a-comin' by," said the man, grinning. "There: don't scold the youngster, missus. It was all an accident, wasn't it, squire? But, I say, next time you climb a tree don't you trust them poplars, for they're as brittle as sere-wood. There: you're all right now, aren't you?"
"Yes," said Ned. "Did you pull me out?"
"To be sure I did."
"Then there's a threepenny-piece for you," said Ned. "I haven't got any more."
"Then you put it back in your pocket, my lad, to buy something for your little sis. I don't want to be paid for that."
"You wait till his poor Mar comes home," cried Cook excitedly, "and I'm sure she'll give you a bit of gold."
"Nay," growled the man. "I've got bairns of my own. I don't want to be paid. Yes, I do," he said quickly; "will you give me a kiss, little one, for pulling brother out?"
Tizzy's face lit up with smiles, as she held up her hands to be caught up, and the next moment her little white face was pressed against a brown one, her arms closing round the bargeman's neck, as she kissed him again and again.
"Thank you, thank you, sir," she babbled. "It was so good of you, and I love you very, very much."
"Hah!" sighed the man, as he set her down softly. "Now take brother's hand and run home with him to get some dry clothes. Morning, missus. He won't hurt."
He turned away sharply and went back to his barge, from which he looked at the little party running across the meadow, Cook sobbing and laughing as she held the children's hands tightly in her own.
"And such a great, big, ugly man, ma'am," Cook said to her mistress, when she was telling all what had passed.
The tears of thankfulness were standing in Mrs Lester's eyes, and several of them dropped like pearls, oddly enough, just as she was thinking that the outsides of diamonds are sometimes very rough.
CHAPTER THREE.
A GRATEFUL INDIAN, BY HELEN MARION BURNSIDE.
Jem could not walk any farther; his ankle was badly hurt, there was no doubt of that, and, brave little lad though he was, his heart sank within him, for he knew all the consequences which might ensue from such a disaster. It was not the pain that daunted him--Jem would have scorned the imputation; neither did he fear to spend a night in the forest--he could sleep under a tree as soundly as in his own bed under the rafters of his Father's cabin. It was warm dry weather, and he had a hunch of bread in his pocket; there was nothing therefore to be afraid of except Indians, and his Father said there were none in the neighbourhood at present.
Jem's mind would have been quite easy on his own account, but he was on his way through the forest to a village on the farther boundary to obtain some medicine for his sick Mother, which the doctor had desired she might have without fail that very night. Our hero, though but eleven years old, had just finished a long day's work, and it was already dusk, but he loved his Mother dearly, and gladly volunteered for the ten-mile walk to fetch the medicine; he did not even wait to eat his supper, but, putting it in his pocket to munch on the way, trotted off on his errand.
Jem's Father was a small farmer, who had built his own log cabin and cleared his own fields, with no other assistance than that of his little son; this was, however, by no means small, for frontier boys are, of necessity, brought up to be helpful, hardy, and self-denying. Jem therefore felt his life of incessant labour and deprivation no hardship: he was as happy and merry as the day was long. But the misfortune that had now fallen upon the brave little man was so severe and unexpected, he did not know how to bear it. The thought of the dear, suffering Mother waiting patiently for the medicine which would relieve her, and of the anxious, careworn Father, who would look so vainly