A tale of three weeks

Left Behind.

"WHAT do you think?" exclaimed Katie Bartlett, as she came slowly into the schoolroom, where her two younger sisters were engaged in preparing the tables for school; "what do you think is going to happen?"

"Is it something nice?" asked Gertie, bright-looking child of eight. She spoke in a doubtful tone, for Kate did not look like the bearer of cheering news.

"Nice! I should think not, indeed," returned Katie, dolefully; "papa and mamma have made up their minds to go away; they are going to the seaside."

"Oh, you don't mean it!" cried Gertie and Florrie together, as they clapped their hands; "why, that is splendid news, Katie! How could you say it was not?"

"Well! you are sillies!" exclaimed Kate, in a tone of sisterly contempt; "do you suppose that we are going too? I never said so."

The faces of her sisters fell considerably.

"But are we not going?" they asked.

"No, indeed! Nurse and baby and little Winnie are to go with papa and mamma; but we three and Harry are to be left at home with Miss Jameson."

"Oh, how horrid! what a shame!" cried the children, and tears came into Florrie's blue eyes as she added: "We have not been to the seaside at all this year."

"Papa says that we must not expect to go every year," said Kate, speaking in an injured tone. "He says we had holidays enough before Miss Jameson came to us, and now we must work hard to make up for lost time."

"And are we to have school every day whilst they are away?" asked Gertie, looking troubled.

"Certainly; I don't believe Miss Jameson will let us off a single hour," said Kate, gloomily.

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Florrie, who delighted in strong language.

At this moment, their governess entered the room. She was a pleasant-looking young lady, with dark hair and dark eyes, and a resolute but cheerful expression.

"Come, children, what are you chattering about, and the table not yet ready?" she said, briskly; "what is the meaning of this?"

"Oh, Miss Jameson! have you heard?" asked Florrie. "Papa and mamma are going away, and we are to be left at home! Is it not a shame?"

"Hush, hush!" exclaimed Miss Jameson, "you know I never allow little girls to speak in that way of anything their elders may do. And I can't think why you should make a grievance of this. You ought to be glad that your dear mamma is going away. You know that she is very far from well, and the doctor has insisted upon her having a change."

"Of course I am glad that mamma should go," said Kate; "but why can't she take us too? We have not been to the seaside this summer."

"How much quiet and rest would your poor mother get, I wonder, if she took you all with her," said Miss Jameson, smiling.

"It will be horrid without her," said Florrie, impatiently. "With baby and Winnie and papa gone too, the house will seem wretched. We shall be perfectly miserable all the time they are away."

"Poor things!" said Miss Jameson, still smiling, "what a dreadful prospect! Are we all so disagreeable to each other that it will be impossible to find any pleasant way of passing the time together?"

"Oh no; oh no!" cried little Gertie, as she took her usual place at the table beside her governess, and contrived in so doing to get possession of Miss Jameson's hand and give it a kiss. "You will be with us, and you are always so kind. You will tell us stories sometimes of an evening, and let us hear your musical box, won't you?"

"We'll see, if you're good children," said the governess. "Now, Katie and Florrie, take your places."

But the two elder girls did not consider that Miss Jameson's stories or the performance of her musical box could make up for their losing the pleasure of a visit to the seaside. They were inclined to nurse their grievance, and they took their seats at the table with gloomy looks and pouting lips. They tried their governess's patience that morning, which was very unfair, since she was in no way responsible for the arrangement their parents had made.

It was a lovely autumn morning early in October. The schoolroom windows looked into the large garden lying at the back of the house—a roomy old-fashioned house in the neighbourhood of Richmond. Few children have a happier home than the little Bartletts enjoyed. Their father was a well-to-do man of business, able to provide for his family every comfort and advantage that could be reasonably desired. They had a tender mother, who anxiously studied the welfare of her children, though her delicate health made it impossible for her to do as much for them herself as she wished. The children were surrounded by all that is pleasant and stimulating to childhood; though, like many children, they little knew how happy they were, but were ready to grumble and get out of temper directly anything occurred that was not to their liking.

Two days later, Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett left home for Bournemouth, where they proposed staying for a fortnight or three weeks. Their departure caused no small stir in the household. Miss Jameson's help was needed in various directions that morning; and her pupils, freed from her control, rushed hither and thither watching all that went on, and distracting their elders by the innumerable questions they put. Little Winnie was in a high state of delight at the thought of going away with papa and mamma; but baby was not aware the event was matter for self-congratulation, and screamed and struggled tremendously whilst being dressed for the journey. At last everything was done, and the carriage waiting at the door. Mr. Bartlett turned to say good-bye to the sad-faced group of children gathered in the hall.

"I hope they'll be very good whilst we are away, Miss Jameson," he observed; "I shall look to you for a report of their conduct when we return. I daresay you won't keep them closely to their lessons. A little more time in the open air occasionally will do them no harm."

At these words the gloom on the girls' faces gave place to a gleam of satisfaction. They gave quick glances at each other, and there was the fervour of gratitude in the warmth with which they kissed their father.

Tears stood in Mrs. Bartlett's eyes as she said good-bye to her little girls. She was leaving home reluctantly in deference to her husband's wish. She could not believe that the change would effect much improvement in her health. She lingered on the doorstep to whisper to Miss Jameson, as she pressed some money into her hand: "It does seem hard that they cannot go with us, poor dears; but I know you won't let them be dull. Take this and spend it for them on new dolls or books—on anything you think they will most enjoy."

"You need not fear that the 'poor dears' will fret long," said the governess, brightly. "If you could look in upon them unseen this evening, you would not find any trace of dulness, I dare promise you."

And thus cheered, Mrs. Bartlett stepped into the carriage, and in a few moments they drove away.

The spirits of the children quickly revived as the noise of the carriage wheels died away.

"Did you hear what papa said? Wasn't it lovely of him? You will have to give us some holidays now, Miss Jameson. Oh, may we have a picnic in the park some day when the nuts are ripe? We must have a whole holiday on Gertie's birthday; we always do on birthdays."

But Miss Jameson only laughed and shook her head as she listened to these exclamations. She was not going to promise anything, she said. All would depend on how they behaved themselves.