CINDERELLA'S PRINCE

BY

MARIAN I. HURRELL

Author of

"His Guiding Star," "Megsy's Influence."

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 Bouverie Street & 65 St. Paul's Churchyard

CONTENTS

CHAP.

I. CINDERELLA

II. BRUNO TO THE RESCUE

III. LITTLE ELLA'S PRAYER

IV. CINDERELLA'S FAIRY GODMOTHER

V. CINDERELLA AT SCHOOL

VI. ELLA'S DISGRACE

VII. TRUTH WILL OUT

VIII. GERTIE'S PENITENCE

IX. A HOMESICK MONKEY

X. FIRE!

XI. ELLA'S BURDENS

XII. CINDERELLA'S PRINCE

CINDERELLA'S PRINCE

CHAPTER I

CINDERELLA

"ROSE COTTAGE is let at last!"

"How do you know?"

The question was asked by three somewhat excited young people in chorus.

"Because I saw a van-load of furniture there this afternoon."

Kenneth Snowden, aged twelve, looked as he felt, highly pleased with himself in being able to impart such interesting information to his brother and sisters.

"I wonder who in the world has taken that little hole of a place." This from Rupert, Kenneth's twin brother. "I'd as soon live in a rabbit-hutch as there."

"A rabbit-hutch would just suit you, with your long ears," laughed Kenneth, his eyes twinkling with fun.

Rupert was in no wise offended at his brother's personal remark, nor at the giggles with which it was greeted by his sisters, Gertie and Marcia.

"I'd rather have long ears," said he, "than a freckly nose like yours, old chap. But now," he went on, "what about Rose Cottage? Did you see anything of the people who have taken it?"

"Yes," was the prompt reply. "I saw an old woman and a little girl get out of a cab. They were plainly dressed, both of 'em; but somehow I don't fancy they were common people."

"Common people!" It was Nurse who here spoke. She was sitting by the window at needlework, doing her best to catch the receding winter daylight. "I should just think they are not indeed," said she. "Mrs. Russell, the lady who has taken Rose Cottage, used to be so rich that she could have curled her hair in banknotes if she had chosen to do so."

If Nurse had wished to create a sensation, she had succeeded. Four pairs of eyes greeted hers with excited interest. It was little seven-year-old Marcia, however, who first spoke—

"Oh, how funny!" she cried. "Fancy curling your hair in banknotes. Do people ever do such things, Nurse?"

"Of course not, you little silly!" cried Gertie, with the wisdom of ten years. "Be quiet, and let your elders talk."

Little Marcia, thus snubbed, relapsed for a while into silence.

"What made the old lady poor, Nurse?" asked Kenneth. "She must be jolly hard-up to take a place like Rose Cottage."

"She lost her money in a big bank smash," replied Nurse; "and since that time she's been so proud and unsociable she won't have anything to do with anybody. My sister used to be her maid; that's how I know."

"I wonder if she'll let the little girl be friends with us," said Marcia, with a wistful note in her voice.

"I don't suppose she will. Poor little motherless Ella!" Here Nurse sighed and looked very sympathetic. "She has rather a hard time of it, I should fancy."

"What about her father?" questioned Rupert.

"Oh, he's away, trying to make his fortune in Africa."

At this moment the tea-bell rang, and the conversation ended; but Nurse had said enough to rouse a great interest in the hearts of her young charges concerning the new inmates of Rose Cottage.

As it happened, Kenneth was the first of the Snowden family to make the acquaintance of little Ella Russell. Their meeting was in this wise.

A day or two after the inmates of Rose Cottage had settled in their new abode, Kenneth chanced to see Ella standing in the garden.

Rose Cottage was situated close to the large white gates which led to Berryland Hall—the residence of the Snowden family—hence the children's interest in the tiny abode.

It was a bleak January morning, and little Ella, with a dust-pan in her hand, was about to sprinkle cinder ashes on the garden path. It was in an exceedingly slippery state owing to the frost.

"Hullo, Cinderella!" said Kenneth with a twinkle in his eye. "What are you doing that for?"

"Because it's so slippery," replied the child with a certain little dignity; "and my name isn't 'Cinderella,' please."

"No, but that's what I'm going to call you. Your name is Ella, isn't it?"

"Yes, but how did you know?" Little Ella looked surprised.

"A little bird told me," said Kenneth mysteriously. "And as we are getting friendly over the cinders, you see, it's just the right name for you."

For a moment Ella looked doubtful as to whether to be cross or pleased at her new name, but her natural sweet temper soon came to the fore.

"If I'm Cinderella," she said, "I know who's the Prince."

"Who?" questioned Kenneth with interest.

"Father is," she answered confidentially; "when he comes home, Grannie and I are going to live in a big house again, and we shan't be poor any more."

"That'll be jolly for you, won't it?"

Kenneth was beginning to feel much interested in this little girl with the pretty blue eyes and brown curly hair.

"Yes, I should just think it will," said Ella; "but I mustn't stop talking any more. Grannie will be ever so cross if she—"

The rest of the sentence was never finished, for little Ella, in turning round to fulfil her task, suddenly slipped and fell to the ground.

A cry of unmistakable pain came from her lips, and then she grew so dreadfully white that Kenneth was frightened.

"I say, you aren't hurt much, are you?" he asked in anxious concern.

"It's—it's my arm," sobbed out the child. "I'm afraid—afraid—"

The little voice died away. Poor "Cinderella" had well-nigh fainted with the pain of a broken arm.

Kenneth, now thoroughly alarmed, rushed to the cottage door and shouted his loudest.

"Gracious me! Whatever is the matter?" It was old Mrs. Russell who answered his call, the one little maid which the household boasted having gone into the town shopping.

"It's Cinder—the little girl, I mean," cried Kenneth agitatedly; "she's tumbled down and hurt her arm."

"You pushed her, I suppose; you great rough boy!" was the old lady's harsh reply. She was so upset that she felt she must scold somebody.

"No—no, I didn't; she fell, and now she's fainted."

"Rubbish!" was the ejaculation. "Ella," she went on, calling in a thin, shrill voice, "pick yourself up, like a good girl, and come in out of the cold. Be quick about it, too."

There was real anxiety in her tone, but to Kenneth it sounded horribly cross and unsympathetic.

At this moment poor little Ella opened her eyes, her faintness being only of a slight nature.

With Kenneth's aid, for Mrs. Russell was afraid to venture herself upon the slippery pathway without her stick, she managed to get up and walk slowly to the house.

Mrs. Russell's keen eyes soon saw that the child's left arm was broken, and her first thought was for a doctor. Kenneth, guessing what was in her mind, suggested that he should run for Dr. Soames, who lived not far off. The old lady's face softened at his thoughtfulness.

"You are a sensible lad," said she, "and I shall be much obliged if you will."

Kenneth needed no second bidding, but hurried off for Dr. Soames as fast as his legs could carry him.

CHAPTER II

BRUNO TO THE RESCUE

"YOU'RE late home to dinner, Ken."

"I know I am, mother, but I couldn't help it," said Kenneth, as he slipped into the vacant place at the dinner table; "something really quite exciting has happened."

"What is it?" asked Rupert and Gertie in a breath, while Marcia's wondering eyes put the same question.

"Ella Russell, down at Rose Cottage, has broken her arm, and I've been to fetch Dr. Soames for her."

Mrs. Snowden's sweet, motherly face wore a look of concern.

"How did it happen?" she asked.

Kenneth then gave a graphic account of what had taken place, much to the interest of his listeners.

"Can't you go and see her, mother, this afternoon?" he said at the close of his story. "She's an awfully jolly little girl, and plucky, too."

Mrs. Snowden looked thoughtful for a moment.

"I'll call, dear Ken, certainly," she said; "but I don't know whether I shall be welcomed or not."

"Mother!"

Four voices said this in unison, for the idea of "mother" not being welcomed seemed incredible.

To the four young Snowdens, their mother represented all that was beautiful and sweet, and little wonder that it was so, for her personality was winsome and charming to a degree.

Of their father they had no vivid recollection, he having died from the effects of an accident in the hunting-field when Marcia was a wee girl of three.

"I am sure you will have a welcome, mother," went on Kenneth; "at least from Cinderella—her grandmother, too, is all right when you know her."

"How silly it sounds to call a child like that 'Cinderella,'" said Gertie, rather scornfully, for somehow Kenneth's praises of Ella Russell did not please her at all.

"I don't call it silly!" Here Marcia put her spoke in the wheel. "I think it sounds pretty."

"Cinderella is my name for her, whether you like it or not," said Kenneth obstinately.

"And you would like me to be her Fairy Godmother, Ken; isn't that so?" asked Mrs. Snowden with a smile.

It was no new thing for Kenneth to plead the cause of the lonely or helpless, for unselfishness and consideration for others were very prominent traits in his character.

Rupert was by far the more brilliant of the two, so much so, that at school the twins were called the Hare and the Tortoise. Nevertheless, as in proof of the truth of the fable, more than once the steady-going tortoise had outstripped the hare.

That self-same afternoon Mrs. Snowden, bidding the four children keep out of mischief, wended her way to Rose Cottage to inquire after the little sufferer. After which she was going to the village, bent on various errands of mercy.

"I vote we have a bit of fun this afternoon to amuse ourselves," said Rupert, soon after his mother's back was turned; "what say you youngsters to a slide on Barwell's pond?"

Gertie and Marcia looked delighted at the idea, but not so Kenneth. Barwell's pond was deep, and the ice there was showing signs of a thaw. He knew, for he had tested it that very morning.

"No, Rupert," he said very decidedly. "Barwell's pond isn't safe; why not try the Ravensbourne?"

"The Ravensbourne! Pooh, a dirty little ditch like that!" retorted Rupert. "I dare say it would suit a tortoise like you, but it won't suit me. What do you say, girls?"

Gertie, who was fully as adventurous as Rupert, scoffed at the idea of Barwell's pond not being safe, but Kenneth held his own.

"No, Rupert," he said; "we mustn't do it, old chap. I wouldn't have an accident there for anything."

Rupert here gave Gertie a knowing look, as much as to say, "Hold your tongue!"

And a few minutes after, Kenneth, thinking the matter settled, went out of doors with the object of taking Bruno—his own magnificent Newfoundland—for a run.

As soon as the lad had passed out of earshot, Rupert turned to the girls.

"Did you ever know such an old woman as Ken is!" he said, looking a trifle cross. "I believe, because he's the elder twin, he thinks he's 'father' to us all."

Marcia, in Ken's defence, spoke up bravely: "Ken isn't an old woman," retorted she; "he's better than any of us, really."

"I don't deny he's a good chap," was Rupert's reply; "but I wish he wasn't quite so fussy."

"If Ken says the ice isn't safe, I shan't go," declared Marcia.

"Well, he has said so, you little goose; so you'd better stop at home." This from Gertie.

"No, I shan't; it'll be too lonely. If you go, I shall go."

And so it was settled, and before twenty minutes had elapsed, the three younger members of the Snowden family, unknown to either Nurse or Kenneth, were enjoying themselves to their hearts' content on Barwell's pond.

"What a silly Ken was to be afraid!" cried Gertie, her cheeks glowing with the exercise. "Why, the ice is as firm as a rock."

"Yes. I only wish I'd brought my skates," replied Rupert. "I will to-morrow if it lasts like this."

"Do you think mother would mind about our coming here this afternoon?" said Marcia, who possessed a very tender conscience. "I wish, somehow, we'd asked her first."

Gertie inwardly wished the same, but fear of Rupert's ridicule kept her silent.

Meanwhile, Kenneth was having a first-rate ramble with his beloved dog. He decided to return home by the roads which led round Barwell's Farm, these being in good condition for a run. This he did, and was very soon in close quarters to the pond.

Presently, to his horror, a piercing scream rent the air, which was followed by another, and yet another.

He tore round the bend of the road which hid the pond from view, and there, in an instant, he realized what had happened. Rupert and Gertie, looking frantic with despair, were shrieking for aid, as well they might, for little Marcia had sunk beneath a hole in the ice. For one moment Kenneth's heart seemed to stand still within him for fear, and then, realizing that prompt action was necessary, he made his way with Bruno towards the dread spot.

"Get back!" he cried to Rupert and Gertie, for the ice seemed to be cracking all around.

With agonized faces the children obeyed, and Kenneth was left to the work of rescue.

"I'll save her," he added; "leave her to me and Bruno."

At this moment poor little Marcia's white, terrified face appeared above the water.

She had been sliding apart from the others where, as it happened, the ice was exceedingly thin, and unable to bear her weight. Kenneth, with never a thought of his own personal safety, made his way as far as he dared, and here it was that good old Bruno showed his mettle.

"Save her, Bruno!" he shouted. "Save her; good dog!"

Again little Marcia was rising to the surface, and the huge Newfoundland, smashing the ice right and left with his weight, plunged into the cold water. In another minute he had gripped Marcia's frock, and was making his way back to his master. In less time than it takes to relate, poor little unconscious Marcia was in Kenneth's strong keeping. By means of lying full length on the ice, the boy was able to stretch out his arms to seize the child, and in this position he dragged her, with great difficulty, beyond danger point.

Meanwhile, Rupert and Gertie, with strained and terrified eyes, were watching the proceedings from the bank. Their joy, when Kenneth joined them with Marcia in his arms, was quite unspeakable. Never in all their lives had they known such a terrible five minutes as those through which they had just passed.

"We shall have to carry her home," said Kenneth, his voice quivering with agitation; "she's quite unconscious."

Gertie looked at the little blue-cold face, with its closed eyes, and then burst into hysterical sobbing.

"Oh, Ken, she's dead; I know she is, and Rupert and I have killed her," she cried. "Oh, what shall we do—what shall we do?"

"She's not dead," answered Kenneth gravely. "I know, because I saw her eyelids move, but we must get her home as quickly as we can."

It was a very sad and subdued little party which wended its way into the lonely country road towards Berryland Hall. Kenneth found Marcia's weight too heavy to allow of quick walking. Presently, in rounding a corner, they came full tilt upon Dr. Soames, who was driving in his roomy, old-fashioned carriage towards the village.

In a moment the horse was brought to a standstill, and the doctor speedily alighted.

"Hullo!" said he. "What's wrong with Marcia?"

He had known the children from babyhood, and in spite of their many faults and, at times, harum-scarum ways, was much attached to them all. The children's relief at seeing the doctor was unbounded.

"Marcia's been very nearly drowned," vouchsafed Gertie hysterically, "and we're taking her home. Oh, please, doctor dear, see if you can't do something for her."

In a trice the good man took her from Kenneth's keeping, and was very soon feeling her pulse, with an anxious expression on his kind, clever face.

CHAPTER III

LITTLE ELLA'S PRAYER

DR. SOAMES then re-seated himself in the carriage, with the poor little dripping burden in his arms, the coachman being bidden to drive with all possible speed to Berryland Hall. Little did Mrs. Snowden dream, as she made her way homewards in the January dusk, of the trouble and anxiety which were awaiting her. Her visit to Rose Cottage had been of a most unsatisfactory nature, the little maid there informing her that "Missis didn't want to see any visitors, and that Miss Ella was suffering great pain with her arm."

The lady was so unused to being treated in this manner, that her feelings were considerably hurt. Upon arriving home, however, all else was forgotten in the shock of hearing of little Marcia's accident.

The news was broken to her by the doctor himself, who at the same time informed her that the child's condition was more or less critical.

The first one to bring the tidings to Rose Cottage was the baker's boy, who gave Molly, Mrs. Russell's maid, a most vivid and graphic account of the whole affair, the story losing nothing in the telling.

Molly, with big round eyes, made her way into her mistress's presence as soon as the boy had gone, the loaf still in her hand.

"What's the matter, Molly?" said Mrs. Russell in a thin querulous voice. She was sitting, with little Ella by her side, over a small fire in the tiny parlour.

"Poor little Miss Marcia, up at the Hall, has been nearly drowned," was the reply; "the baker's boy don't think she'll live out the day, and Mrs. Snowden is fit to break her heart over it."

Little Ella's face, pale already from the effects of her accident, grew paler than ever.

"Oh, Grannie," she cried, "it can't be true. I saw her pass only a day or two ago, and she looks such a darling little girl."

Ella, from her standpoint of ten years, felt quite grown up compared with little Marcia.

"I'm afraid, Ella, there's some truth in it," replied the old lady; "I saw the doctor going to the Hall quite early this morning."

Ella looked ready to cry. "Couldn't you go and call, Grannie," said the little girl pleadingly, "to see how she is? Just think how kind her brother was to me! Oh, if only we could do something for them!"

A little flush came into Mrs. Russell's withered cheeks.

"Oh no, I couldn't think of it," she answered sharply. "Molly can go up with my card and make inquiries; that will be quite sufficient."

Little Ella subsided into silence, and a short while afterwards she made her way upstairs to the tiny bedroom which she occupied, there to shed tears of pity for Marcia. Then, on a sudden, she remembered that there was something else she could do, which would be better than crying.

Certain words which her mother had said to her before she left for the Better Land, some two years previously, were wafted to her mind.

"Remember, my little Ella," she had said, "that there is nothing too big or too little to tell God about. He is our loving Heavenly Father, who has promised never to leave or forsake His children who trust in Him."

The words were as balm to the sad-hearted child, and, acting on a sudden impulse, she knelt down beside her little white bed and poured forth her soul in prayer.

"Dear Lord God," she pleaded, "I want You so much to make little Marcia Snowden well again, if it is Your holy will. And I would like to ask You something else as well, if I may. Please will You let us all be friends, Mrs. Snowden and the boys and girls up at the Hall. I feel so lonely, dear Lord God, sometimes, with my dear daddy so far away, and mother up in heaven with You. And please make me a good little girl, and kind and loving to Grannie, for Jesus' sake, Amen."

After this petition, somehow little Ella felt better.

"Now," said she to herself, "I am going to wait God's answer. I feel certain He has heard me, although heaven is such a long way off."

At this moment her Grannie called her downstairs, and, dashing away the teardrops from her eyes, the little maid obeyed with a cheerful heart.

* * * *

Two days later Kenneth Snowden presented himself at Rose Cottage with a note from his mother to Mrs. Russell. The old lady, bidding the boy be seated in the tiny parlour, opened it and read as follows—