Wonderful Garden

BY

ELEANORA H. STOOKE

Author of "Little Maid Marigold," "Little Soldiers All,"

"Whilst Father was Fighting," etc., etc.

R.T.S., 4, Bouverie Street, London, E.C.4.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. TRAVELLING COMPANIONS

II. THE JOURNEY'S END

III. BILLY HAS A FRIGHT

IV. SUNDAY

V. BILLY'S PRESENT

VI. GARDENING

VII. "COME LIFE, COME DEATH, THEY'RE SAFE"

VIII. GRANDFER'S SECRET

IX. THE BIRD PICTURE BOOK

X. SPRING

XI. GRANNY SURPRISES BILLY

XII. CONCLUSION

CHAPTER I.

TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

"OH, do you think the train is running away?"

The startled question came from a little dark-eyed, pale-faced boy of about ten years of age, who was making the journey from Paddington to Exeter by the fastest train which runs. He occupied a corner seat in a third-class compartment, his only companions being an elderly gentleman and a young soldier at the other end of the compartment. It was the young soldier who answered him.

"No, sonny," he said, smiling; "it's all right, I assure you. I've been over this line many times, and the train always puts on speed about here."

He moved along the carriage as he spoke, and took the place opposite the little boy. He was quite a lad himself, barely twenty, but tall and strongly made, with a bronzed complexion and very blue eyes. He peered out of the window for a minute into the mist—it was a dull November day—then gave his attention to the little boy again.

"Was that your father who saw you off at Paddington?" he asked pleasantly.

"Oh, no!" the little boy replied. "My father died years ago. That was the master of—of the Institution where I've been staying since—since my mother was killed. She was killed in the Zeppelin raid last month. She—she—"

He broke off with a choking sob, whilst a tear rolled down his cheek. He brushed the tear away with the back of his hand, and bit his quivering lip.

"Oh, I am sorry!" exclaimed the young soldier. "I've a mother myself, and I know what I should feel—" He stopped abruptly and turned again to the window. "Poor kiddie!" he muttered to himself.

"What's your name?" he asked, after a brief silence, looking at the little boy again.

"William Brown. I was called after my father, and he was called after his father. Mother always called me Billy."

"I like the name Billy," declared the young soldier. "My name's Tom—Tom Turpin. I've got leave from 'somewhere in France' for a few days, and am on my way home—that's a farm some miles from Exeter. My father's a farmer. I was to have been a farmer too but the year after I left school on came the war, and I enlisted right away in the Devons. I've been in several engagements already, and so far have come off without so much as a scratch."

"How glad you must be!" exclaimed Billy.

Tom Turpin nodded.

"I am," he said simply, "and more grateful to God than I can express. It would be a blow to my parents if anything happened to me—they not having another child; but they'd bear it bravely if it came to them, knowing it was for the best."

"Oh, how could it be for the best?" cried Billy. "Was it for the best that my mother was killed? I can't think that!"

"Not now, perhaps, but you may some day—though perhaps that day won't be till you see God face to face and understand—oh, a lot of things that are just one big mystery now!"

The young soldier looked at Billy very kindly, with a world of sympathy in his clear blue eyes. When he spoke again it was to say—

"If I live to see the end of the war I shall most likely lay aside the sword for the plough, for I love everything to do with the country—from being country born and bred, I suppose. You're town-bred, aren't you?"

"Yes," assented Billy, "I've always lived in London; but my father came from Devonshire, and now I'm to live in Devonshire, too."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, with my grandfather—my father's father. He's going to meet me at Exeter. I've never seen him, and I've been wondering what I shall do if I can't find him."

"Oh, he'll find you, I expect. But don't worry—it is always a bad plan to go to meet trouble. We shall find your grandfather all right, I've no doubt. Have you any idea what he's like?"

"No. I think he must be kind, for he used to write to mother sometimes and send her money—I suppose he knew she was very poor. And he'd always tell mother not to mention the money when she wrote—because, he said, he particularly didn't wish to be thanked."

"He must be a rather good sort, I should say."

"Oh, I hope so!"

The train was swaying less now, and Billy was no longer in fear that it was running away. He grew very confidential with Tom Turpin. By-and-by he spoke of the Zeppelin raid again.

"I don't remember much about it," he said. "It seems now just like a dream—a very bad dream. It was in the night, you see. I didn't know at the time that mother was killed, because I was stunned. I didn't know anything till I woke up in the hospital. I thought mother might be there, too, but she wasn't—she was dead. Then they took me to the Institution—that's the workhouse—and, afterwards, I told them about grandfather, and now—"

"And now I hope your troubles are nearly over," broke in the young soldier. "Come, cheer up! By the way, have you any sisters or brothers?"

Billy shook his head. "There was only mother and me," he replied with a stifled sob.

The mist was lifting slightly, so that they could see they were approaching beautifully wooded country. Tom Turpin's eyes smiled as they noted this.

"Nearing home!" he murmured to himself. Then, hearing the little boy sigh, he said, "You're nearing home, too, and I hope it's going to be a very happy home indeed."

"I don't think I shall ever be happy again!" declared Billy.

The young soldier was silent for several minutes, evidently not quite knowing what to say.

"Look here," he said at length, "there's just one thing I should like to ask you. Are you a Christian? Do you believe in Jesus Christ?"

"Why, yes," was the surprised answer, "of course I do."

"Well, then, you ought to know that you're only separated from your mother for a time. 'The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.' You'll be with your mother through all Eternity."

Billy looked at Tom Turpin with a brightening countenance. Why had he not thought of this before?

"I'd forgotten," he murmured, "quite forgotten."

"Thought you had!" said Tom. "Ah! Here's actually a gleam of sunshine, and very welcome it is, too. We shall soon reach Exeter now! You stick by me till you see your grandfather."

This Billy was very glad to do. When, the train having slackened speed gradually and stopped, he and Tom Turpin alighted on the platform at Exeter, he kept close to his new-found friend, whilst he looked about him anxiously. There were not a great many people on the platform, and in a minute he noticed a middle-sized man of about sixty, with a ruddy, good-tempered countenance and grizzled hair, who was clad in corduroy breeches and thick leggings, going from carriage to carriage, apparently in search of someone. The instant Tom Turpin caught sight of this individual he stepped up to him and clapped him on the shoulder, whilst he exclaimed—

"I'm back again like a bad penny, you see! How are you, Brown?"

The ruddy-faced man turned quickly, then caught the young soldier's hand and wrung it.

"Master Tom!" he cried, evidently delighted. "Ah, how glad your parents will be!"

"Won't they?" smiled Tom. "But I'm keeping you! Are you going on?"

"No, sir. I'm here to meet my grandson—my dead son's little boy—who's just lost his mother, poor child!"

"Oh, please, that's me!" cried Billy, stepping forward.

The ruddy-faced man gazed at the boy earnestly a minute, then gave a satisfied nod.

"Aye," he said, "I see the likeness to your father."

He took one of the little boy's hands in his work-hardened palm, and pressed it affectionately.

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Tom Turpin. "Now, why didn't I guess who he was? But he didn't say you lived at Ashleigh! And there are so many Browns! Why, we've travelled down from Paddington together and got quite friendly. And, now, how are you going to get home—by train?"

"No, sir. I've Jenny and the market trap outside the station."

"Oh, I see! Well, I'm going by train—shall be home before you most likely. Good-bye, both of you! See you again, Billy!"

"Oh, how splendid!" cried Billy. "Good-bye, Mr. Turpin! Good-bye!"

He and his grandfather watched the alert khaki-clad figure run up the stairs to get to another platform, then they looked for and found Billy's luggage—a box which William Brown shouldered quite easily. Three minutes later found them outside the station.

"Here's Jenny!" said William Brown. "Tired of waiting, eh, old girl?"

Jenny was a big white donkey, harnessed to a smart little market cart. She was very fat and very well groomed, and seemed, Billy thought, to understand what was said, for she turned her head slowly, and, having given her master a shrewd glance, fastened her gaze on his companion.

"We're going now, my beauty," William Brown told her, as he placed Billy's box in the back of the cart. "She doesn't like boys," he explained; "they tease her."

"I promise I won't!" exclaimed Billy. "What a fine donkey she is! I never saw such a large one before. Please, may I stroke her, Grandfather?"

"If you like. But don't let her nip you—she's quite capable of doing it."

Billy spoke to the donkey softly, and patted her on the side. To his grandfather's surprise Jenny stood quite still, and allowed herself to be caressed.

"She knows I won't hurt her," the little boy said. "What a long, grave face she has! And how thoughtful she looks! I am sure she is very wise."

"Aye, that she is!" William Brown agreed, taking the reins in his hand and climbing into the market cart. "Get in, Billy! The afternoons are short now, and we've nigh seven miles to drive. As it is it'll be dark before we get home. If we're late for tea the Missus will have a word to say about it. Here, give me your hand!"

Billy obeyed. The next moment found him seated by his grandfather's side, a rug thrown across his knees. Jenny gave a toss of her head and a little pleased snort, then started for home.

CHAPTER II.

THE JOURNEY'S END.

BILLY sat silent and observant by his grandfather's side as he made his first journey through Exeter. The rain had come on again in a soft drizzle; but the streets were full of people, for it was market day. They passed the market and drove into High Street, the principal street, which surprised Billy by being so narrow and old; and a quarter of an hour later they had turned their backs on the city, and Jenny, who had been plodding along at a walk, suddenly began to trot.

"Why, she goes as fast as a pony!" exclaimed Billy, admiringly.

His grandfather nodded.

"I wouldn't change her for the best pony in Devonshire!" he declared. "I had her as a foal, and broke her in myself. You'll have to learn to drive her, Billy."

"Shall I?" cried Billy, his pale face aglow with pleasure.

William Brown smiled, then sighed whilst he brushed his hand across his eyes, which had suddenly become dim.

"I'm thinking of your father," he said, as the little boy looked at him inquiringly; "you're like what he was at your age, except that you're delicate looking and he was the picture of health. I'm real glad to see you, Billy, but I wish your poor mother'd come with you. Often I've wanted to invite you both to visit us, but the Missus don't take much to strangers, and—well, I let the time slip by—" He broke off, a regretful, troubled expression on his good-natured countenance.

"Who is the Missus?" inquired Billy, rather anxiously.

"My wife," was the brief response.

The little boy looked curious. He knew that his father's mother had died when his father had been a baby, and that his father had had a stepmother, but he had been told nothing about his grandfather's second wife.

"She isn't really my grandmother," he remarked, after a few minutes' thought.

"But you must try to please her and obey her as much as though she was," William Brown said quickly.

"Oh, of course I will," Billy agreed.

"She was a widow when I married her, with one little girl," his grandfather explained. "That little girl's the wife of John Dingle, the postmaster now—they keep the village shop. They've two children—Harold, about your age, and poor little May."

"Why do you say 'poor little May?'" asked Billy.

"Because she's rather wanting here," William Brown said, tapping his forehead meaningly; "not silly exactly, but—well, you'll see for yourself. Cut along, Jenny!"

There was no need to tell Jenny that. Fast and faster she trotted. By-and-by her master pulled her up, descended, and lit the lamps of the market cart. A minute later they were off again.

"I didn't know a donkey could go so well!" cried Billy, who was enjoying this new experience exceedingly.

"She's thinking of her supper," laughed his grandfather. "She'll have a good feed as soon as she gets home, and she knows it. Are you keeping warm, my boy?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, Grandfather! And I don't mind the rain at all! It's so soft! And so's the wind! Have we much further to go?"

"No. If it wasn't so misty and nearly dark you'd be able to have a good view of the Teign Valley from here. Ashleigh's in the Teign Valley, you know; but my little place—Rowley Cottage—is a mile and a half from Ashleigh Station. We shall soon be home now."

Ten minutes or so later the donkey came to a sudden stop before a field-gate in a narrow road.

"Here we are!" William Brown said, getting down and opening the gate; whereupon Jenny passed through the gateway, and began the descent of a hill.

"Stay where you are!" he commanded. "I'm going to lead Jenny down—there's a cart track through the field by the hedge which leads right into our yard. Hold tight!"

Billy, who was secretly rather nervous, did hold tight. Daylight had quite failed now, but, looking far down into what seemed dense darkness, he saw a light. As the market cart proceeded, every now and again jolting over a stone, he held his breath, fearing that it would upset or that Jenny would stumble and fall. But no accident happened. The yard was reached in safety, and the donkey came to a standstill before an open door through which a light was shining from the kitchen within.

"Here we are!" cried William Brown. "Now then, Billy, my boy!" He lifted his grandson down from the market cart, and turned to pat a sheep dog which had come out of the house.

"This is Scout," he said; "I leave him in charge here on market days when I go to Exeter. Don't be afraid of him—he won't hurt you."

Scout was sniffing Billy's legs. The little boy spoke to him, calling him by name, then extended his hand to him fearlessly. The dog sniffed the hand and licked it. At that moment a woman appeared in the doorway.

"You're later than I expected you'd be, William!" she exclaimed.

"Very sorry, my dear," William Brown answered; "I thought we were in good time—the train wasn't late."

"Your grandson's there? Yes? Then why doesn't he come in?"

"He's coming, Maria. Go in, please, Billy!"

Billy obeyed, and found himself in a large, comfortable kitchen, facing his grandfather's wife. She was a tall, handsome woman who did not look more than fifty, though she was actually much older. She smiled as she shook hands with Billy, and kissed him, but the smile was only on her lips, whilst her eyes did not soften. Somehow she gave him the impression that he was not altogether welcome.

"You can call me 'Granny' as my daughter's children do," she told him. "I've two grandchildren—that's May, the younger of them."

Billy's eyes followed the direction of her pointing finger, and saw a little girl seated on a wooden stool near the fire, into which she was gazing.

"Come here, May!" said Mrs. Brown, in a peremptory tone.

The child rose and came to her. She was a beautiful little creature of about eight years old, with a fair complexion, fair curly hair, and eyes so deeply blue that they looked quite purple.

"This boy is going to live with your grandfather and me," her grandmother said; "his name's Billy. Will you remember?"

May nodded.

"Billy," she said softly, "Billy." She spoke as though trying to impress the name on her memory.

"He's not a cousin," Mrs. Brown went on to explain, "but he'll be just like one. He's lost his mother—" She paused as her husband entered the kitchen, carrying Billy's box, then exclaimed sharply: "Mind to wipe your boots, William!"

"All right, Maria!" he answered good temperedly, adding: "Please give Billy a candle; he'll light me upstairs."

"Very well. But be quick, for I'm going to make tea."

Billy found he was to have a good-sized bedroom. It was spotlessly clean, with a white-curtained window and a white-curtained bed. He washed his face and hands, whilst his grandfather waited for him; then they went downstairs together. A stout woman, clad in a waterproof, the hood of which was pulled over her head, had come upon the scene in their absence. The minute she saw Billy she made a rush at him, flung her arms around him, and kissed him heartily again and again.

"Oh, the dear little fellow!" she cried, hugging him and half crying. "To think of all he's gone through—the poor, motherless lamb!"

"Elizabeth," said Mrs. Brown sternly, "show more sense! If you go on like that you'll upset him! This is my daughter, Mrs. Dingle, Billy."

"Aunt Elizabeth to you, my dear!" said Mrs. Dingle, kissing the little boy once more before she released him.

Billy looked at her with glowing eyes. He liked her, he had no doubt about that. She had a fresh, rosy face, and eyes as deeply blue as her little daughter's; but what won his heart so quickly was her expression—it was so motherly and kind.

"Well, tea's ready!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, rather impatiently. "If you won't stay, Elizabeth—"

"I'd best go at once," interrupted Mrs. Dingle. "All right, mother! Oh, you've put May on her coat and hat! Ready, my birdie?"

May nodded. She kissed her grandmother and "dear grandfer" as she called William Brown, then came to Billy, put her arms around his neck and kissed him, too.

"The poor little boy's lost his mother, mummy," she said, as her mother took her by the hand to lead her away.

"I know, dear, I know!" Mrs. Dingle answered. "Come!"

She hurried the child out of the kitchen, and shut the door quickly.

Mrs. Brown was already seated at the head of the table. She motioned Billy to a chair on her left, whilst her husband took one on her right. William Brown said grace very reverently, and the meal began.

After tea Mrs. Brown took Billy upstairs with her, and unpacked his box. She showed him where he was to keep his belongings, and told him she would be seriously displeased if he was not tidy. Then, as he was very tired, she advised him to go to bed, and left him, returning later to take away his candle. He was just going to get into bed.

"Good-night, Billy," she said. "I'll call you in the morning."

"Thank you," Billy answered. "Good-night!"

As soon as she was gone he crept into bed. A sense of utter loneliness had taken possession of him, and, putting the bedclothes over his head, he gave way to a fit of weeping.

"Oh, mother, mother, mother!" he sobbed, "it's dreadful to think I shall never see you again."

Then suddenly he remembered how Tom Turpin had reminded him that he would be with his mother through all Eternity, and the load of desolation and grief was lifted from his heart.

"'The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord,'" he whispered to himself, and was comforted.

CHAPTER III.

BILLY HAS A FRIGHT.

BILLY'S grandfather was a prosperous market-gardener now-a-days, but before his second marriage he had been only a farm labourer. He had married the widow of the former tenant of Rowley Cottage, and together they had worked hard to save money, and were now in a comfortable position. Billy's father had not got on with his stepmother, so he had never gone home after he had settled in London and married.