“We are very good. Mother always says we are.”

“So you remarked before,” the girl said, speaking in a tone of decision.

Still the children did not understand.

“Then can’t you let us see the little man and woman?” they asked.

“Oh dear, no!” the girl answered. “I only show them to naughty children.”

“To naughty children!” they exclaimed.

“Yes, to naughty children,” she answered; “and the worse the children the better do the man and woman dance.”

She put the peardrum carefully under her ragged cloak, and prepared to go on her way.

“I really could not have believed that you were good,” she said, reproachfully, as if they had accused themselves of some great crime. “Well, good day.”

“Oh, but do show us the little man and woman,” they cried.

“Certainly not. Good day,” she said again.

“Oh, but we will be naughty,” they said in despair.

“I am afraid you couldn’t,” she answered, shaking her head. “It requires a great deal of skill, especially to be naughty. Well, good day,” she said for the third time. “Perhaps I shall see you in the village to-morrow.”

And swiftly she walked away, while the children felt their eyes fill with tears, and their hearts ache with disappointment.

“If we had only been naughty,” they said, ” we should have seen them dance; we should have seen the little woman holding her red petticoat in her hand, and the little man waving his hat. Oh, what shall we do to make her let us see them?”

“Suppose,” said the Turkey, “we try to be naughty to-day; perhaps she would let us see them tomorrow.”

“But, oh!” said Blue-Eyes, “I don’t know how to be naughty; no one ever taught me.”

The Turkey thought for a few minutes in silence. “I think I can be naughty if I try,” she said. “I’ll try to-night.”

And then poor Blue-Eyes burst into tears.

“Oh, don’t be naughty without me!” she cried. “It would be so unkind of you. You know I want to see the little man and woman just as much as you do. You are very, very unkind.” And she sobbed bitterly.

And so, quarrelling and crying, they reached their home.

Now, when their mother saw them, she was greatly astonished, and, fearing they were hurt, ran to meet them.

“Oh, my children, oh, my dear, dear children,” she said; “what is the matter?”

But they did not dare tell their mother about the village girl and the little man and woman, so they answered, “Nothing is the matter; nothing at all is the matter,” and cried all the more.

“But why are you crying?” she asked in surprise.

“Surely we may cry if we like,” they sobbed. “We are very fond of crying.”

“Poor children!” the mother said to herself. “They are tired, and perhaps they are hungry; after tea they will be better.” And she went back to the cottage, and made the fire blaze, until its reflection danced about on the tin lids upon the wall; and she put the kettle on to boil, and set the tea-things on the table, and opened the window to let in the sweet fresh air, and made all things look bright. Then she went to the little cupboard, hung up high against the wall, and took out some bread and put it on the table, and said in a loving voice, “Dear little children, come and have your tea; it is all quite ready for you. And see, there is the baby waking up from her sleep; we will put her in the high chair, and she will crow at us while we eat.”

But the children made no answer to the dear mother; they only stood still by the window and said nothing.

“Come, children,” the mother said again. “Come, Blue-Eyes, and come, my Turkey; here is nice sweet bread for tea.”

Then Blue-Eyes and the Turkey looked round, and when they saw the tall loaf, baked crisp and brown, and the cups all in a row, and the jug of milk, all waiting for them, they went to the table and sat down and felt a little happier; and the mother did not put the baby in the high chair after all, but took it on her knee, and danced it up and down, and sang little snatches of songs to it, and laughed, and looked content, and thought of the father far away at sea, and wondered what he would say to them all when he came home again. Then suddenly she looked up and saw that the Turkey’s eyes were full of tears.

“Turkey!” she exclaimed, “my dear little Turkey! what is the matter? Come to mother, my sweet; come to own mother.” And putting the baby down on the rug, she held out her arms, and the Turkey, getting up from her chair, ran swiftly into them.

“Oh, mother,” she sobbed, “oh, dear mother! I do so want to be naughty.”

“My dear child !” the mother exclaimed.

“Yes, mother,” the child sobbed, more and more bitterly. “I do so want to be very, very naughty.”

And then Blue-Eyes left her chair also, and, rubbing her face against the mother’s shoulder, cried sadly. “And so do I, mother. Oh, I’d give anything to be very, very naughty.”

“But, my dear children,” said the mother, in astonishment, “why do you want to be naughty?”

“Because we do; oh, what shall we do?” they cried together.

“I should be very angry if you were naughty. But you could not be, for you love me,” the mother answered.

“Why couldn’t we be naughty because we love you ?” they asked.

“Because it would make me very unhappy; and if you love me you couldn’t make me unhappy.”

“Why couldn’t we?” they asked.

Then the mother thought a while before she answered; and when she did so they hardly understood, perhaps because she seemed to be speaking rather to herself than to them.

“Because if one loves well,” she said gently, “one’s love is stronger than all bad feelings in one, and conquers them. And this is the test whether love be real or false, unkindness and wickedness have no power over it.”

“We don’t know what you mean,” they cried; “and we do love you; but we want to be naughty.”

“Then I should know you did not love me,” the mother said.

“And what should you do ?” asked Blue-Eyes.

“I cannot tell. I should try to make you better.”

“But if you couldn’t? If we were very, very, very naughty, and wouldn’t be good, what then?”

“Then,” said the mother sadly — and while she spoke her eyes filled with tears, and a sob almost choked her — ” then,” she said, ” I should have to go away and leave you, and to send home a new mother, with glass eyes and wooden tail.”

“You couldn’t,” they cried.

“Yes, I could,” she answered in a low voice; “but it would make me very unhappy, and I will never do it unless you are very, very naughty, and I am obliged.”

“We won’t be naughty,” they cried; “we will be good. We should hate a new mother; and she shall never come here.” And they clung to their own mother, and kissed her fondly.

But when they went to bed they sobbed bitterly, for they remembered the little man and woman, and longed more than ever to see them; but how could they bear to let their own mother go away, and a new one take her place?

2.

“Good day,” said the village girl, when she saw Blue-Eyes and the Turkey approach. She was again sitting by the heap of stones, and under her shawl the peardrum was hidden. She looked just as if she had not moved since the day before. “Good day,” she said, in the same cheerful voice in which she had spoken yesterday; “the weather is really charming.”

“Are the little man and woman there?” the children asked, taking no notice of her remark.

“Yes; thank you for inquiring after them,” the girl answered; “they are both here and quite well.