CHAPTER I.

THE SEA-SHORE.

It is a summer afternoon--the light fleecy clouds float lazily over the glowing landscape--the sun is shining brightly over the deep blue waves, gilding their crested foam with sparkling diamonds, and lighting up the golden hair of a little girl, who sits upon the beach, gazing out upon the wide-spread ocean. It is a graceful form which sits there, tapping her dainty little foot, and laying her hand caressingly, every now and then, upon the head of her favorite old dog, Hector.

Her hat is thrown down by her side, and leaves uncovered a head of remarkable beauty: the deep blue eyes, fringed with their dark lashes, express a world of feeling; the delicately arched nostril and curved mouth betoken pride, but a troop of dimples is playing around that expressive feature, lighting up the whole face with arch humor; the transparent complexion, through which glows, in rosy tints, the feelings of her sensitive nature, lends its finishing touch of enchanting loveliness to the sweet picture; and, as the sea-breeze lifts the flowing ringlets which lie in such rich profusion around her shoulders, seldom could be seen such a revelation of bright and happy childhood as the young being who sits there, singing one of her favorite songs.

A passer-by, who knows something of the thorny paths of life's pilgrimage, would scarce know which to do, to sigh or smile at the glimpse of such a beaming face; but the ever-changing expression and flitting color would be most likely to cause a sigh, as one might anticipate the discipline which such a spirit must taste in a rough and stormy world.

But we will not anticipate sorrows, sweet child!

Bright days of happy childhood are before thee!

She certainly dreams of nothing yet but joy, and hope, and love.

"You're a good dog, Hector--don't we love each other, old fellow?" and Madeline stooped down to rub her cheek against her pet's shaggy head.

Looking up in her face as though he understood all she said, he seemed proud of his little friend's caresses, and making a kind of pleasant growl, he put up his shaggy paw, as was his custom, when he wanted to be especially petted. Not far from where she sits, may be seen a group of children playing with their wheelbarrows.

A little girl of six, and two older boys are busily engaged in filling their barrows with shining white pebbles, and while pursuing their innocent play, they prattle merrily together about the riches which they supposed themselves to be gathering.

But little difference is there between these children and men of larger growth--for these are gathering pebbles, and men are gathering dust.

"Look here! Philip," said the little girl, "I am sure that this is a real diamond; don't you remember when John Stanley came from Cape May, what a heap of diamonds he brought with him, and sold them for ever so much money?"

"Yes, sis, but then you know that he said you might gather a great many pebbles, before you get one diamond?"

"But I'm sure, Philip, that I have found a great many; so clear and so big; I'm so glad, because I'll give 'em all to mother, and we shall be so rich; she won't have to work so hard any longer; I could work here all day if I could only see dear mother smile again."

"Well, you're a good little girl, sis, and I hope that we shall find that you are right," and as they continued their innocent employment, they sang cheerily, and little Susan, in her delight, would frequently stop to clap her hands, and dance with joy. Just then, a couple of boys came up, who had been watching the children for some time.

They were clad in the height of boyish fashion, and with a conceited air, approached our little speculators, tapping their pantaloons with their canes, and with a supercilious manner, accosted them.

"What are you about there, you little fools?" said Harry Castleton. "Do you call these stones that you have been wheeling up diamonds? they're nothing but common pebbles, and you're a set of fools for your pains--you'd better go home, and dig potatoes," and rudely snatching the wheelbarrow, Harry tumbled it down to the edge of the surf, and upset all the contents into the ocean; while Charles Davenport stood by snapping his fingers with malicious delight.

It was a dreadful loss to poor little Susan, who burst into a bitter fit of weeping, and Philip stood looking angrily on.

These were larger boys, and neither of Susan's brothers felt old enough to attack them, although they were boiling with anger.

Just at that moment, a poor boy who had seen the whole proceeding, stepped up.

'Tis true that he wore patched pantaloons, which were too short, and an old threadbare jacket; but his linen collar, though coarse, was white; and his shoes, though very old and worn out, were neatly tied with black strings--poverty was stamped upon his attire, but nobility upon his broad expansive brow.

A look of manliness which shot from his fine dark eyes, and the firmness which compressed the lip, rather overawed the boys who saw him advancing; but when their mean spirits perceived the poverty of his attire, contempt mastered their temporary fear, and they stood ready for the encounter.

"For shame! young gentlemen," said the boy, "couldn't you find your equals in size and age when you attempt such cowardly acts?"

"Who are you, sir?" said Harry Castleton, "that you dare speak to your betters in such a tone? take yourself off in a minute, or I'll lay the weight of my cane across your face."

"I'm a boy like yourself, young gentleman, but I scorn to attack weak little children in their plays, or to fight with puppies."

"Do you dare to call me a puppy?" shouted Harry Castleton, and flying at the boy, he dealt him a violent blow across the face, causing the blood to fly from his nose, and at the same moment, kicking the little wheelbarrow out into the ocean.

The little girl with the golden locks had been looking on the scene, but as soon as she saw the blow struck by the young upstart, she flew towards the boy.

"Oh, Harry Castleton! aren't you ashamed of yourself! first to disturb these poor little children, and then to make a coward of yourself by attacking a boy that won't fight?" and hastening up to the boy, she took her delicate handkerchief, and wiping his bleeding nose, she said kindly,

"I am afraid that you are hurt."

"Not much, miss, it's only a trifle;" but as she seated the boy, she perceived the blood gushing from a wound in the temple, that she had not seen before.

Running to the surf, she brought the handkerchief back again, and with the most tender, generous care, continued wiping the blood which still kept oozing from the wound.

Charles and Harry stood by sneering.

"Really, coz," said Charles, "you are making a fool of yourself, waiting upon a beggar boy, as if he were the son of a gentleman."

"I don't think that fine clothes always make the gentleman; for I'm sure I've learned this afternoon, that the feelings of a gentleman may lodge under a threadbare jacket; what is your name young gentleman?" continued the child.

"My name is Roland Bruce," was the answer.

"And mine is Madeline Hamilton," was the frank response. "Why didn't you knock Harry down! I should have been so angry that I'm sure I should have struck back again."

"I was very angry, miss, but I've been taught that 'He who mastereth his spirit, is better than he that taketh a city.'

"But when you are struck, I think that you ought to defend yourself."

"I did, by trying to ward off the blow; but I should have made it no better by stooping to fight with such a boy as that."

"Well, I'm glad to see that you're a proud boy," continued the child, laughing, "and I'm sure that you made those upstarts ashamed of themselves--see how they're slinking off! I'm ashamed to call Charles Davenport cousin--do you feel better?" added the little girl.

"Yes, thank you, I'm much obliged to you for your kindness; and here, miss, is your pocket-handkerchief."

"I don't want it," said the child; "you must wear it home," and she tied it carefully over the wounded temple.

As the boy raised his cap to bid her good afternoon, looking after him, she said aloud, "I wonder what is meant by a nobleman, nature's nobleman? I guess that's one--I'd rather call him cousin, with his patched clothes, than that mean, contemptible pair."

Thus soliloquized Madeline Hamilton, the spoiled and petted child of rich Mr. Hamilton, of Woodcliff. Turning to little Susan, who still cried for her wheelbarrow, she said,

"Let us see if we can't find your barrow," and running down to the shore, she found that it had been washed up, and was fastened between a couple of large stones, from which she soon lifted it, and restored it to the poor child.

"Come over to Woodcliff to-morrow, and Aunt Matilda will give you something." Then giving the child particular directions, Madeline returned to the spot where she had left her flat, and calling Hector, hastened home. It was a tolerably long walk, and by the time that she reached home, it was late sundown.

She entered full of excitement. Throwing down her flat, and seating herself at the tea-table, she commenced telling her adventure.

"Aunt Matilda," continued the child, "what is a nobleman--nature's nobleman?"

"Why, a nobleman is one who is born of a noble family, to be sure," was the answer. "Our descent is English, and our ancestors were all nobles."

"Once I remember that you told me a nobleman was coming to dine with us, and I expected to see a very grand person; and when he came, he was only a little man, who took snuff out of a gold snuff-box, drank wine, and talked about hunting. I didn't see anything noble about him. Another time, our pastor said that Mr. Linwood would call upon us, who had divided a very large fortune equally among his brothers and sisters, though they had all been cut off by the father's will. Our pastor called him noble, because he had done a noble deed. Now, aunty, there is no use to try to make me believe anything else--everybody is noble who does noble acts; and I don't care how he is dressed, or where he lives. Now, aunty, don't be affronted, I can't help my feelings; I do love good people, and high-spirited people, even in rags; and I hate mean, low-minded people, even dressed in fine clothes. I can't act deceitfully; they make me mad, and I can't help showing it. Now, aunty, what is a gentleman?"

"One who is brought up with the manners of a gentleman, who dresses like a gentleman, and who belongs to a genteel family."

"Well, aunt, I suppose then that you call Charles Davenport a gentleman?"

"Why, to be sure I do."

"Well, I call him a vulgar, low-bred boy; and, aunt, I suppose that you would call Roland Bruce, with his patched clothes, short pantaloons, and old jacket, a common boy?"

"To be sure I would, child; why, what is he?"

"Why, I think he must be one of nature's noblemen, for he looked ever so much grander than Charles or Harry, as he stood on the beach, taking the part of poor little children, and wouldn't fight, either. They looked really mean in their fine dress, and he looked like a hero in his poor clothes. Give me nature's nobleman, after all, aunty."

"Brother, just listen to the child," said Aunt Matilda; "did you ever hear such horrid talk? I can't instil any proper pride into that girl."

Mr. Hamilton threw himself back in his chair, and laughed heartily at what he called "Madcap's spirit," and told his sister "not to be alarmed, for he was afraid that they'd find too much pride there some day, for either of them to manage."

Aunt Matilda loved her high-spirited little niece, and found it very easy to forgive her; but she was often sadly afraid that she would forget her rank, and disgrace her family, by improper connexions. Soon after tea was over, Charles and Harry made their appearance, but Madeline was still so indignant that she quickly left the room, and steadily refused all her aunt's entreaties to return.

"They're a mean pair, aunty, and I can't see either of them this evening," was all the response that she could obtain from her wilful little niece.

Before retiring, the warm-hearted child sought her father's study, and seating herself on his lap, laid her cheek softly against his, and said, "Papa, kiss me before I go to bed. If I've said anything wrong, forgive me, dear papa."

"No, little Mad-cap, you've done nothing wrong; only, dear, I don't want you to associate with all kinds of common people." And thus the impulsive child's faults were winked at by her indulgent father, and false worldly sentiments inculcated by her frivolous aunt. The next day, little Susan presented herself at Woodcliff, and Aunt Matilda, who was really kind-hearted, gave her some very nice garments for her mother and brothers; and Madeline, with the impulsiveness of her nature, was loading gifts upon her that were wholly unsuitable, until aunty came in to check the profuseness of the generous child; and Madeline was sadly disappointed as she carried back to her wardrobe a handsomely flounced pink lawn, and a pretty little jaunty hat trimmed with flowers.

"I'm sure they would have been very nice for Sundays," soliloquized the child; "at any rate, I wanted her to have them. Aunt Matilda is so stingy and so cross--dear me! I wish I was a young lady, just to do as I please. I'll have what I want, and give what I choose, then, that I will."

Many a nice garment found its way to Mrs. Grant, for Madeline regarded little Susan as her own particular protégé after the adventure by the sea-shore, and the child herself was never tired of telling her mother about the good boy that took her part so warmly, and the beautiful child that wiped his face with her fine linen handkerchief; and the mother could not help laughing as she mimicked the manner in which Harry and Charles sneaked away after her indignant rebuke; "and I am sure that they are no gentlemen, though they were dressed ever so grand," was the conclusion that little Susan always reached at the end of her story.