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 Book 4

Ick
and

Crud

cc h
BB ii g C r u n
hh ee
TT

by Wiley Blevins • il lustrated by Jim Pail lot

 Funny Bone Books

and Funny Bone Readers are produced and published by

Red Chair Press LLC PO Box 333 South Egremont, MA 01258-0333

www.redchairpress.com

About t he Author

Wiley Blevins has tau ght el eme ntar y s cho ol in b oth t he Unit ed

Sta tes a nd So uth A meri ca. He h as also w rit te n over 60 b ook s for

child ren and 15 for t ea che rs, as well as c rea ted re adin g progra ms for

sch ool s in the U.S. and Asia w ith S cho lasti c, Mac millan/McGra w- H ill,

Hou ghto n - Mif f lin Harc our t, and oth er pu blish ers. Wiley c urren tly l ives

and w rite s in New York Cit y.

About the Art ist

Jim Paillot is a dad, husb and and il lust rato r. H e live s in Arizon a

with his f amily an d t wo do gs and any o the r animal t hat wan ts to

com e in out of t he ho t sun. Whe n not illus trat ing, Jim likes to hike,

watc h car to ons an d col lec t robo ts.

Publisher ’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data

(Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)

Names: Blevins, Wiley. | Paillot, Jim, illustrator.

Title: Ick and Crud. Book 4, The big crunch / by Wiley Blevins ; illustrated by Jim Paillot.

Other Titles: Big crunch

Description: South Egremont, MA : Red Chair Press, [2017] | Series: First chapters | Interest age

level: 005-007. | Summary: “It’s another lazy day in the backyard and Ick isn’t too happy to

explore the sound in the woods. But Crud has his back - or does he?”--Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2016947354 | ISBN 978-1-63440-206-4 (library hardcover) |

ISBN 978-1-63440-207-1 (paperback) | ISBN 978-1-68452-593-5 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Friendship--Juvenile fiction. | Sounds--Juvenile fiction. | Forests and forestry--

Juvenile fiction. | Dogs--Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Friendship--Fiction. | Sound--Fiction. | Forests

and forestry--Fiction. | Dogs--Fiction.

Classification: LCC PZ7.B618652 Icb 2017 (print) | LCC PZ7.B618652 (ebook) |

DDC [E]--dc23

Copyright © 2018 Red Chair Press LLC

RED CHAIR PRESS, the RED CHAIR and associated logos are registered trademarks

of Red Chair Press LLC.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in an information

or retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical

including photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission

from the Publisher. For permissions, contact [email protected]

Printed in the United States of America

0517 1P CGBF17
 T aa bb l e oo f
C
C oo n
t e n t s

1 Fo ll ow th e C ru n ch . . . . . . . 5

2 Ghost in the Trees. . . . . . . 9

B usted !. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
3

Wig gle, Squig gle, Stuck. . . 19

4

Wa ddl e Hom e . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
5

3
M eet th e Ch a ra cters

Cru d

Miss Pu ffy
Ick

B ob
Foll ow th e C ru n ch
1

“Why are we running?” asked Ick.

“ You’ll see,” said Crud.

They raced through their yard, jumped

over the fence, and landed in Mrs. Martin’s

f lower bed, which was still all mud.

“Oh not again,” said Crud. “Rats!”

“Rats?” asked Ick. “Where?”

5
 “No, not rats,” said Crud, wiping off the

mud. “Oh, crud, crud, crud!”

“W hy are you yelling your name? ”

asked Ick. “Did you forget it? ” Crud rolled

his eyes. “I mean oh nuts,” he said.

“Now you’re making me hungry,”

said Ick. The two stood up and starting

dripping across the yard. Just then a

crunching noise drifted in from the woods.

“Did you hear that?” asked Crud.

“Hear what? ” asked Ick.

“ That crunching sound,” said Crud. He

pointed to the woods and then took off.

6
 Ick ran double time to keep up with

him. “Why are we running? ” asked Ick.

“ That crunching sound is our food.

Someone is stealing it.”

“Hold the dogg ie door,” said Ick.

He skidded to a stop. “I thought you

were eating all our food.”

“A nd why would you think that?” asked

Crud. Ick pointed to Crud’s big belly.

“I’m storing up for winter,” said Crud.

“But it’s only June,” said Ick.

7
 He stood on his hind legs and waddled

like Crud.

“If you keep walking like that,” said

Crud, “your legs will freeze that way.”

“Nuh-uh,” said Ick. Then he dropped

down on all four paws. Just in case.

“Let’s keep going,” said Crud. “A nd

follow that crunch!”

8
Gh o st i n th e Tre e s
2

The two raced to the edge of Mrs.

Martin’s yard, over another fence, through

another yard, around a shed, then down a

hill, and across a small garden. But when

they got to the edge of the woods, Ick

skidded to a stop.

9
 “W hat’s wrong?” asked Crud. “Aren’t

you coming?”

Ick shook his head. “It’s dark in the

woods. And there are ghosts.”

“Ghosts?” asked Crud. “Ghosts don’t

live in the woods. They live in basements

and attics.”

“A nd old doghouses,” said Ick.

“ Yes,” said Crud. “And old doghouses.”

Ick g ulped.

“Come on,” said Crud. “If I see a

ghost, I’ll g rit my teeth and shake my tail

and scare it away.”

“But ghosts eat little dogs,” said Ick.

“ You’re safe with me,” said Crud.

“A re you sure? ” asked Ick.

“Have I ever let you down, buddy?”

asked Crud. Ick shook his head. Then

he put one foot inside the woods. Hoo…

hoo… hoot.

“W hat’s that? ” asked Ick.

10
11
 “ That’s just an owl,” said Crud.

“Come on you scaredy pup.”

“I’m not a scaredy pup,” said Ick.

“I’m just… careful.” He took two more

steps into the woods. A nother hoot. Crud’s

eyes bugged out. He pointed behind Ick.

And off he ran! Ick followed like a f lea

was chewing on his tail.

“Works every time,” whispered Crud.

Ick and Crud weaved in and out of the

trees. Tall trees. Skinny trees. Fat trees.

And trees with no leaves. They ran until

they came to a big rock.

12
 Turtle rested in the shade beside it.

Ick and Crud knocked on his shell. “Hello,

Turtle,” said Cr ud.

“Nice day for a run in the woods,” said

Ick. Turtle poked his head out and tried to

shrug, which is really hard to do in a shell.

“Did you hear a crunch?” asked Crud.

Turtle slowly nodded.

“Do you know where it is? ” asked Ick.

Turtle nodded again, then slid back inside

his shell. “W hat should we do now?”

asked Ick.

“I don’t know,” said Crud.

“Maybe he’s

calling a friend,”

said Ick. He

leaned in to

Turtle’s shell.

13
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
little mirror contained in my étui, and thought of the
contrast between my present plain woollen dress and that
my aunt had been so solicitous about when I was presented
to Monsieur de Luynes. I was still holding the mirror in my
hand when Sister St. Stanislaus entered.

"Good-morning, my child."

Then, catching sight of what I held, "A mirror? Why, I

have not seen one in years. Put it away! Put it away! We
have no such vanities here. Or, stay!" she added wistfully.
"It could not do any harm to take one look."

I handed her the little glass. She regarded herself long

and earnestly. Then, handing it back to me:

"There, put it away. I should never have known my own

face. I am properly punished for my vanity. And yet I was
pretty once—as pretty as you are."

"You are pretty now," said I, with truth; for her face,
though irregular, and one which must have owed much to
complexion, was still pleasing from its kindliness. "I loved
you the moment I saw you."

"Ah, my child, you are a flatterer! Young people do

usually like me, but they say it is only because I spoil them
so. Well, if you are ready, we will go to the chapel."

I followed the sister along the same gallery across the

open court, and then into the convent church, where my
companions for the voyage were already assembled. Here
she placed me by the side of a pale, frightened-looking girl,
younger than myself, and retired to take her place in the
choir with the other sisters.
 I had only time to glance at my future companions
before the service began. They were evidently mostly of the
peasant class, and did not as a rule look at all oppressed by
their destiny, although two or three had red eyes, and one
at least was the picture of despair. I was sure I had seen
her before, though I could not tell where.

After the service we breakfasted together, while one of

the nuns read aloud the life of some juvenile saint or other,
of whom I remember no more than that she sat all day in
the hen-house and wept for her sins, and gave large gifts to
the poor out of the property of her worldly father and
brother, who opposed her vocation. *

* I cannot now place this paragon of goodness, though

she is no creation of mine. My impression is that I found
her in the lives of the Franciscans.—L. E. G.

After breakfast my companions went to the gardens for

an hour's recreation, but I was called into the private
apartment of the Mother Superior. I found the good mother
seated in her chair of state, attended by a nun and another
lady in a semi-conventual dress, whom I found was the
famous Mary of the Incarnation.

This lady was born of a family named Guyard. Married

at eighteen, not very happily it seems, her husband died
after two years, leaving her with a young son. But she was
far too pious to concern herself with the care of her infant,
so she turned it over to her sister and busied herself with all
sorts of penances, meditations, and ecstasies in washing
dishes, scrubbing floors, and, in short, performing all sorts
of work to which she had no call, while the work which
Providence had put into her hands—that of caring for her
baby—was delegated to another. For a good while, the love
she still cherished for this child kept her from the cloister,
but at last she made a profession and adhered to it, though
the boy, half crazed by his loss, made his way into the
refectory of the convent, and with tears and screams of
anguish besought the nuns to give him back his mother. The
poor young fellow went to the bad altogether afterward, and
no wonder. One would not expect him to have much regard
for religion.

Having, however, conquered the last small remnant of

natural affection which remained in her heart, she was
rewarded by a wonderful vision, in which she was
advertised that the Virgin called her specially to Canada.

Thither she repaired, in company with several other

Ursuline nuns, and the famous Madame de Pellice, who
made a mock marriage in order to carry out her devout
schemes. She remained in Canada many years, and having
come to France on some important business, was returning,
having in charge twenty young women and two nuns.

I can see her this moment as she stood behind the

Superior's chair. She was a handsome woman still, with
bright eyes and a commanding presence, and, I must say,
very little appearance of humility about her. I think I never
saw a face and manner more expressive of spiritual pride
and conscious sanctity, and this appearance did not belie
her. She possessed great ability for all sorts of affairs, a
keen penetration in regard to character, and withal a good
deal of real kindness and charity.

I was introduced to this lady, who received me

graciously and made some inquiries as to my health. Then
she asked whether I had any vocation for a religious life.

"No, madame, I believe not," I answered.

 "Reverend mother," corrected the Superior again.
"Cannot you remember, child, that there are no madames
here?"

"I will try, reverend mother," I answered, whereat she

smiled and said I was an apt scholar.

"I hope she may prove so," was the remark of Mother
Mary. "Only for the king's express command, I should think
twice before taking her. What do you know how to do, child?
Anything besides dressing and dancing and painting fans?"

"Yes, madame—reverend mother, I should say," I

answered; "I can sew, spin and knit, make lace and
embroider, and I know something of ordering household."

"Why, you will be quite a treasure for some one," said

Mother Mary. "Can you sing?"

"Yes, mother."

"You might be very useful in our house if you only had a

vocation," said Mother Mary. "Perhaps you may find one yet.
However, there is time enough to think about that.
Meantime you shall instruct some of your companions in the
art of knitting hose, which art may be very useful to them.
Or is that too humble an employment for a young lady like
you?"

"No, my mother; I shall gladly do that or anything else

whereby I may be useful to my companions," I answered. "I
would rather be busy than not."

"That is well," said Mother Mary, relaxing a little, and

evidently regarding me with more favor. "I wish all were like
you, but I would in general rather have charge of twenty
peasant girls than of one demoiselle. I dare say you will do
nicely, child. I think I know the match that will just suit
you."

"There will be two words to that bargain," I thought, but

I said nothing.

Mother Mary then commended the simplicity of my

dress, and a bell ringing she took me by the hand and led
me to the schoolroom, where the young people were now
all assembled. She placed me by the side of the same pale
girl, whom she presented to me as Mademoiselle de Troyon,
and saying that she would send me some knitting-needles
and thread she left us together.

The other girls were busy, under the superintendence of

the nuns, in making garments for themselves, and sad work
they made of it, being more used to out-door than to indoor
work. I believe, however, that a great deal of their bungling
was sheer mischief, and I wondered at the patience of the
nuns.

The requisite tools being produced, I set seriously to

work to teach the stitch to my companion, and she took so
much pains in learning that at the end of the lesson she
could do a row very neatly. We Were placed near a window,
apart from the others, and Mother Mary told us we might
converse in low tones. Of course, like other young persons,
we soon became acquainted. I found that her name was
Desirée, that she was an orphan, and had always lived in a
convent till very lately. She had a strong vocation, and
wished to be allowed to take the veil instead of marrying,
and she regarded with horror the prospect of being united
to a stranger and living in a wild place, surrounded by
forests full of wolves.
 "But why do you not take the veil, since you wish it so
much?" I asked.

"Because the king wishes two or three officers to marry

and settle, and you and I are the only demoiselles who
could be found to go out," was the answer. "But it does not
matter," she added, with a kind of quiet resolution; "I know
that I shall never live to see Canada."

"Dear Desirée, you should not be downcast," I said.

"Things may turn out better than you think. Do not give up
life for a bad business?"

She smiled sadly and shook her head, but said no more
on the subject. We had a good dinner served to us by and
by, and then two hours more of recreation in the garden,
overlooked by the nuns who had us in charge. I was walking
up and down an alley by myself when I met Sister St.
Stanislaus, who joined me, and we walked together.

"So you have been in England," said she. "Can you

speak English?"

I told her I could.

"I knew a girl who could speak English once," said she.
"It was when I was at Sartilly, as I told you. Poor Lucille!
She came to a sad end."

"What happened to her?" I asked, with a beating heart.

"Oh, I don't know whether I should tell the story,

though to be sure it may be a warning," said the sister,
divided between, her discretion and the dear delight of
telling a tale. "You see she was one of those unfortunate
Reformed, to begin with, and she could not conquer her
natural affection for her relations; She had a lover also, it
seems, and she slipped out of the gate one day to speak to
him, and was seen to give him a packet. Well, of course,
being a postulant under instruction, that brought upon her
great disgrace and many penances. If I had been to decide,
I should have said they took just the way to make her
regret her lover all the more.

"However, she was forgiven at last and taken into favor

again, but it was not long before she got into some new
trouble by a hasty answer. I must say she had a trying
temper, always looking out for affronts. After that she grew
very odd and silent. I was mistress of the novices at that
time, and I tried hard to win her confidence, but in vain. At
last, oh, poor thing! She was missing, and we found a part
of her clothing hanging on a bush some way down the river,
which was very high at the time. Either she drowned herself
or fell in and was unable to get out. I hope the latter, for I
was fond of her, though she made me a good deal of
trouble. I have never ceased to pray for her soul," said the
good sister, wiping her eyes, which had overflowed
plentifully. "If she is beyond the reach of prayers, they may
benefit some other poor soul in purgatory. There, now, I
have made you cry too. What a tender heart you have! Let
it be a warning to you, my child."

I wondered what the story was meant to warn me from,

but I said nothing, and we began to talk of other things till
the sister left me, and then I had my cry out. Poor Lucille!
So this was the end. And she had actually fallen into
disgrace for trying to warn my parents of their danger! It
was very sad, and yet somehow I felt comforted about her,
I could not tell why. I was just recovering my composure
when I met Mother Superior and Mother Mary of the
Incarnation walking together. The latter seemed to be laying
down the law in rather an authoritative style, I thought, to
which the Superior listened with some apparent impatience,
and at last broke out with:

"No doubt, sister, you may be right. I dare say you

know how to rule your own house to perfection. I am sure if
I were visiting you, I should never think for a moment of
advising you upon the management of your family."

Mother Mary was not so dead to worldly affection but

that she reddened visibly at this significant speech. She
made no reply to the Superior, but turned sharply upon me.

"What are you doing here by yourself, child? Crying, I

see. That is very wrong. Understand, once for all, that you
are not to separate yourself in this way from your
companions. You are not so very much better than they. Let
me see no more of it!"

"I have not been alone till this very moment, reverend
mother," I answered, in a tone which I meant to be very
humble. "I have been walking with Sister St. Stanislaus,
who was telling me an affecting story. But—I fear I am very
ignorant, reverend mother—I thought from the history the
sister read us this morning that solitude and tears were
among the most blessed things to the soul. I was so much
interested in hearing how that holy young lady sat in the
hen-house and cried all day by herself."

The mother looked fairly posed, as if she did not know

what to answer.

I went on, prompted by that spirit of mischief which

never quite deserted me in the greatest straits. "And that
other place was so interesting, too, about her taking her
father's goods unknown to him to give to the poor. Such a
blessed example! I shall hope to follow it when I have a
household of my own."
 I saw by the smile which the Mother Superior turned
away to hide that she saw through me, and I fancied also
that she was not displeased. Mother Mary was spared the
necessity of a reply which might have puzzled her, by the
ringing of the dinner-bell. I enjoyed my triumph for a few
minutes, as I meekly followed the elder ladies toward the
house, and then I reflected that I had done a foolish thing
in setting against me this lady, who had me so entirely in
her power.

However, she had her revenge, and really I don't think

she liked me the worse for our little encounter. I am sure
the Superior did not. When we were seated at the table,
and the nun had begun to read according to custom, Mother
Mary stopped her.

"You seem to be rather hoarse, sister," said she, though

I had not noticed it. "Mademoiselle d'Antin is a good reader,
and she has a special devotion for the lives of the saints.
Mademoiselle, you will take the sister's place and read to
us."

Of course there was nothing for it but to obey, and I

took care to show no unwillingness for my task. I read my
very best, and as the story to-day happened to be a really
interesting one, I had the satisfaction of seeing more than
one of my auditors forget her dinner for a moment or two to
listen.

"That is well," said Mother Mary, when I had finished.

"We shall have the pleasure of hearing you again some
time. Now eat your dinner."

The milk porridge was rather cold, but I was not

troubled at that, and the sister whose place I had taken
presently brought me a nice little omelette, which she had
procured I know not how. Mother Mary never showed any
ill-will to me afterward. She had a sort of magnanimity
about her which made her rule endurable. I was often called
on to read, but I believe it was only because she liked to
hear me better than poor Sister Joanne, who droned on like
a drumbledrone under a hat, as we say in these parts.
Sister Joanne was not sorry to get rid of her task, and my
meals fared none the worse for that.

We went on in this same routine for several days.

Mother Mary kept a tight rein over her own flock, but I
thought from what I observed that the nuns had
comfortable times under their good-natured Superior. They
went through all their services and observed their hours for
silence and the rest, but it was all done in an easy,
perfunctory manner, so to speak. Their garden and orchard
were beautiful, and they made great quantities of dried and
sugared fruits, and distilled essences and cordials by the
gallon from the sweet flowers and aromatic herbs which
grow so plentifully in that part of France. I never saw in
England such lavender and rosemary as grows wild there.

I quite won the heart of Sister St. Anne by giving her

the true English recipe for distilling lavender and making the
Queen of Hungary's water. I grew attached to the good
nuns, who were all very kind to me. My knitting lessons
were extended to some of their number, and even to the
Superior herself, who asked Mother Mary to allow me to
teach her, saying that it was a kind of work that would just
suit her. Mother Mary gave the desired permission, adding
that her sister was happy in having time for such
employments. As for herself, she never had a moment to sit
down to her needle from morning till night.

"Yes; but you see, dear sister, we are so differently

situated," answered Mother Superior meekly. "Our house
works so quietly and easily. You see we have no sisters but
such as are of good family. We are not obliged to take up
with any riff-raff the king may choose to send us, as you
are over there."

I can't say I found the Superior a very apt scholar. I

never succeeded in teaching her how to turn off a heel, and
at last in despair, I suggested that she should knit a rug for
the cat, which was a great personage and much petted,
though she had no vocation whatever. The rug went off
better, but I rather doubt whether puss has had the benefit
of it to this day.

On the whole I was not unhappy during the two weeks I

remained at the Ursuline convent at Marseilles. I did my
best to please Mother Mary, and succeeded pretty well. I
think she appreciated my efforts, for really most of the
other girls were trials—idle, mischievous, and bending all
their efforts not to learn the arts the nuns tried to teach
them. I except Desirée, who was always docile, and the
poor girl whom I had thought I knew. I got into
conversation with her one day over our work, and at last
she told me she had seen me before.

"Do you not remember stopping in your travelling

carriage to speak to my aunt, the day after our vineyard
was destroyed? The lady with you gave my aunt some
money."

"Yes, I remember well," I answered. "What became of

your father?"

"He was not my father, but my mother's stepbrother,"

was the answer. "He had adopted me, and I was betrothed
to his son. My lord the marquis shot him dead with his own
hand. My betrothed was arrested on some pretext of
poaching, and sent to the galleys, and I, because I would
not give him up and go into service in the Marquis' family,
was sent here. It does not matter. Baptiste is dead, and I
would as soon be here as anywhere—rather a thousand
times than in the house of that wretch! I cannot be worse
off. Maybe they will let me live out as a servant."

This is a fair specimen of what may be done by a

tyrannical landowner in France. By all I hear, things must
have grown worse instead of better. It is a wonder if they
do not have an explosion some day which will blow them all
sky-high.
 CHAPTER XXII.
THE VOYAGE.

THE day at last came for our embarkation. Our luggage

was taken away in the first place, but we were allowed to
keep each a basket containing a change of linen and certain
other necessaries. Mother St. Stanislaus distributed among
us with a lavish hand biscuits, dried fruit, gingerbread, and
peppermint comfits, and the good Sister St. Anne smuggled
into my own basket a bottle of lavender and a flask of a
certain fragrant and spicy cordial which she had a great
reputation for making, and which was esteemed a sovereign
remedy for indigestion. There was a good deal of indigestion
among the nuns of St. Ursula.

Poor dear souls! They were all very good to me, and but
for the change in my religious views and the hope I still
cherished of meeting Andrew once more, I think I could
have made myself very content among them. The mothers
kissed me and made me various little presents, some of
which I have still, especially a medal containing some hairs
of St. Ursula, given me by the Superior. They are coarse
hairs, and are just the color of the tail of my chestnut mare.
I think she sincerely regretted my departure, but I don't
think she was at all sorry to get rid of Mother Mary, who
was a religious all through, taking a real delight in all sorts
of mortifications, and very ready to impose them on others;
besides that, she could not for the life of her help wishing to
take the management of matters into her own hands,
wherever she was. I know she ached to reform the Ursuline
Convent from top to bottom, and it was well for the comfort
of those concerned that she had not the power to do so.

We were taken in close carriages from the convent

through the city to the place of embarkation. The ship could
not be brought alongside the wharf, and we had to embark
a few at a time in the little boats. Mother Mary, who had
managed several such affairs, sent her two assistant nuns
first to receive the passengers as they came, and herself
remained on the wharf till the whole company were
dispatched. Desirée and I were among the last.

I was burning with impatience, for I saw David in the

crowd and close to me, and I longed to slip into his hand a
note I had written telling him of the fate of poor Lucille, and
begging him to lose no time in escaping to England. At last
the chance mine. Poor Louisonne, who was always doing the
wrong thing at the wrong time, did the right one for me and
slipped into the water. The bustle and alarm—for the poor
thing was nearly drowned—drew Mother Mary away for a
moment and gave me the desired opportunity. David drew
near, and as he brushed by me, I put the note into his
hand. Nobody saw me but a good-natured-looking
Franciscan, who only smiled and shook his head at me.

At last we were all on board and introduced to the

cabin, which was to be our lodging for at least six weeks.
Oh, what a hole it was!—dirty, ill-lighted, not half furnished.

Mother Mary was very angry, as I could see by her face;

and indeed I heard her remonstrating with the captain very
energetically on the subject; but he only shrugged his
shoulders and said it was not his fault. He had taken
command of the ship only a few days before, and that not
by any good-will of his own. He added, however, that now
he was appointed to the command, he meant to exercise it,
and intimated to Mother Mary very plainly that she had
better mind her own business.

She certainly had enough to mind. Half the girls were

crying or in hysterics; everything was in confusion. We were
dreadfully in the way on deck, but no one could bear the
idea of going below. Mother Mary at last restored some sort
of quiet, and calling me to help her, with the remark that I
seemed to have some spirit and sense, we began to try to
put our cabin into better order. It was discouraging work,
for everything was wanting for comfort or decency; but we
worked hard, and by night we had things in better trim. The
girls had had their cry out and felt for the time in good
spirits. We did not set sail till about six in the evening, being
kept by the state of the tide, but at last we were off.

The land gradually faded from view; we lost sight of the

lights in the city, and before bedtime we were out in the
open sea, and every soul but myself was overcome with the
first depressing feelings of sea-sickness. I had a busy time
enough for the next week. Every passenger was sick,
including Mother Mary herself, who was one of the worst,
though she strove against the weakness with all the force of
her strong will. But, in truth, a strong will does little for one
when one's heels are one moment higher than one's head,
and the next knocked violently on the floor, and every
portable article is sliding about trying its best to break
everything else.

We had a stormy voyage from the first, though the

winds were for the most part favorable, and the passage
promised to be short. But it was wretchedly uncomfortable.
The ship was ill-found and hardly seaworthy. She was
crammed with goods, which were thrust even into our
cabin, thus abridging the small room allotted to us. The
water was bad, and the sailors stole our wine; our
provisions were not fit for well people, not to say invalids,
and short as our passage was, we had more than one case
of scurvy. Poor Desirée succumbed under her hardships and
died when we had been out about three weeks. I had
become greatly attached to her, but I could not weep for
her death. It seemed a merciful deliverance.

For myself, I was not as unhappy as I should have been

if I had not been so busy. The only really well person of the
party, I had enough to do in waiting on the sick. I had made
friends with the cook, a great good-natured blackamoor, by
speaking to him in English, when I found that he
understood that language, and I cooked our miserable
provisions so as to make them as savory as possible, and
now and then secured a bit of something better than usual
to tempt the appetite of poor Sister Margaret, who seemed
likely enough to die of exhaustion.

Going about as I did, I was often free to take out my

little book and study its contents. The more I did so, the
more I recalled what I had learned of the other Scriptures,
the more I wondered how I could ever have so far departed
from the simplicity of the Gospel as to profess the Roman
Catholic religion. I never should have done so but for the
fact that my belief in all religion had been weakened by
intercourse with unbelievers, and my heart corrupted by
love of pleasure and of the world. I do not say by any
means that this is true of all perverts, but I know it was
true of me.

But now arose a grave question, which indeed had

troubled me before. I felt that I must confess my faith
before men; I could not go on serving God according to the
faith of my fathers and worshipping the saints at the same
time. I could not believe in and apply to the One Mediator,
amid at the same time invoke a hundred others. It may be
easy for any one who reads these lines, and who has never
been in any danger, to say what my conduct should have
been. But for me, in the midst of the conflict, it was not so
easy. I well knew what would be my fate, for the Jesuits
ruled in Canada, and that with a rod of iron, and I had seen
enough of Mother Mary to guess well that she would have
no compassion for a heretic.

I thought and prayed and wept, and at last strength

seemed to come to me. I had nothing to do just now but to
wait on my companions. When the time came for help, I
should have help. Sufficient unto the day was the evil
thereof.

Help did come, and, as so often happens, through

trouble. We had been out five weeks when we were
overtaken by a tempest, compared to which all we had
suffered before was as a summer breeze. I do not know
enough of nautical matters to describe it. I know that for
many days neither sun nor stars appeared; that we were
tossed up to the skies and then hurled down to the abyss;
that we lost sail and masts and were more than once in
imminent danger of sinking; and that when the storm
subsided at last we drifted in helpless wreck, having lost all
our boats, and having our ship so injured that the least
increase in the storm might send her to the bottom.

The captain, who had behaved like a hero, was busy in

overseeing the construction of rafts. He had ordered us all
on deck, sick and well together, in order to give us a last
chance, though a slender one. We sat huddled together,
some praying, some crying, others too miserable to do
either—silent, in hopeless despair. Such was our condition
when, happening to look up, I was the very first to descry a
sail, and almost at the same moment the shout was raised
by half a dozen at once. It was a British ship, and a large
one. She was rapidly coming up with us, and our despair
was changed into the certainty of succor.

It was a work of some danger to transfer so many

helpless women from one ship to the other, but it was
accomplished at last, the captain and Mother Mary being
the last to leave the poor wreck. Nobody but myself
understood English, and I was called upon to interpret. The
ship was the Good Hope, trading from Bristol to New
England, and now on her way to the town of Boston, from
which, according to the reckoning of Captain Mayhew, we
were but a short day's sail.

Mother Mary was quite in despair. She offered large

rewards to the captain to alter his course and sail for the St.
Lawrence, but in vain. The captain said his ship had been
damaged, and was in no state for such a voyage; that he
was overdue at Boston, and that his wife would be anxious
about him. He would engage that Mother Mary and her
companions should meet with every civility and
accommodation, but to the St. Lawrence, he could not and
would not go—"and that was all about it."

There was no opportunity to argue the matter further,

for poor Mother Mary was taken very ill once more and had
to be carried to the cabin which the sailors had hastily
arranged for us. The captain apologized for its narrowness,
saying that he had another small cabin which should be
ours so soon as its occupant, a gentleman passenger who
had been hurt in the storm, should give it up, adding,
however, that he hoped to set us all on dry ground before
that time to-morrow.

From the moment that I set foot on the deck of the

Good Hope my mind was made up. I would tell the captain
my story, throw myself on his mercy, and entreat him to
rescue me. If he refused to do so I would contrive to effect
my escape while we were in Boston. Surely in a town full of
Protestants there must be some one who would protect me.

I had very little rest that night, though Mother Mary

herself, the sickest of the party, scolded the others for their
demands on me, and at last bade me lie down and not mind
them. At daylight most of my charges were asleep, and I
stole on deck to compose myself and breathe a little fresh
air. Lo! There before me lay the land, green and fair, clothed
with forest for the most part, but with here and there a
clearing. How heavenly it all looked, but I had no time for
gazing. There stood the captain, as I thought, with his back
to me, looking toward the land. There was no time like the
present, and I went quickly up to him.

"Captain Mayhew!" said I.

The stranger turned, and I saw Andrew Corbet. He

looked at me with a bewildered, half-recognizing gaze, and
the thought darted into my mind that he did not mean to
know me. But it was no time for scruples or maiden
shyness. The need was too imminent.

"Andrew!" said I. "If ever you loved me or my mother,

save me!"

"Vevette!" said Andrew, still wondering. "It is Vevette."

Then catching me in his arms, he left me no doubt of

the state of his heart. He never asked me whether I still
loved him, and I don't think it ever occurred to him to doubt
it.

"Well!" said a voice close by. "I should say, Mr. Corbet,
that you had found some one you was kind of glad to see."
 "Glad is no word," said Andrew, while I released myself,
covered with blushes. "But how came you here?"

In a very few words, I told him of what had happened.

Andrew's brow grew dark, and Captain Mayhew expressed
the wish that he had that Frenchman on board.

"Will you not contrive to save me?" I said, in conclusion.

"I am a Protestant—as much as I ever was. I cannot go to
Canada. I only ask a safe asylum. They said I was a French
subject because my father was French."

"Plague the French!" said Captain Mayhew. "They shan't

keep you. Yes, we'll save you somehow. Never fear. But
how?"

He considered a moment, and then his thin, clever face

broke into a smile, and he turned to Andrew:

"You say this young lady was promised to you, with the
consent of her parents?"

"Yes," answered Andrew. "We might have been married

before this but for my own hardness and pig-headed
jealousies."

"You were not to blame," said I. "The fault has been all
mine."

"Reckon you'll have time to settle that," said the

captain. "Well, since all that is so, and you like the young
lady and she likes you, why, it appears to me that the best
way will be to call the good minister who came over with us,
and let him marry you on the spot. Then the lady will be the
wife of a British subject, which will make her one herself, I
take it; and if old King Lewy don't like it, let him come over
himself and see about it."
 "It would be much the best way, Vevette," said Andrew,
turning to me. "It would give me the right to protect you."

I faltered something, I know not what.

"The long and the short of it is, we will have a wedding

on the spot," said the captain. "As to the banns and all that,
we can settle it afterward. But we had better be in a hurry,
for we are getting into smooth water, and your Mother Mary
will be astir presently, making a fuss. Just call Mr. Norton,
and tell him to make haste, will you?" he said to the
steward. "Or, maybe we had better go into my cabin. Mr.
Norton is a regular Church of England minister," he
explained to me as he assisted me down the companion-
way. "He's going out to see his folks, but he don't calculate
to settle."

A few words put Mr. Norton in possession of the story.

The first mate was called in as an additional witness, and in
half an hour, I returned to the cabin the lawful wife of
Andrew Corbet of Tre Madoc.

I had not been away an hour, but how the world was
changed to me!

"Where have you been, and what kept you so long?"

asked Mother Mary as I brought her some coffee which the
steward had provided.

"I have been on deck for air, and the captain kept me to
answer some questions," I answered. And then, to hide my
confusion, I added, "We are in full sight of land, reverend
mother. The captain says we shall be at Boston by
afternoon."

"Oh that it were Quebec instead of that heretical

Boston!" sighed Mother Mary. "Is the captain quite obdurate
still?"

"Yes, reverend mother; but he says he is sure. We shall

receive every kindness from the people. Will you try to get
up? The ship does not roll much now."

I assisted her, and my companions, who were overjoyed

when they heard we were in sight of land, though it was a
land of heretics. A land of cannibals would have been
welcome to the poor souls just then. We were soon all on
deck, I keeping by Mother Mary's side as usual, for it had
been settled that I should say nothing till the time came for
disembarkation.

It came very soon. The anchor rattled down into Boston

harbor about three o'clock. We were at once boarded by the
harbor-master and another gentleman of goodly presence,
who, it seems, was a magistrate. He looked with surprise at
the unusual passengers, and Captain Mayhew explained to
them the state of the case. The gentleman, who could
speak French fluently, turned to Mother Mary, and with
much politeness assured her of every consideration. There
was a French ship in the bay, which would doubtless take
her and her companions to their destination. Meantime a
house on shore should be placed at her disposal and
furnished with every comfort.

Madame, hearing of the French ship, declined to go on

shore, saying that she should prefer going at once to the
ship, whereat three or four of the girls burst out crying with
disappointment. Mr. Folsom suggested that the ship would
not be prepared for our reception, and that at least they
must give the captain notice; but Mother Mary was
obstinate. She would remain where she was rather than set
foot on heretic ground. This, however, was shown to be
impossible, and at last she consented to go on shore,
provided she could have a house to herself, which Mr.
Folsom promised. Then, turning to Andrew, he asked if he
were ready to accompany him.

"I am quite ready, if my wife is," replied Andrew, and at

a signal from him, I left Mother Mary's side and went to
him, placing my arm within his. There was an exclamation
of horror from the nuns.

"Vevette, what does this mean?" exclaimed Mother

Mary. "Wicked, shameless girl, what are you doing?"

"Good words, madame," said Andrew in French. "This

lady was long ago betrothed to me by the consent of all our
parents. We have been separated a long time by the force
of circumstances; but having come together again, we
resolved to put it out of any human power to separate us,
and so we were married this morning by the Reverend Mr.
Norton, a Church of England minister, who is on board, as
Captain Mayhew can certify."

The captain bowed. "Oh, yes, he is a regular minister,"

said he. "I know him and all his folks. It is all right, Mr.
Folsom. Tell the lady so."

The lady was told so, but she refused to listen. With her
most majestic air she commanded me to return to her side.

"No, madame," I answered; "I thank you for all your

kindness, but my place is with my husband."

"Wretched, deluded child! Know you not that a marriage

by a heretic minister is no marriage, and is in itself a
crime?"

"In France, madame, no doubt; but we are not in

France. This is an English colony, and governed by English
laws."

"But a heretic," said Mother Mary; "a blasphemer of our

holy religion!"

"A heretic according to your thinking, but no

blasphemer, madame," said Andrew. "My wife is herself a
Protestant, as her fathers have been before her."

"It is true," said I; "I have been deluded for a time; but
I have seen my error. I am of the Reformed, heart and soul;
or rather," remembering our old family boast, "I am a
Waldensian—of that people who never corrupted the faith,
and so needed no reformation."

"And all this time you have been pretending to be a

good Catholic," said Mother Mary. "What a wolf in sheep's
clothing have I been entertaining among my lambs!"

"No, madame," I answered; "I confess that my

judgment was warped for a time by passion and self-
interest, and the stress of a great disappointment, and in
that frame I made a profession of your religion. But it is
long since my faith began to waver, and since I have been
on shipboard it hath been confirmed in the old way by
thought, prayer, and study of the Word of God. I was no
willing emigrant, but was betrayed into my present position
by the treachery of those who professed, for motives of
gain, to be my friends. I think it neither wrong nor shame
to leave that position for the protection of the man to whom
my father himself gave me."

Mother Mary was about to reply, when, glancing around,

she saw all the girls listening with open mouth and
exchanging significant glances with one another. So she cut
the matter short.
 "It is well," said she; "I wash my hands of you. Child of
wicked parents, you have followed in their steps! Go, then,
with your paramour, and remember that the vengeance of
Heaven dogs your steps! As to me and mine, we will not set
foot on this wicked shore. I demand to be taken to the
French ship immediately, without a moment's delay."

"Madame," said Andrew, bowing, "I trust I shall not

forget that I am a gentleman, and that I am speaking to a
woman who has been kind to my wife, and who is old
enough to be my mother."

I saw Mother Mary wince a little at this.

"Come, Vevette, Mr. Folsom's boat waits for us."

I would have taken a kind leave of my companions, but

Mother Mary would not allow it, fearing, I suppose, that
marriage might be catching. We descended into Mr.
Folsom's boat, and were soon at the shore.

We walked up through the green lane—oh, how

delicious seemed the firm ground and the grass to my feet!
—till we came to Mr. Folsom's house, which was not the
rude erection I expected to see, but a handsome square
mansion, partly of stone, and with a pretty garden beside it.
I am told that Boston hath grown to be quite a fine city. It
was even then a pretty town, with neat houses and some
good shops and a very decent church, which they called a
meeting-house, for the most part. For they say that the
name church belongs to the faithful who assemble there,
and not to the place. 'Tis a matter of small moment—just
one of those inconsequent things which people hold to with
the most persistence. In my grandmother's time Archbishop
Laud would have deposed a worthy minister because he did
not believe in St. George. However, I shall never get to Mr.
Folsom's house at this rate.

Mistress Folsom came to the door to meet us, having

been advertised by a special messenger. She was a comely
lady, richly but plainly dressed in a somewhat bygone
fashion. Her two pretty daughters stood behind her, as
sweet and prim as two pink daisies. She made me welcome
with a motherly kiss, and listened with great amaze and
interest while my husband made her acquainted with the
outline of our history.

"'Tis like something in a romance," said she. "But you

must be very weary, and hungry too. We will have supper
ready directly. Sweetheart, would you not like to change
your dress?"

I explained to her that I had no changes, all my luggage

having been lost in the wreck, except my basket, which
Sister St. Stanislaus had given me, and which I had clung to
through all. Without more ado, she carried me to a plain but
pretty and comfortable chamber, and sent her two
daughters hither and thither for clean linen, a gown, and
other necessaries. Then they left me to myself; but
presently a black wench came up with a great can of hot
water and an armful of towels. I do not remember in my life
any bodily sensation more delicious than that clean, well-
laundered linen.

When I was dressed, I took up a Bible which lay upon

my toilette-table and read the one hundred and third Psalm,
and then said my prayers, and having thus a little
composed myself, I went down-stairs. A most bountiful
supper was provided for us, and we sat down, waited upon
by a black servant. I had no notion of so much style and
ceremony in this remote corner of the world; but I soon
found that there were other colonists who kept up much
more state than Mr. and Mrs. Folsom.

After supper, Andrew and I were left to ourselves in the

parlor, and it may be guessed we did not want subjects for
talk. I told him my whole story, concealing nothing.

"You see what sort of wife you have taken in your

haste," said I, in conclusion. "All these things are much
worse than aiding and abetting poor Betty, even if I had
done so, which I never did."

"Ah, Vevette! Don't taunt me with my folly and

obstinacy," said Andrew, covering his face. "It was just that
which threw you into the hands of your enemies."

"My enemies would have had no power, if I had but kept

them at arm's length," said I. "It was not your fault that I
did not accept Theo's invitation instead of going with
Madame de Fayrolles; but the truth was that, when I heard
you were going to be married to the Jamaica lady, I thought
only of getting out of England before you came into it."

"So it was that piece of folly that drove you away," said
Andrew. "I wish you could see the Jamaica lady, Vevette.
She was indeed very kind to me when I lay ill at her father's
house; but she is fifty years old at least, and about as
handsome as old Deborah. Dear soul! She gave me a string
of beautiful pearls for you, and when I heard you were
married, I threw them into the sea."

"That was very wasteful; you might have given them to

the poor," I returned. "But who told you I was married?"

"Nobody said you were actually married; but when I

went to Stanton Court, to obtain news of you on my return,
I found my lord fuming over a letter he had just received,
saying that you were to be married on the morrow to some
Frenchman—I don't remember his name—of great wealth
and consequence."

"Monsieur de Luynes," said I. "They did try to make me

marry him afterward, but I had not heard of him at that
time. He was a good old man, and very kind to me."

"That was the name," continued Andrew. "My lord swore

you should not touch a penny till you were twenty-one,
whatever happened. But how came you to write yourself
that you were going to be married?"

"I did not," I answered.

"It was a forgery then. There was a note in your

handwriting, and signed with your name. I thought the
hand looked a little Frenchified, but the signature was yours
to a hair. Only for that I should have gone to Paris to find
you; but I thought if you were well married, and with your
own consent, I would not be a makebate between you and
your husband. So I even turned the old place over to
Margaret and her husband to care for, gathered together my
prize-money, and what else I could, and came hither
intending to turn settler. I was knocked down and hurt in
the storm, which was the reason I did not see you upon
your coming aboard. I was thinking on you when you came
and spoke to me, and for a moment I thought it was your
ghost."

"Ghosts don't come at that time of day," said I. "And so

Margaret is married?"

"Yes, and well married as I could desire—to Mr.

Treverthy, son of our good old knight. 'Tis an excellent
marriage in every way."
 "And your mother?"

"My mother lives with Margaret, and so does Rosamond

for the present. Betty and her husband are in London,
where he had some small office."

Our conversation was interrupted by the return of Mr.

Folsom.

"And do you know what has kept me abroad so late?"

said he, seeming much amused. "Even taking order for the
accommodation of your French madame and her flock of
lambs. I have them all safely and comfortably housed in the
new tavern, and have sent for a French woman who can
speak English to interpret for them."

"What! Did she come on shore after all?" I asked.

"She had no choice. The captain of the French ship

positively refused to receive her, till his ship should be made
ready for sea. So, as she could not well sleep in an open
boat, she was at length prevailed upon to hear reason. I
have been half over the town gathering beds and other
needful comforts for them, and I have left the poor things
at last happy over a hot supper."

"I am glad they are comfortable. They have had a hard

time of it. I don't know how they will bear to go to sea
again."
 CHAPTER XXIII.
CONCLUSION.

THE next day I went with Mrs. Folsom to carry some

additional comforts, in the shape of linen and so on, to my
old companions. I found them all comfortably housed in a
new tavern, which, though not quite finished, was clean and
cheerful. Mother Mary would not see us at all, but Sister
Margaret came to us, and was very grateful for what we
brought.

"Every one has been very good," said she. "I did not
know that heretics could be so kind. They used to tell us
that the English settlers murdered every Catholic, and
especially every nun that fell into their hands; but the