PREFACE. THE well-known Rowtor Rocks, in Derbyshire, and the Ruined House of Eyre at their base, are the true scene of this story, and gave me its first idea. I conceived that the former, with their natural passages and cavernous hollows,-and the latter, with its mournful century of ruin, made together an admirable locality for a child's story, as affording that due amount of romance which at once interests, and is effective as means for the instilment of educative truth. Apart from this, the story is purely ideal; and the general scenery that of the moorlands of Yorkshire. As usual, I have not worked without holding the purposes of abstract truth and its principles in view. My little crowd of animal life is introduced with a higher purpose than merely to amuse; for, looking at the revelations hourly made by science in relation to animal life, there seems to be an educative need in regard thereto that claims consideration. Once raise the human idea of animal life, and of its relation to ourselves, and our tenderness and mercy to dumb sentientness must grow. In this sense, therefore, to surround children with household pets, to teach them to show generosity, tenderness, humanity thereto, is an educative process of the noblest kind. As by a natural law, the finer virtues enlarge their own bounds, and thus the tenderness which has first displayed itself to a dependant animal, shall in time minister to the needs, or show corrective mercy to a human being. I speak not without reason, for few, perhaps, know better than I, both from observation and literary experience, the sources from which the brutality and apathy of our lower classes, in especial, arise. One of such sources is their low estimation of animal life; thus the cruelty which first finds stimulus and gratification in sticking pins through cockchafers, goading donkeys, and torturing dogs, follows only a natural causation when it becomes developed in those brutalized crimes which cast opprobrium on human nature, and are an enigma to those who have to deal with their amelioration. I therefore hope that these pages may lead such as have children to see the humanizing effects that may arise from surrounding them with dumb favourites, and by teaching, through example, uniform tenderness and care thereto. I have had another abstract point in view, though but lightly touched upon, in the chapter entitled "The Turret Cooks;" it is, that children should be taught to comprehend that labour, under all its manifold manifestations, is worthy of respect; and that to do the smallest thing well requires both accustomed skill and patience. Were children taught this reverence for all worthy labour-were they made to somewhat understand that the humblest human duties well performed are necessary to, and of account in, the great sum of human causation, we might hope to find in the generations to follow us, less and less of that scorn of class for class, and individual for individual; more and more of that sympathy which humanizes and exalts; and more and more hopefully might we expect to see the increase of those simple tastes and habits, both socially and individually, out of which can alone come the true solution of some of the most solemn of our social problems. The writing of this little book has been to me a labour of the purest love; with much of it I have taken pre-Raphaelite pains. I have an exalted sense of what is due to the time of childhood, and of the spirit of love and truth which should be made to subserve the purposes of innocent delight and instruction. More and more, as time advances with me, this delight in what I call, and which is really to me, "holiday work," grows; and boundless seem the stores that fill my fancy for children's use and sake. Whilst this delightful power remains to me, I have a sort of feeling that, spiritually, I never can grow old; that whatever human troubles bring, some glimpses of radiant sunshine must always remain to me. In this spirit may the power last to the end. E. M. LILIAN'S GOLDEN HOURS. CHAPTER I. THE WONDERFUL LETTERS. It was winter time. Holly-berries were bright; icicles sparkled in the sun; a deep snow lay for many miles across the northern shires of England. Along a beaten track of one of the wildest of the Yorkshire moors, a little girl, attended by an old manservant, came riding at the close of the wintry afternoon. She was very young, not more, certainly, than seven years old, yet she rode the shaggy broad-backed pony with perfect ease. A coarse cloth coat wrapped her warmly; rich fur lay round her throat; and a little quilted bonnet, of violet-coloured satin, encircled the pretty innocence of her childish face. The pocket of the saddle was stuffed full of things; a rustic basket was swung to the pommel, to which some curious twisted sticks were also tied by a string. Nor did the old man alone take care of the little child. Four or five dogs, three of them stately hounds, were of their company, though, with the exception of one shaggy little fellow that never once quitted his pretty mistress's side, the rest were, for the most part, away, eagerly tracking the scent of game amidst the snow, though coming bounding back again at intervals with rare fidelity to see that all was well. One which had been longer away than usual, came back at length with something in its mouth. It proved to be a wounded bird of the plover kind, and excited all the little girl's compassion, as it lay bleeding in the B snow where the hound dropped it, at a word from the old servant. "Please take it up, Ralph," she said, "and we'll carry it home, and see if Wix can cure it." With a tenderness as great as the child's, Ralph stooped to obey; but gathering its last remaining strength, the bird fluttered away from the kind hand of its protector into an adjoining snow-drift. This was unfortunate, for the snow was very deep. "I think, Miss," said Ralph, with a sorrowful shake of his head, "that we must leave it, and get on. It won't do to let Masters after it again, as his fangs have hurt it a bit already; and if I stop to get it, we shall be late. It can't live long, I'm thinking, for it's been badly shot." He took hold of the pony's bridle as he spoke, and was for leading it onwards. "No! please, Ralph, let us try to save it," spoke the little girl, as she rose in the saddle, and strained her eyes after the fluttering bird. "I will tell papa why we are late-he won't be angry; and mamma says I ought to pity and be tender to the meanest thing. Please get it— do! Wix shall mend its leg, and we'll keep it warm in a cage by the fire-do!" She bent her face down caressingly to the old servant as she spoke. He loved her too dearly to disoblige her. Leaving her side, he waded into the drift, sinking nearly up to his waist as he did so, and eventually, after much trouble and no small danger, succeeded in saving the little bird. He then tenderly wrapped it, so as to stay its flutterings, in a large old handkerchief he took from the crown of his hat, and brought it to his little mistress. A warm nest was made for it in her lap, her coat covered over it, and the pony proceeded on its way. The path had been for some time on the descent, and now wound downwards into a wide expanse of park, full of fine old trees, and across which swept a mountain stream, too wide, too swift, too full of silvery waterfalls to be bound by the great frost. At a distance from this, stood a fine old, gabled, country hall, in many |