The Story of the Amulet - E. Nesbit (smart books to read TXT) 📗

should take with them to eat and how much of it, and what the whole thing would cost, that the adventure of the Little Black Girl began to happen.

The children were sitting on a seat in St. James’s Park. They had been watching the pelican repulsing with careful dignity the advances of the seagulls who are always so anxious to play games with it. The pelican thinks, very properly, that it hasn’t the figure for games, so it spends most of its time pretending that that is not the reason why it won’t play.

The breathlessness caused by Atlantis was wearing off a little. Cyril, who always wanted to understand all about everything, was turning things over in his mind.

“I’m not; I’m only thinking,” he answered when Robert asked him what he was so grumpy about. “I’ll tell you when I’ve thought it all out.”

“If it’s about the Amulet I don’t want to hear it,” said Jane.

“Nobody asked you to,” retorted Cyril mildly, “and I haven’t finished my inside thinking about it yet. Let’s go to Kew in the meantime.”

“I’d rather go in a steamer,” said Robert; and the girls laughed.

“That’s right,” said Cyril, “be funny. I would.”

“Well, he was, rather,” said Anthea.

“I wouldn’t think, Squirrel, if it hurts you so,” said Robert kindly.

“Oh, shut up,” said Cyril, “or else talk about Kew.”

“I want to see the palms there,” said Anthea hastily, “to see if they’re anything like the ones on the island where we united the Cook and the Burglar by the Reverend Half-Curate.”

All disagreeableness was swept away in a pleasant tide of recollections, and “Do you remember⁠ ⁠… ?” they said. “Have you forgotten⁠ ⁠… ?”

“My hat!” remarked Cyril pensively, as the flood of reminiscence ebbed a little; “we have had some times.”

“We have that,” said Robert.

“Don’t let’s have any more,” said Jane anxiously.

“That’s what I was thinking about,” Cyril replied; and just then they heard the Little Black Girl sniff. She was quite close to them.

She was not really a little black girl. She was shabby and not very clean, and she had been crying so much that you could hardly see, through the narrow chink between her swollen lids, how very blue her eyes were. It was her dress that was black, and it was too big and too long for her, and she wore a speckled black-ribboned sailor hat that would have fitted a much bigger head than her little flaxen one. And she stood looking at the children and sniffing.

“Oh, dear!” said Anthea, jumping up. “Whatever is the matter?”

She put her hand on the little girl’s arm. It was rudely shaken off.

“You leave me be,” said the little girl. “I ain’t doing nothing to you.”

“But what is it?” Anthea asked. “Has someone been hurting you?”

“What’s that to you?” said the little girl fiercely. “You’re all right.”

“Come away,” said Robert, pulling at Anthea’s sleeve. “She’s a nasty, rude little kid.”

“Oh, no,” said Anthea. “She’s only dreadfully unhappy. What is it?” she asked again.

“Oh, you’re all right,” the child repeated; “you ain’t agoin’ to the Union.”

“Can’t we take you home?” said Anthea; and Jane added, “Where does your mother live?”

“She don’t live nowheres⁠—she’s dead⁠—so now!” said the little girl fiercely, in tones of miserable triumph. Then she opened her swollen eyes widely, stamped her foot in fury, and ran away. She ran no further than to the next bench, flung herself down there and began to cry without even trying not to.

Anthea, quite at once, went to the little girl and put her arms as tight as she could round the hunched-up black figure.

“Oh, don’t cry so, dear, don’t, don’t!” she whispered under the brim of the large sailor hat, now very crooked indeed. “Tell Anthea all about it; Anthea’ll help you. There, there, dear, don’t cry.”

The others stood at a distance. One or two passersby stared curiously.

The child was now only crying part of the time; the rest of the time she seemed to be talking to Anthea.

Presently Anthea beckoned Cyril.

“It’s horrible!” she said in a furious whisper, “her father was a carpenter and he was a steady man, and never touched a drop except on a Saturday, and he came up to London for work, and there wasn’t any, and then he died; and her name is Imogen, and she’s nine come next November. And now her mother’s dead, and she’s to stay tonight with Mrs. Shrobsall⁠—that’s a landlady that’s been kind⁠—and tomorrow the Relieving Officer is coming for her, and she’s going into the Union; that means the Workhouse. It’s too terrible. What can we do?”

“Let’s ask the learned gentleman,” said Jane brightly.

And as no one else could think of anything better the whole party walked back to Fitzroy Street as fast as it could, the little girl holding tight to Anthea’s hand and now not crying any more, only sniffing gently.

The learned gentleman looked up from his writing with the smile that had grown much easier to him than it used to be. They were quite at home in his room now; it really seemed to welcome them. Even the mummy-case appeared to smile as if in its distant superior ancient Egyptian way it were rather pleased to see them than not.

Anthea sat on the stairs with Imogen, who was nine come next November, while the others went in and explained the difficulty.

The learned gentleman listened with grave attention.

“It really does seem rather rough luck,” Cyril concluded, “because I’ve often heard about rich people who wanted children most awfully⁠—though I know I never should⁠—but they do. There must be somebody who’d be glad to have her.”

“Gipsies are awfully fond of children,” Robert hopefully said. “They’re always stealing them. Perhaps they’d have her.”

“She’s quite a nice little girl really,” Jane added; “she was only rude at first because we looked jolly and happy, and she wasn’t. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said he, absently fingering a little blue image from Egypt. “I understand that very well. As you say, there must be some home where she would be welcome.” He