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Process Control: Modeling,
Design, and Simulation
B. Wayne Bequette
Pearson
Contents
Preface
About the Author
Chapter 1: Introduction
Chapter 2: Fundamental Models
Chapter 3: Dynamic Behavior
Chapter 4: Dynamic Behavior: Complex Systems
Chapter 5: Empirical and Discrete-Time Models
Chapter 6: Introduction to Feedback Control
Chapter 7: Model-Based Control
Chapter 8: PID Controller Tuning
Chapter 9: Frequency-Response Analysis
Chapter 10: Cascade and Feedforward Control
Chapter 11: PID Enhancements
Chapter 12: Ratio, Selective, and Split-Range Control
Chapter 13: Control-Loop Interaction
Chapter 14: Multivariable Control
Chapter 15: Plantwide Control
Chapter 16: Model Predictive Control
Chapter 17: Summary
Module 8. CSTR
Module 9. Steam Drum Level
Module 10. Surge Vessel Level Control
1.1 Introduction
Process engineers are often responsible for the operation of chemical
processes. As these processes become larger in scale and/or more
complex, the role of process automation becomes increasingly
important. The primary objective of this textbook is to teach process
engineers how to design and tune controllers for the automated
operation of chemical processes.
A conceptual process block diagram for a chemical process is shown in
Figure 1–1. Notice that inputs are classified as either manipulated or
disturbance, and the outputs are classified as measured or unmeasured
in Figure 1–1a. To automate the operation of a process, it is important
to use measurements of process outputs or disturbance inputs to make
decisions about the proper values of manipulated inputs. This is the
purpose of the controller shown in Figure 1–1b; the measurement and
control signals are shown as dashed lines. These initial concepts
probably seem very vague or abstract at this point. Do not worry,
because we present a number of examples in this chapter to clarify
these ideas.
The development of a control strategy consists of formulating or
identifying the following:
1. Control objective(s)
2. Input variables
3. Output variables
4. Constraints
5. Operating characteristics
6. Safety, environmental, and economic considerations
7. Control structure
We discuss in more detail the steps in formulating a control problem:
1. The first step of developing a control strategy is to formulate the
control objective(s). A chemical-process operating unit often
consists of several unit operations. The control of an operating unit
is generally reduced to considering the control of each unit
operation separately. Even so, each unit operation may have
multiple, sometimes conflicting objectives, so the development of
control objectives is not a trivial problem.
Feedback Control
The measured variable for a feedback control strategy is the tank
height. Which input variable is manipulated depends on what is
happening in process 1 and process 2. Let us consider two different
scenarios. In scenario 1, process 2 regulates the flow rate F2, leaving F1
to be manipulated by a controller. In scenario 2, process 1 regulates the
flow rate F1, leaving F2 to be manipulated by a controller. Here we
further discuss scenario 2; scenario 1 is used as a student exercise
(exercise 5).
Scenario 2 Process 1 regulates flow rate F1. This could happen, for
example, if process 1 is producing a chemical compound that must be
processed by process 2. Perhaps process 1 is set to produce F1 at a
certain rate. F1 is then considered “wild” (a disturbance) by the tank
process. In this case, we would adjust F2 to maintain the tank height.
Notice that the control valve should be specified as fail-open or air-to-
close so that the tank will not overflow on loss of instrument air or
other valve failure.
The control and instrumentation diagram for a feedback control
strategy for this scenario is shown in Figure 1–4a. Notice that the level
transmitter (LT) sends the measured height of liquid in the tank (hm) to
the level controller (LC). The LC compares the measured level with the
desired level (hsp, the height setpoint) and sends a pressure signal (Pv)
to the valve. This valve op pressure moves the valve stem up and
down, changing the flow rate through the valve (F2). If the controller is
designed properly, the flow rate changes to bring the tank height close
to the desired setpoint. In this process and instrumentation diagram,
we use dashed lines to indicate signals between different pieces of
instrumentation.
Feedforward Control
The previous feedback control strategy was based on measuring the
output (tank height) and manipulating an input (the outlet flow rate).
In this case, the manipulated variable is changed after a disturbance
affects the output. The advantage of a feedforward control strategy is
that a disturbance variable is measured and a manipulated variable is
changed before the output is affected. Consider the preceding case
where the inlet flow rate can be changed by the upstream process unit
and is therefore considered a disturbance variable. If we can measure
the inlet flow rate, we can manipulate the outlet flow rate to maintain a
constant tank height. This feedforward control strategy is shown in
Figure 1–5a, where FM is the flow measurement device and FFC is the
feedforward controller. The corresponding control block diagram is
shown in Figure 1–5b. F1 is a disturbance input that directly affects the
tank height; the value of F1 is measured by the FM device, and the
information is used by an FFC to change the manipulated input, F2.
Figure 1–5 Instrumentation and control block diagrams for the
tank level feedforward control problem. The inlet flow rate is
measured and outlet flow rate is manipulated.
1.2 Instrumentation
The example level-control problem had three critical pieces of
instrumentation: a sensor (measurement device), actuator
(manipulated input device), and controller. The sensor measured the
tank level, the actuator changed the flow rate, and the controller
determined, on the basis of the sensor signal, how much to vary the
actuator.
There are many common sensors used for chemical processes. These
include temperature, level, pressure, flow, composition, and pH. The
most common manipulated input is the valve actuator signal (usually
pneumatic).
Each device in a control loop must supply or receive a signal from
another device. When these signals are continuous, such as electrical
current or voltage, we use the term analog. If the signals are
communicated at discrete intervals of time, we use the term digital.
Analog
Analog or continuous signals provide the foundation for control theory
and design and analysis. A common measurement device might supply
either a 4- to 20-mA or 0- to 5-V signal as a function of time. Pneumatic
analog controllers (developed primarily in the 1930s, but used in some
plants today) use instrument air, as well as a bellows-and-springs
arrangement, to “calculate” a controller output based on an input from
a measurement device (typically supplied as a 3- to 15-psig pneumatic
signal). The controller output of 3 to 15 psig is sent to an actuator,
typically a control valve where the pneumatic signal moves the valve
stem. For large valves, the 3- to 15-psig signal might be amplified to
supply enough pressure to move the valve stem.
Electronic analog controllers typically receive a 4- to 20-mA or 0- to 5-V
signal from a measurement device and use an electronic circuit to
determine the controller output, which is usually a 4- to 20-mA or 0- to
5-V signal. Again, the controller output is often sent to a control valve
that may require a 3- to 15-psig signal for valve stem actuation. In this
case, the 4- to 20-mA current signal is converted to the 3- to 15-psig
signal using an I/P (current-to-pneumatic) converter.
Digital
Most devices and controllers are now based on digital communication
technology. A sensor may send a digital signal to a controller, which
then does a discrete computation and sends a digital output to the
actuator. Very often, the actuator is a valve, so there is usually a D/I
(digital-to-electronic analog) converter involved. If the valve stem is
moved by a pneumatic rather than electronic actuator, then an I/P
converter may also be used.
Digital control-system design techniques explicitly account for the
discrete (rather than continuous) nature of the control computations. If
small sample times are used, the tuning and performance of the digital
controllers is nearly equal to that of analog controllers, as shown in
Chapter 7, “Model-Based Control.”
Wireless
The cost to run wiring between sensors, controllers, and actuators can
be substantial. For noncritical applications, particularly for monitoring
and infrequent actions, it can be desirable to use wireless systems. This
has been done in household systems for years, with remote operation
of garage doors and, more recently, lighting systems. A biomedical
application that is studied several times in this text is automated insulin
delivery for people with type 1 diabetes. Bluetooth is used to send
signals from a glucose sensor to smart-phone or other control device
and to an insulin pump. Similar methods are likely to be used on select
chemical processes in the future.
Notice the implicit assumption that the density of fluid in the vessel
does not depend on position (the perfect mixing assumption). This
assumption allows an ordinary differential equation (ODE) formulation.
We refer to any system that can be modeled by ODEs as lumped
parameter systems. Also notice that the outlet stream density was
assumed to be equal to the density of fluid in the tank. Assuming that
the density of the inlet stream and fluid in the vessel are equal, this
equation is then reduced to1
1
It might be tempting to begin to directly write a “volume balance”
expression, which looks similar to Equation (1.3). We wish to make it
clear that there is no such thing as a volume balance, and Equation
(1.3) is only correct because of the constant density assumption. It is a
good idea to always write a mass balance expression, such as Equation
(1.2), before making assumptions about the fluid density, which may
lead to Equation (1.3).
If, for example, the initial volume is 500 liters, the inlet flow rate is 5
liters/second and the outlet flow rate is 4.5 liters/second, we find
V(t) = 500 + 0.5 · t
Example 1.3 provides an introduction to the notion of states, inputs,
and parameters. Consider now the notion of an output. We may
consider fluid volume to be a desired output that we wish to control, for
example. In that case, volume would not only be a state, it would also
be considered an output. On the other hand, we may be concerned
about fluid height rather than volume. Volume and height are related
through the constant cross- sectional area, A:
or
where fluid height is now the state variable. It should also be noted
that inputs can be classified as either manipulated inputs (that we may
regulate with a control valve, for example) or disturbance inputs. If we
wanted to measure fluid height and manipulate the flow rate of stream
1, for example, then F1 would be a manipulated input, while F2 would
be a disturbance input.
We have found that a single process can have different modeling
equations and variables, depending on assumptions and the objectives
used when developing the model.
The liquid level process is an example of an integrating process. If the
process is initially at steady state, the inlet and outlet flow rates are
equal (see Equation 1.3 or 1.7). If the inlet flow rate is suddenly
increased while the outlet flow rate remains constant, the liquid level
(volume) will increase until the vessel overflows. Similarly, if the outlet
flow rate is increased while the inlet flow rate remains constant, the
tank level will decrease until the vessel is empty.
In this book, we first develop process models based on fundamental or
first- principles analysis, that is, models that are based on known
physical-chemical relationships, such as material and energy balances,
as well as reaction kinetics, transport phenomena, and thermodynamic
relationships. We then develop empirical models. An empirical model is
usually developed on the basis of applying input changes to a process
and observing the response of measured outputs. Model parameters
are adjusted so that the model outputs match the observed process
outputs. This technique is particularly useful for developing models that
can be used for controller design.
With his own hands, and the help of Grasshopper, who did little but
hold the nails and look on, Horace made a box for Pincher, while
Abner dug his grave under a tree in the grove.
It was evening when they all followed Pincher to his last resting-
place.
"He was a sugar-plum of a dog," said Prudy, "and I can't help
crying."
"I don't want to help it," said Grace: "we ought to cry."
"What makes me feel the worst," said sober little Susie, "he
won't go to heaven."
"Not forever'n ever amen?" gasped Prudy, in a low voice.
"Wouldn't he if he had a nice casket, and a plate on it neither?"
The sky and earth were very lovely that evening, and it seemed
as if everybody ought to be heart-glad. I doubt if Horace had ever
thought before what a beautiful world he lived in, and how glorious
a thing it is to be alive! He could run about and do what he pleased
with himself; but alas, poor Pincher!
The sun was setting, and the river looked uncommonly full of
little sparkles. The soft sky and the twinkling water seemed to be
smiling at each other, while a great way off you could see the dim
blue mountains rising up like clouds. Such a lovely world! Ah! poor
Pincher.
It looked very much as if Horace were really turning over a new
leaf. He was still quite trying sometimes, leaving the milk-room door
open when puss was watching for the cream-pot, or slamming the
kitchen door with a bang when everybody needed fresh air. He still
kept his chamber in a state of confusion,—"muss," Grace called it,—
pulling the drawers out of the bureau, and scattering the contents
over the floor; dropping his clothes anywhere it happened, and
carrying quantities of gravel upstairs in his shoes.
Aunt Louise still scolded about him; but even she could not help
seeing that on the whole he was improving. He "cared" more and
"forgot" less. He could always learn easily, and now he really tried to
learn. His lessons, instead of going through his head "threading my
grandmother's needle," went in and stayed there. The blue book got
a few marks, it is true, but not so many as at first.
You may be sure there was not a good thing said or done by
Horace which did not give pleasure to his mother. She felt now as if
she lived only for her children; if God would bless her by making
them good, she had nothing more to desire. Grace had always been
a womanly, thoughtful little girl, but at this time she was a greater
comfort than ever; and Horace had grown so tender and affectionate
that it gratified her very much. He was not content now with "canary
kisses;" but threw his arms around her neck very often, saying, with
his lips close to her cheek,—:
"Don't feel bad, ma; I'm going to take care of you."
For his mother's grief called forth his manliness.
She meant to be cheerful; but Horace knew she did not look or
seem like herself: he thought he ought to try to make her happy.
Whenever he asked for money, as he too often did, she told him
that now his father was gone, there was no one to earn anything,
and it was best to be rather prudent. He wanted a drum; but she
thought he must wait a while for that.
They were far from being poor, and Mrs. Clifford had no idea of
deceiving her little son. Yet he was deceived, for he supposed that
his mother's pretty little porte-monnaie held all the bank-bills and all
the silver she had in the world.
"O, Grace!" said Horace, coming downstairs with a very grave
face, "I wish I was grown a man: then I'd earn money like sixty."
Grace stopped her singing long enough to ask what he meant to
do, and then continued in a high key,—
"Where, O where are the Hebrew children?"
"O, I'm going as a soldier," replied Horace: "I thought everybody
knew that! The colonels make a heap of money!"
"But, Horace, you might get shot—just think!"
"Then I'd dodge when they fired, for I don't know what you and
ma would do if I was killed."
"Well, please step out of the way, Horace; don't you see I'm
sweeping the piazza?"
"I can't tell," pursued he, taking a seat on one of the stairs in
the hall: "I can't tell certain sure; but I may be a minister."
This was such a funny idea that Grace made a dash with her
broom, and sent the dirt flying the wrong way.
"Why, Horace, you'll never be good enough for a minister!"
"What'll you bet?" replied he, looking a little mortified.
"You're getting to be a dear, good little boy, Horace," said Grace,
soothingly; "but I don't think you'll ever be a minister."
"Perhaps I'd as soon be a shoemaker," continued Horace,
thoughtfully; "they get a great deal for tappin' boots."
His sister made no reply.
"See here, now, Grace: perhaps you'd rather I'd be a tin-
peddler; then I'd always keep a horse, and you could ride."
"Ride in a cart!" cried Grace, laughing. "Can't you think of
anything else? Have you forgotten papa?"
"O, now I know," exclaimed Horace, with shining eyes: "it's a
lawyer I'll be, just like father was. I'll have a 'sleepy partner,' the way
Judge Ingle has, and by and by I'll be a judge."
"I know that would please ma, Horace," replied Grace, looking
at her little brother with a good deal of pride.
Who knew but he might yet be a judge? She liked to order him
about, and have him yield to her: still she had great faith in Horace.
"But, Grace, after all that I'll go to war and turn out a general;
now you see if I don't."
"That'll be a great while yet," said Grace, sighing.
"So it will," replied Horace, sadly; "and ma needs the money
now. I wish I could earn something right off while I'm a little boy."
It was not two days before he thought he had found out how to
get rich; in what way you shall see.
CHAPTER XI
THE LITTLE INDIAN
Prudy came into the house one day in a great fright, and said they'd
"better hide the baby, for there was a very wicked woman round."
"Her hair looks like a horse's tail," said she, "and she's got a
black man's hat on her head, and a table-cloth over her."
Aunt Madge took Prudy in her lap, and told her it was only an
Indian woman, who had no idea of harming anyone.
"What are Nindians?" asked the child.
Her aunt said they were sometimes called "red men." The
country had once been filled by them; but the English came, a great
many years ago, and shook off the red men just as a high wind
shakes the red leaves off a tree; and they were scattered about, and
only a few were left alive. Sometimes the Oldtown Indians came
round making baskets; but they were quiet and peaceable people.
Horace and his friend "Grasshopper," as they were strolling up
the river, came upon a tent made of canvas, and at the door of the
tent sat a little boy about their own age, with a bow and arrow in his
hand, in the act of firing.
Grasshopper, who was always a coward, ran with all his might;
but as Horace happened to notice that the arrow was pointed at
something across the river, he was not alarmed, but stopped to look
at the odd little stranger, who turned partly round and returned his
gaze. His eyes were keen and black, with a good-natured
expression, something like the eyes of an intelligent dog.
"What's your name, boy?" said Horace.
"Me no understand."
"I asked what your name is," continued Horace, who was sure
the boy understood, in spite of his blank looks.
"Me no hurt white folks; me bunkum Indian."
"Well, what's your name, then? What do they call you?"
No answer, but a shake of the head.
"I reckon they call you John, don't they?"
Here the boy's mother appeared at the door.
"His name no John! Eshy-ishy-oshy-neeshy-George-Wampum-
Shoony-Katoo! short name, speak um quick!—Jaw-awn. Great long
name!" drawled she, stretching it out as if it were made of India
rubber, and scowling with an air of disgust.
"What does she mean by calling 'John' long?" thought Horace.
The woman wore a calico dress, short enough to reveal her
brown, stockingless feet and gay moccasins.
Her hair was crow-black, and strayed over her shoulders and
into her eyes. Horace concluded she must have lost her back-comb.
While he was looking at her with curious eyes, her daughter
came to the door, feeling a little cross at the stranger, whoever it
might be; but when she saw only an innocent little boy, she smiled
pleasantly, showing a row of white teeth. Horace thought her rather
handsome, for she was very straight and slender, and her eyes
shone like glass beads. Her hair he considered a great deal blacker
than black, and it was braided and tied with gay ribbons. She was
dressed in a bright, large-figured calico, and from her ears were
suspended the longest, yellowest, queerest ear-rings. Horace
thought they were shaped like boat-paddles, and would be pretty for
Prudy to use when she rowed her little red boat in the bathing-tub.
If they only "scooped" a little more they would answer for
teaspoons. "Plenty big as I should want for teaspoons," he decided,
after another gaze at them.
The young girl was used to being admired by her own people,
and was not at all displeased with Horace for staring at her.
"Me think you nice white child," said she: "you get me sticks,
me make you basket, pretty basket for put apples in."
"What kind of sticks do you mean?" said Horace, forgetting that
they pretended not to understand English. But it appeared that they
knew very well what he meant this time, and the Indian boy offered
to go with him to point out the place where the wood was to be
found. Grasshopper, who had only hidden behind the trees, now
came out and joined the boys.
"Wampum," as he chose to be called, led them back to Mr.
Parlin's grounds, to the lower end of the garden, where stood some
tall silver poplars, on which the Indians had looked with longing
eyes.
"Me shin them trees," said Wampum; "me make you basket."
"Would you let him, Grasshopper?"
"Yes, indeed; your grandfather won't care."
"Perhaps he might; you don't know," said Horace, who, after he
had asked advice, was far from feeling obliged to take it. He ran in
great haste to the field where his grandfather was hoeing potatoes,
thinking, "If I ask, then I shan't get marked in the blue book
anyhow."
In this case Horace acted very properly. He had no right to cut
the trees, or allow anyone else to cut them, without leave. To his
great delight, his grandfather said he did not care if they clipped off
a few branches where they would not show much.
When Horace got back and reported the words of his
grandfather, Wampum did not even smile, but shot a glance at him
as keen as an arrow.
"Me no hurt trees," said he gravely; and he did not: he only cut
off a few limbs from each one, leaving the trees as handsome as
ever.
"Bully for you!" cried Horace, forgetting the blue book.
"He's as spry as a squirrel," said Grasshopper, in admiration;
"how many boughs has he got? One, two, three."
"Me say 'em quickest," cried little Wampum. "Een, teen, teddery,
peddery, bimp, satter, latter, doe, dommy, dick."
"That's ten," put in Horace, who was keeping 'count.
"Een-dick," continued the little Indian, "teen-dick, teddery-dick,
peddery-dick, bumpin, een-bumpin, teen-bumpin, teddery-bumpin,
peddery-bumpin, jiggets."
"Hollo!" cried Grasshopper; "that's twenty; jiggets is twenty;"
and he rolled over on the ground, laughing as if he had made a
great discovery.
Little by little they made Wampum tell how he lived at home,
what sort of boys he played with, and what they had to eat. The
young Indian assured them that at Oldtown "he lived in a house
good as white folks; he ate moose-meat, ate sheep-meat, ate cow-
meat."
"Cook out doors, I s'pose," said Grasshopper.
Wampum looked very severe. "When me lives in wigwam, me
has fires in wigwam: when me lives in tent, me puts fires on grass;
—keep off them things," he added, pointing at a mosquito in the air;
"keep smoke out tent," pointing upward to show the motion of the
smoke.
Horace felt so much pleased with his new companion that he
resolved to treat him to a watermelon. So, without saying a word to
the hoys, he ran into the house to ask his grandmother.
"What! a whole watermelon, Horace?"
"Yes, grandma, we three; me, and Grasshopper, and Wampum."
Mrs. Parlin could not help smiling to see how suddenly Horace
had adopted a new friend.
"You may have a melon, but I think your mother would not like
to have you play much with a strange boy."
"He's going to make me a splendid basket; and besides, aren't
Indians and negroes as good as white folks? 'Specially tame
Indians," said Horace, not very respectfully, as he ran back,
shoeknife in hand, to cut the watermelon.
This was the beginning of a hasty friendship between himself
and Wampum. For a few days there was nothing so charming to
Horace as the wild life of this Indian family. He was made welcome
at their tent, and often went in to see them make baskets.
"I trust you," said Mrs. Clifford; "you will not deceive me,
Horace. If you ever find that little Wampum says bad words, tells
falsehoods, or steals, I shall not be willing for you to play with him.
You are very young, and might be greatly injured by a bad
playmate."
The tent was rude enough. In one corner were skins laid one
over another: these were the beds which were spread out at night
for the family. Instead of closets and presses, all the wearing apparel
was hung on a long rope, which was stretched from stake to stake,
in various directions, like a clothesline.
It was curious to watch the brown fingers moving so easily over
the white strips, out of which they wove baskets. It was such pretty
work! It brought so much money. Horace thought it was just the
business for him, and Wampum promised to teach him. In return for
this favor, Horace was to instruct the little Indian in spelling.
For one or two evenings he appointed meetings in the summer-
house, and really went without his own slice of cake, that he might
give it to poor Wampum after a lesson in "baker."
He received the basket in due time, a beautiful one—red, white,
and blue. Just as he was carrying it home on his arm, he met Billy
Green, the hostler, who stopped him, and asked if he remembered
going into "the Pines" one day with Peter Grant? Horace had no
reason to forget it, surely.
"Seems to me you ran away with my horse-basket," said Billy;
"but I never knew till yesterday what had 'come of it."
"There, now," replied Horace, quite crestfallen; "Peter Grant
took that! I forgot all about it."
What should be done? It would never do to ask his mother for
the money, since, as he believed, she had none to spare. Billy was
fond of joking with little boys.
"Look here, my fine fellow," said he, "give us that painted
concern you've got on your arm, and we'll call it square."
"No, no, Billy," cried Horace, drawing away; "this is a present,
and I couldn't. But I'm learning to weave baskets, and I'll make you
one—see if I don't!"
Billy laughed, and went away whistling. He had no idea that
Horace would ever think of the matter again; but in truth the first
article the boy tried to make was a horse-basket.
"Me tell you somethin'," said little Wampum, next morning, as
he and Horace were crossing the field together. "Very much me want
um,—um,—um,"—putting his fingers up to his mouth in a manner
which signified that he meant something to eat.
"Don't understand," said Horace: "say it in English."
"Very much me want um," continued Wampum, in a beseeching
tone. "No tell what you call um. E'enamost water, no quite water;
e'enamost punkin, no quite punkin."
"Poh! you mean watermelon," laughed Horace: "should think
you'd remember that as easy as pumpkin."
"Very much me want um," repeated Wampum, delighted at
being understood, "me like um."
"Well," replied Horace, "they aren't mine."
"O, yes. Ugh! you've got 'em. Melon-water good! Me have
melon-waters, me give you moc-suns."
"I'll ask my grandpa, Wampum."
Hereupon the crafty little Indian shook his head.
"You ask ole man, me no give you moc-suns! Me no want een—
me want bimp—bumpin—jiggets."
Horace's stout little heart wavered for a moment. He fancied
moccasins very much. In his mind's eye he saw a pair shining with
all the colors of the rainbow, and as Wampum had said of the
melons, "very much he wanted them." How handsome they'd be
with his Zouave suit!
But the wavering did not last long. He remembered the blue
book which his mother was to see next week; for then the month
would be out.
"It wouldn't be a 'D.,'" thought he, "for nobody told me not to
give the watermelons."
"No," said Conscience; "'twould be a black S.; that stands for
stealing! What, a boy with a dead father, a dead soldier-father, steal!
A boy called Horace Clifford! The boy whose father had said,
'Remember God sees all you do'!"
"Wampum," said Horace, firmly, "you just stop that kind of talk!
Moccasins are right pretty; but I wouldn't steal, no, not if you gave
me a bushel of 'em."
After this Horace was disgusted with his little friend, not
remembering that there are a great many excuses to be made for a
half civilized child. They had a serious quarrel, and Wampum's
temper proved to be very bad. If the little savage had not struck
him, I hope Horace would have dropped his society all the same;
because after Wampum proved to be a thief, it would have been
sheer disobedience on Horace's part to play with him any longer.
Of course the plan of basket-making was given up; but our little
Horace did one thing which was noble in a boy of his age: perhaps
he remembered what his father had said long ago in regard to the
injured watch; but, at any rate, he went to Billy Green of his own
accord, and offered him the beautiful present which he had received
from the Indians.
"It's not a horse-basket, Billy: I didn't get to make one,"
stammered he, in a choked voice; "but you said you'd call it square."
"Whew!" cried Billy, very much astonished: "now look here, bub;
that's a little too bad! The old thing you lugged off was about worn
out, anyhow. Don't want any of your fancy baskets: so just carry it
back, my fine little shaver."
To say that Horace was very happy would not half express the
delight he felt as he ran home with the beautiful basket on his arm,
his "ownest own," beyond the right of dispute.
The Indians disappeared quite suddenly; and perhaps it was
nothing surprising that, the very next morning after they left,
Grandpa Parlin should find his beautiful melon-patch stripped nearly
bare, with nothing left on the vines but a few miserable green little
melons.
CHAPTER XII
A PLEASANT SURPRISE
"It's too bad," said Horace to his sister, "that I didn't get to make
baskets; I'd have grown rich so soon. What would you try to do
next?"
"Pick berries," suggested Grace.
And that very afternoon they both went blackberrying with
Susie and Aunt Madge. They had a delightful time. Horace could not
help missing Pincher very much: still, in spite of the regret, it was a
happier day than the one he and Peter Grant had spent "in the
Pines." He was beginning to find, as all children do, how hard it is to
get up "a good time" when you are pricked by a guilty conscience,
and how easy it is to be happy when you are doing right.
They did not leave the woods till the sun began to sink, and
reached home quite tired, but as merry as larks, with baskets nearly
full of berries.
When Horace timidly told Aunt Madge that he and Grace wanted
to sell all they had gathered, his aunt laughed, and said she would
buy the fruit if they wished, but wondered what they wanted to do
with the money: she supposed it was for the soldiers.
"I want to give it to ma," replied Horace, in a low voice; for he
did not wish his Aunt Louise to overhear. "She hasn't more than
three bills in her pocket-book, and it's time for me to begin to take
care of her."
"Ah," said Aunt Madge, with one of her bright smiles, "there is a
secret drawer in her writing-desk, dear, that has ever so much
money in it. She isn't poor, my child, and she didn't mean to make
you think so, for your mother wouldn't deceive you."
"Not poor?" cried Horace, his face brightening suddenly; and he
turned half a somersault, stopping in the midst of it to ask how
much a drum would cost.
The month being now out, it was time to show the blue book to
Mrs. Clifford. Horace looked it over with some anxiety. On each page
were the letters "D.," "B.W.," "B.G.P.," and "F.," on separate lines,
one above another. But there were no figures before the letters but
the "B.W.'s;" and even those figures had been growing rather
smaller, as you could see by looking carefully.
"Now, Grace," said her little brother, "you'll tell ma that the bad
words aren't swearin' words! I never did say such, though some of
the fellows do, and those that go to Sabbath School too."
"Yes, I'll tell her," said Grace; "but she knows well enough that
you never talk anything worse than lingo."
"I haven't disobeyed, nor blown powder, nor told lies."
"No, indeed," said Grace, delighted. "To be sure, you've
forgotten, and slammed doors, and lots of things; but you know I
didn't set that down."
I wish all little girls felt as much interest in their younger
brothers as this sister felt in Horace. Grace had her faults, of which I
might have told you if I had been writing the book about her; but
she loved Horace dearly, kept his little secrets whenever she
promised to do so, and was always glad to have him do right.
Mrs. Clifford was pleased with the idea of the blue book, and
kissed Horace and Grace, saying they grew dearer to her every day
of their lives.
One night, not long after this, Horace went to the post-office for
the mail. This was nothing new, for he had often gone before. A
crowd of men were sitting in chairs and on the door-stone and
counter, listening to the news, which someone was reading in a loud,
clear voice.
Without speaking, the postmaster gave Horace three letters and
a newspaper. After tucking the letters into his raglan pocket, Horace
rolled the paper into a hollow tube, peeping through it at the large
tree standing opposite the post-office, and at the patient horses
hitched to the posts, waiting for their masters to come out.
He listened for some time to the dreadful account of a late
battle, thinking of his dear father, as he always did when he heard
war news. But at last remembering that his grandfather would be
anxious to have the daily paper, he started for home, though rather
against his will.
"I never did see such a fuss as they make," thought he, "if
anybody's more'n a minute going to the office and back."
"Is this all?" said Aunt Madge, as Horace gave a letter to
grandma, one to Aunt Louise, and the paper to his grandfather.
"Why, yes, ma'am, that's all," replied Horace, faintly. It did
seem, to be sure, as if Mr. Pope had given him three letters, but as
he could not find another in his pocket, he supposed he must be
mistaken, and said nothing about it. He little knew what a careless
thing he had done, and soon went to bed, forgetting post-offices
and letters in a strange dream of little Wampum, who had a bridle
on and was hitched to a post; and of the Indian girl's ear-rings,
which seemed to have grown into a pair of shining gold muskets.
A few mornings after the mistake about the letter, Mrs. Clifford
sat mending Horace's raglan. She emptied the pockets of twine, fish-
hooks, jack-knife, pebbles, coppers, and nails; but still something
rattled when she touched the jacket; it seemed to be paper. She
thrust in her finger, and there, between the outside and lining, was a
crumpled, worn letter, addressed to "Miss Margaret Parlin."
"What does this mean?" thought Mrs. Clifford. "Horace must
have carried the letter all summer."
But upon looking at it again, she saw that it was mailed at
Washington about two weeks before—"a soldier's letter." She carried
it down to Margaret, who was busy making cream-cakes.
"Let me see," said Aunt Louise, peeping over Mrs. Clifford's
shoulder, and laughing. "No, it's not Mr. Augustus Allen's writing; but
how do you know somebody hasn't written it to tell you he is sick?"
Aunt Madge grew quite pale, dropped the egg-beater, and
carried the letter into the nursery to read it by herself. She opened it
with trembling fingers; but before she had read two lines her fingers
trembled worse than ever, her heart throbbed fast, the room seemed
to reel about.
There was no bad news in the letter, you may be sure of that.
She sat reading it over and over again, while the tears ran down her
cheeks, and the sunshine in her eyes dried them again. Then she
folded her hands together, and humbly thanked God for his loving
kindness.
When she was sure her sister Maria had gone upstairs, she ran
out to the kitchen, whispering,—
"O, mother! O, Louise!" but broke down by laughing.
"What does ail the child?" said Mrs. Parlin, laughing too.
Margaret tried again to speak, but this time burst into tears.
"There, it's of no use," she sobbed: "I'm so happy that it's really
dreadful. I'm afraid somebody may die of joy."
"I'm more afraid somebody'll die of curiosity," said Aunt Louise:
"do speak quick."
"Well, Henry Clifford is alive," said Margaret: "that's the blessed
truth! Now hush! We must be careful how we tell Maria!"
Mrs. Parlin caught Margaret by the shoulder, and gasped for
breath. Louise dropped into a chair.
"What do you mean? What have you heard?" they both cried at
once.
"He was taken off the field for dead; but life was not quite gone.
He lay for weeks just breathing, and that was all."
"But why did no one let us know it?" said Louise. "Of course
Maria would have gone to him at once."
"There was no one to write; and when Henry came to himself
there was no hope of him, except by amputation of his left arm; and
after that operation he was very low again."
"O, why don't you give us the letter," said Louise, "so we can
see for ourselves?"
But she was too excited to read it; and while she was trying to
collect her ideas, Aunt Madge had to hunt for grandma's spectacles;
and then the three looked over the surgeon's letter together,
sometimes all talking at once.
Captain Clifford would be in Maine as soon as possible: so the
letter said. A young man was to come with him to take care of him,
and they were to travel very slowly indeed; might be at home in a
fortnight.
"They may be here to-night," said Mrs. Parlin.
This letter had been written to prepare the family for Captain
Clifford's arrival. It was expected that Aunt Madge would break the
news to his wife.
"It's a pity that little flyaway of a Horace didn't give you the
letter in time," said Louise; "and then we might have had some days
to get used to it."
"Wait a minute, dear," said Aunt Madge, as Susie came in for a
drink of water: "please run up and ask Aunt Maria to come
downstairs. Now, mother," she added, "you are the one to tell the
story, if you please."
"We can all break it to her by degrees," said Mrs. Parlin, twisting
her checked apron nervously.
When Mrs. Clifford entered the kitchen, she saw at once that
something had happened. Her mother with a flushed face was
opening and shutting the stove door. Margaret was polishing a pie-
plate, with tears in her eyes, and Louise had seized a sieve, and
appeared to be breaking eggs into it. Nobody wanted to speak first.
"What do you say to hearing a story?" faltered Louise.
"O, you poor woman," exclaimed Margaret, seizing Mrs. Clifford
by both hands: "you look so sorrowful, dear, as if nothing would ever
make you happy again. Can you believe we have a piece of good
news for you?"
"For me?" Mrs. Clifford looked bewildered.
"Good news for you," said Louise, dropping the sieve to the
floor: "yes, indeed! O, Maria, we thought Henry was killed; but he
isn't; it's a mistake of the papers. He's alive, and coming home to-
night."
All this as fast as she could speak. No wonder Mrs. Clifford was
shocked! First she stood quiet and amazed, gazing at her sister with
fixed eyes: then she screamed, and would have fallen if her mother
and Margaret had not caught her in their arms.
"O, I have killed her," cried Louise: "I didn't mean to speak so
quick! Henry is almost dead, Maria: he is nearly dead, I mean! He's
just alive!"
"Louise, bring some water at once," said Mrs. Parlin, sternly.
"O, mother," sobbed Louise, returning with the water, "I didn't
mean to be so hasty; but you might have known I would: you should
have sent me out of the room."
This was very much the way Prudy talked when she did wrong:
she had a funny way of blaming other people.
It is always unsafe to tell even joyful news too suddenly; but
Louise's thoughtlessness had not done so much harm as they all
feared. Mrs. Clifford recovered from the shock, and in an hour or two
was wonderfully calm, looking so perfectly happy that it was
delightful just to gaze at her face.
She wanted the pleasure of telling the children the story with
her own lips. Grace was fairly wild with joy, kissing everybody, and
declaring it was "too good for anything." She was too happy to keep
still, while as for Horace, he was too happy to talk.
"Then Uncle Henry wasn't gone to heaven," cried little Prudy.
"Hasn't he been to heaven at all?"
"No, of course not," said Susie: "didn't you hear 'em say he'd be
here to-night?—Now you've got on the nicest kind of a dress, and if
you spot it up 'twill be awful."
"I guess," pursued Prudy, "the man that shooted found 'twas
Uncle Henry, and so he didn't want to kill him down dead."
How the family found time to do so many things that day I do
not know, especially as each one was in somebody's way, and the
children under everybody's feet. But before night the pantry was full
of nice things, the whole house was as fresh as a rose, and the
parlors were adorned with autumn flowers and green garlands.
Not only the kerosene lamps, but all the old oil lamps, were
filled, and every candlestick, whether brass, iron, or glass, was used
to hold a sperm candle; so that in the evening the house at every
window was all ablaze with light. The front door stood wide open,
and the piazza and part of the lawn were as bright as day. The
double gate had been unlatched for hours, and everybody waiting
for the carriage to drive up.
The hard, uncomfortable stage, which Horace had said was like
a baby-jumper, would never do for a sick man to ride in: so Billy
Green had driven to the cars in his easiest carriage, and Aunt Madge
had gone with him, for she was afraid neither Billy nor the
gentleman who was with Captain Clifford would know how to wrap
the shawls about him carefully enough.
I could never describe the joyful meeting which took place in
those brilliantly lighted parlors. It is very rarely that such wonderful
happiness falls to anyone's lot in this world.
While the smiles are yet bright on their faces, while Grace is
clinging to her father's neck, and Horace hugs his new "real drum" in
one arm, embracing his dear papa with the other, let us take leave
of them and the whole family for the present, with many kind good-
bys.
THE END
* * * * * * * *
LITTLE RHODY
By JEAN K. BAIRD
Illustrated by R. G. Vosburgh
At The Hall, a boys' school, there is a set of boys known as the
"Union of States," to which admittance is gained by excelling in
some particular the boys deem worthy of their mettle.
Rush Petriken, a hunchback boy, comes to The Hall, and rooms
with Barnes, the despair of the entire school because of his prowess
in athletics. Petriken idolizes him, and when trouble comes to him,
the poor crippled lad gladly shoulders the blame, and is expelled.
But shortly before the end of the term he returns and is hailed as
"little Rhody," the "capitalest State of all."
* * * * *
BIGELOW BOYS
By MRS. A. F. RANSOM
Illustrated by HENRY MILLER
Four boys, all bubbling over with energy and love of good times, and
their mother, an authoress, make this story of a street-car strike in
one of our large cities move with leaps and bounds. For it is due to
the four boys that a crowded theatre car is saved from being
wrecked, and the instigators of the plot captured.
Mrs. Ransom is widely known by her patriotic work among the boys
in the navy, and she now proves herself a friend of the lads on land
by writing more especially for them.
CLOTH, 12 mo, illustrated, - $1.50
Books sent postpaid on receipt of price.