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OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 30/07/19, SPi

Reasons in Action
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 30/07/19, SPi
 OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 30/07/19, SPi

Reasons in Action
A Reductionist Account of
Intentional Action

INGMAR PERSSON

1
 OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 30/07/19, SPi

1
Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP,
United Kingdom
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford.
It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship,
and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of
Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries
© Ingmar Persson 2019
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
First Edition published in 2019
Impression: 1
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the
prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted
by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics
rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the
above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the
address above
You must not circulate this work in any other form
and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer
Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press
198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Data available
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019939267
ISBN 978–0–19–884503–4
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.
 OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 30/07/19, SPi

Contents

Acknowledgementsvii

Introduction and Outline of the Book 1

1. Acting and Thinking 13
2. The Purport of Reason-Conditionals 31
3. The Reference to Desire in Reasons for Action 42
4. Reasoning about Means 76
5. The Intentionality of Actions: Basic and Non-Basic 90
6. Refraining: Its Nature and Normative Role 122
Conclusion160

References 165
Index 169
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 OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 30/07/19, SPi

Acknowledgements

This book is based on my PhD thesis from 1981, Reasons and Reason-
Governed Actions. After finishing my thesis, I did not get around to pre-
paring it for proper publication because my philosophical curiosity
drove me on to other issues. But I never lost interest in the philosophy of
action, and some concepts central to my thesis, like the concepts of a
desire and reasons for desire and action, played important parts in my
later publications. Through the years my account of what it is to act for a
reason in such a way that the action becomes intentional has been
revised and refined but, basically, it has remained the same. The present
book is nevertheless quite different from my thesis. I have deleted
around half of the material of my thesis, mainly critical discussions of
rival views which now seem out of date, but also added some material,
especially an account of refraining from action in Chapter 6 and of
mental acts in 1.2 and 5.2.
Indirectly, this book owes most to the advice I received when writing
my thesis, in particular from my supervisor at Oxford, John Mackie.
More directly, it has benefited from the help of two anonymous Oxford
University Press readers and Michael J. Zimmerman who generously
read the whole draft and peppered it with penetrating comments. In this
case as in the case of my other Oxford University Press books, I am
immensely grateful to Peter Momtchiloff, for his efficient assistance in
turning my script into a book. Finally, I would like to express my grati-
tude to the Uehiro Foundation for Ethics and Education for generously
providing financial and academic support through the Oxford Uehiro
Centre for Practical Ethics.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 30/07/19, SPi
 OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 30/07/19, SPi

Introduction and Outline

of the Book

The principal aim of this book is to analyse what it means to act for a
reason in such a way that we intentionally do what we have a reason for
doing and intentionally attain the end for which we do this action, as
specified by the reason. This analysis will also cover the simpler case in
which we perform actions intentionally without having any reasons to
perform them, for their own sake. It is, however, of interest to see how
reasons fit in with intentional actions, since by far most of them are
performed for reasons. By contrast, it will transpire that the analysis
needs to be adapted to suit situations in which we let something be the
case, or allow it to be the case, by refraining from acting.
I regard it as a virtue of the analysis of intentional action here presented
that its analysans does not appeal to any concepts that are distinctive of
the domain of action theory, like the concept of an intentional action
itself. This analysis does not appeal to any primitive concept of an act(ion),
whether in the guise of a unique type of agent-causation, which is irre-
ducible to causal connections between facts or events, or in the guise of
irreducible mental acts, like acts of will, volitions, decisions, or tryings.
Nor does it appeal to any unanalysed attitudes essentially related to
intentional action, like intentions and desires (to do something). Instead,
the intentionality of actions will ultimately be understood in terms of
(physical) states of agents causing facts because this will fit how agents
think of them.
The direction of fit between thought and fact is here the opposite to
what it is when something (propositional) is thought to be a fact: it is
causing something to be a fact which is designed to fit the content of a
thought rather than—as in standard cases of belief—thinking something
which is designed to fit a fact. Notwithstanding these opposite directions
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2 Introduction and Outline of the Book

of fit, the pivotal notion of this analysis is that of a (­propositional)

thought fitting a fact, and this is a notion of a more general application
than the context of action theory. Thus, it could reasonably be claimed
that the analysis put forward here is a reductionist analysis of intentional
action which does not leave any action-theoretical residue. As such, it
promises to be more informative as well as simpler than analyses which
harbour such residues.
Regarding reasons for action, I suggest in Chapter 2 that they can be
put in a conditional form, in which the antecedent features a description
of the action that the reason is a reason for performing, and the conse-
quent specifies an outcome of this action that in the eyes of the agent
counts in favour of performing it, in other words, something that quali-
fies as an end or goal of the action. Of course, I do not claim that reasons
for action are always phrased in accordance with this mould in everyday
life—that would be patently false. But it seems to me inescapable that
when a reason for doing an action is made fully explicit, it must contain
both a reference to the action for which it is a reason, or which it is about,
and a mention of a consideration which counts in favour of doing this
action. In a reason-conditional such as ‘If I scratch my head, this will
make the itch that I am feeling disappear’: my scratching my head is the
act for which this conditional is a reason, or the act which the reason is
about, and its consequence that my itch disappears is what counts in
favour of doing this act.
If we take it that something can be an action only if some action is
intentionally performed when it is performed, we have an account in
which a reference to the analysandum of an analysis of acting intention-
ally crops up in the analysans, since the antecedent of a reason-conditional
is a description of an action. This would imply, implausibly, that we
could not perform an intentional action, unless we were already in pos-
session of the notion of an intentional action. More plausibly, it is the
other way around: we acquire this notion by acting intentionally; thus,
we cannot be self-consciously aware of acting intentionally until we have
had some experience of acting intentionally.
In order to circumvent this awkwardness, I shall contend in 1.1 that
there is a broader or wider concept of action which does not involve any
intentionality. According to this concept, you act just in case you—that
is, some facts to the effect that something happens to you—cause
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Introduction and Outline of the Book 3

something to happen, and these facts need not imply that what you
cause is intentional under any description. The cause could be a spasm,
or a stimulus—such as an object approaching your eyes—that elicits an
act on reflex. It is this broad, less specific concept of action that figures
in the antecedent of the reason-conditional. In the case of an action like
scratching my head, and most other kinds of action, this claim is plausible,
for whether my scratching relieves the itch does not depend on whether
or not it involves intentionality.
What is specified in the antecedent is more precisely a type of act.
Particular exemplifications or instantiations of this type will be equipped
with many details which do not belong to the type. For instance, a par-
ticular scratching of my head will be conducted by some of my fingers
moving at a precise speed in precise ways. It may also have the relational
property of resulting from an intention. These features do not belong to
the type if they are not relevant to the occurrence of what is specified in
the consequent of the conditional.
Although it is relatively uncontroversial, it should be explicitly stated
that the concept of propositional thinking, or thinking that something is
true, that is invoked by the analysans is not an act. There are some related
phenomena that may be acts, such as thinking of a proposition, thinking
about whether a proposition is true, or saying something to yourself
silently in your mind. These may be acts which can be intentionally
executed, but thinking that something is true, such as a conditional
proposition, is something that happens to you rather than something
that you do. However, thinking that p is true can be the outcome of the
act or activity of thinking about whether or not p is true. Alongside the
concept of an action or act, thinking is the subject matter of Chapter 1,
more precisely 1.2. Here it will emerge, as will be further discussed in
5.2, that intentional mental acts require a somewhat different treatment
than intentional physical acts.
The reason-conditional should not be understood as a material impli-
cation; for instance, the falsity of the antecedent should not be assumed
to suffice to make the conditional true. Rather, a reason-conditional
presupposes that the truth of the antecedent is in some sense possible
and asserts something about this possible situation, namely that it ensures
or makes highly probable the truth of the consequent. So, in order for it
to be true that if I scratch my head, this will result in the disappearance
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4 Introduction and Outline of the Book

of the itch, it must in some sense be possible for me to scratch my head

in a broad sense of acting. This sense of possibility must be clarified,
along with the purport of the conditional. It is in part merely an epistemic
possibility, having to do with the fact that it is in principle impossible for
us to predict our own decisions.
Although the truth of the antecedent must ensure or make highly
probable the truth of the consequent in order for an ‘if-then’ conditional to
be true, the truth of such a conditional is compatible with the consequent
being true even if the antecedent is not, if its truth then is significantly
less than highly probable. So, when I am scratching my head for the rea-
son that my itch will then disappear, I might think that there is some
possibility that my itch will disappear even if I do not scratch my head,
provided that I think that this is markedly less likely than that my
scratching will make it disappear.
The possibility of it disappearing even in the absence of scratching is
excluded if I am thinking that the itch will disappear only if I am scratching
my head. However, if I do not then think that it is also true that if I am
scratching my head, the itch will disappear, or that there is something else
that I can do which along with scratching my head will make up a suffi-
cient condition in the circumstances for relieving the itch, I do not have
any reason to scratch my head. These issues about reason-conditionals
and their possibility presupposition form the topic of discussion in
Chapter 2.
I shall argue in 3.1 that in order for me to act for the reason that if
I am scratching my head, my itch will be relieved, I must want or desire
the consequent to be true, but this attitude of wanting or desire is not
part of the content of my reason. Its content is simply what is expressed
by the conditional; the reference to desire is instead a part of the charac-
terization of this conditional as a reason for me to act.
In this book, I talk primarily about reasons for which we act. Facts to
the effect that we have these reasons in mind explain the actions that we
perform, whereas these reasons themselves—that is, the contents of some
of our conditional thoughts—justify these actions in our eyes. These
­reasons may not in fact justify the actions. For one thing, the reason-
conditionals may be false (the itch may not in fact disappear). For another
thing, the favouring or motivating factor may not be a state of affairs
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Introduction and Outline of the Book 5

that is good all things considered for us (the itch may serve the function
of keeping me alert, which is crucial in the situation), in which case it is
a mistake to desire it all things considered. If the reason-conditional is
false, our reason is merely an apparent reason, not a real reason that really
justifies our action, or even contributes to its justification; this requires
the truth of the reason-conditional. An apparent reason for an action is
a reason that at least in the eyes of the agent contributes to justifying the
action, but in the absence of its truth it does not do so in reality.
Something may be a real, justifying reason for us, even though we are
not aware of its existence, and have no desire with respect to its conse-
quent. Some claim that real reasons are independent of our desires to
the extent that they need not specify anything that we would desire even
if we were aware of it. I have elsewhere argued that real reasons do not
possess such desire-independence (see esp. Persson 2005: chs. 9 and 10;
2013: ch. 12), but I can steer clear of this debate here. My present con-
tention is only about apparent reasons: it is to the effect that in order for
it to be true that we act for a reason(-conditional), we must want its con-
sequent to be true.
The sense of ‘wanting’ or ‘desiring’ involved must also be explicated.
I shall advance a dispositional analysis of what I term ‘decisive’ desiring
in Chapter 3. A decisive desire is a desire that emerges victoriously when
you balance the strength of all your known desires bearing on the action
alternatives at your disposal. It must also be a desire whose object is an
act that you are fairly sure that you can perform. Forming a decisive
desire is in effect to make a decision which, I believe, consists in the for-
mation of an intention; thus, in my view, a decisive desire can be equated
with an intention.
I might realize that if I am scratching my head, I shall cause not only
the itching to stop, but also a scratching sound in my head, although this
is an effect to which I am indifferent. If this is so, this state of affairs does
not provide an additional reason for me to scratch my head; nor would
it be an end or purpose of my performing this action. This fact by itself
might make us reluctant to say, when I am scratching, that I am causing
this sound intentionally, though we might go along with saying that I am
causing it knowingly, consciously, or wittingly. Whereas foreseeing that
my scratching would not relieve the itch would make me abstain from
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6 Introduction and Outline of the Book

the scratching, foreseeing that it would cause no sound in my head

would not.
This implies that we need not want what we believe to be consequences
of something we want. Thus, if I want to scratch my head, because I think
that it will relieve my itch, and think that it will cause a sound in my
head as well, it does not follow that I must want the latter. This would
follow, I hypothesize, only if we make the unrealistic assumption that
causing the sound is a sort of means for me to do something that I want,
like the disappearance of the itching (or, even more unrealistically, my
scratching of my head). The sound being a means implies, I shall contend
in 4.1, that I can ascertain that it occurs prior to, and thus independently
of, ascertaining the disappearance of the itching, so that I could use the
occurrence of the sound as a sign that the itch will vanish.
Means that we can apply intentionally to accomplish ends are neces-
sarily epistemically prior to them in the present sense. Causes are often
epistemically prior to their effects; that is why causes are cut out to be
the most frequent type of means. This type of means may be called
manipulative means: they are means to do something, as opposed to
epistemic means, which are means to tell whether something is, has been,
or will be the case. It follows from what has been said that m ­ anipulative
means that are intentionally applied to accomplish an end can also func-
tion as epistemic means to tell that this end is being accomplished,
though the reverse is not true.
When we employ something as a means to an end, we can distinguish
between that to which we do something as a means and that which we
use as a means. Thus, when we scratch our heads, we use, for instance,
our fingernails as a means to do something to the skin of our heads. It
may be asked whether it is this distinction, or the distinction between
manipulative and epistemic means, that the well-known doctrine that it
is morally worse to harm somebody as a means than as a side effect
turns on. These issues about means-end reasoning and the notion of
means compose the subject matter of Chapter 4.
So much for the business of clarifying the notion of having a reason
for action for which we act. But we may have a reason for action for
which we act, and yet fail to do anything intentionally. When I have a
reason for scratching my head for which I act, I may fail to act intention-
ally because the action I am performing is not scratching my head but,
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Introduction and Outline of the Book 7

say, scratching your head. But even if I succeed in scratching my head,

my act need not be intentional because the connection between my rea-
son and the resulting action is deviant or non-standard: perhaps because,
unbeknownst to me, somebody has put some sort of extensions on my
fingertips. To spell out the connection which makes the resulting actions
intentional is the task of Chapter 5.
Realizing, to my surprise, that what I am doing is not what I thought
that it would be—namely scratching my head—but scratching your head
would probably make me stop or modify what I am doing. We know
how to perform many simple acts, such as scratching our heads—though,
as a rule, this is knowledge-how that we cannot verbalize—and I now
did something because I thought that it would be putting into effect
my knowledge of how to scratch my head. If I am receiving sensory
feedback—in particular, by sight and proprioception—showing that what
I am doing is not scratching my head, I shall in all likelihood modify my
behaviour. I call this the correspondence control model of intentional
action, CORCON: we execute the action of scratching our heads because
we take it to be what we have learnt to be scratching our heads, an event
which we believe will achieve our end of removing an itch; and we con-
tinue doing what we are doing only if we receive sensory feedback
confirming that it is indeed scratching our heads (and that it relieves the
itching). If we receive such confirmation, we are intentionally scratching
our heads.
This is in outline the account of the intentionality of basic action
offered in 5.1, but there is also the intentionality of non-basic actions to
account for, like the relieving of the itching. The distinction between
basic and non-basic actions can be drawn with respect to both action in
a broad sense and intentional action. Non-basic actions are actions that
we perform by (means of) performing some other actions; basic actions
are actions that we do not perform by performing other actions.1 In the
case of actions in the broad sense, basic actions can consist in actions
that cause the results of other actions: for instance, the squeezing of a
trigger causes a shot to be fired and a victim, Vic, to be killed, and as a
consequence we have performed the non-basic actions of firing a shot
and killing Vic by squeezing the trigger. By contrast, the results of our

1 This distinction was introduced by Arthur Danto (1963), (1965), and (1973).
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8 Introduction and Outline of the Book

basic actions are not themselves caused by any other actions of ours.
So, our action of squeezing the trigger qualifies as a basic action only if
its result is not caused by any other action of ours. It is not evident that
this is so.
We perform such non-basic actions as firing a shot intentionally by
squeezing the trigger intentionally if we perform the latter action
intending by means of it to fire a shot, and successfully implement this
intention, while the action of squeezing the trigger is an intentional
basic action if our successfully implemented intention to perform it is
not an intention to perform it by means of any other action. It will be
seen that it is harder, but fortunately less important in the present con-
text, to identify basic actions in the broad sense than intentional basic
actions. It is the notions of intentional basic and non-basic actions that
I shall attempt to clarify in 5.1 and 5.3, respectively.
CORCON implies that it is essential that basic actions are, as I shall
put it, ‘contactual’, as opposed to non-basic actions which can be ‘con-
sequential’. Your contactual actions consist in your causing some change
as regards either just your body, or your body and a material thing in
contact with it, such as an instrument of action, which you use as a means,
or something you act on, or do something to, with (some part of) your
body or the means used. Your consequential actions consist in changes
that you bring about—by means of contactual actions—which extend
beyond your body and what is in contact with it. Thus, stabbing and
strangling victims are contactual acts, while harming and killing them
are consequential acts.
When the consequences of your contactual actions include someone
else causing something, that is, acting, these actions may be included in
your consequential actions, but in case the actions caused are contactual
they will not be your contactual actions. Thus, if you cause me to have a
spasm which makes me pull a trigger and fire a shot that kills Vic, you
may be said to have killed Vic, or caused her death. But you could not be
said to have pulled the trigger, for pulling the trigger is a contactual act
which entails that the agent’s body is in contact with the trigger.
For obvious reasons, the concept of contactual acts does not apply to
mental acts, which may be exemplified by attending to or visualizing
something, but the distinction between intentional basic and non-basic
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Introduction and Outline of the Book 9

actions applies to mental acts: for instance, you can intentionally make
yourself excited or embarrassed by intentionally visualizing an erotic
scene. However, an analysis of intentional basic and non-basic physical
actions cannot be carried over to mental actions without modification,
as will be explained in 5.2. One reason for this is that the mental episodes
which, according to CORCON, participate in making basic ­physical acts
intentional would interfere with the execution of mental acts. But it will
be seen that this type of restriction is of less importance, since basic
mental acts cannot have as long a duration as basic bodily acts, and
consciousness does not have parts with which we can ­simultaneously
perform different acts. By contrast, our bodies do have such parts which
enable us simultaneously to do such things as to clap our hands and tap
our feet to the beat of music, and these acts need to be coordinated. In
general, our repertoire of basic mental acts is much more limited than
our repertoire of basic bodily actions.
Most of us can reliably perform such acts as visualizing the faces of
familiar people as intentional basic acts, but occasionally we unexpect-
edly fail to accomplish this. What we can do in such circumstances, and
when we try to call to mind the images of things more unusual, is to
utilize the fact that images can stand in relations to other images which
enable us to associate from images that are present to us to absent images.
These relations, e.g. resemblance, are relations that images have to each
other in virtue of their contents. I shall argue in 6.2 that conscious epi-
sodes, qua such, are not causally connected, though they are presumably
correlated with physical events (in the brain) that are causally connected
but, as such, conscious episodes are only contentually related. We can
facilitate the occurrence of content-related associations by interrupting
competing associations, and minimizing distracting sensory input
through closing our eyes and being silent and immobile. But these
means are less reliable than the ones usually at our disposal with respect
to non-basic physical actions, so the latter can be more diversified and
far-reaching than non-basic mental actions.
When you refrain from acting and, thereby, let or allow it to be a fact
that p, you do not cause p to be a fact. For it to be true that you let it be
the case that p, you must be aware of the fact that you could cause
something, q, to be a fact that will prevent p from being a fact, which it
 OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 30/07/19, SPi

10 Introduction and Outline of the Book

otherwise would be. But, owing to your not finding sufficient reasons to
form such a desire, you form no decisive desire to cause (it to be a fact
that) q, with the result that it becomes the case that not-q and p. You do
not have to form a decisive desire not to cause q, as you would have to
do if you had to take action to prevent yourself from continuing a causal
process already under way, such as your sliding or running downhill. It
should be stressed, however, that in order for you to qualify as refraining
from causing q, your forming no decisive desire to cause q must have a
specific explanation to the effect that you do not find any sufficient ­reasons
to form this desire. If you do not form such a desire because, say, you lose
consciousness or are distracted by something else, you obviously do not
refrain from causing q, and let p be the case, though it is true that you
do not cause q, and p becomes a fact because of that. These are matters
to be discussed in 6.1.
Although I shall not argue for it here (but see Persson, 2013: 3.2), it is
my view that whenever you simply let something be a fact or the case,
this is true because you refrain from or omit some preventive action that
you could have committed, and never because you commit some action.
You do not simply let something be a fact if, say, you remove an obstacle
and then let it remain out of the way with the result that something hap-
pens that would not otherwise have happened.
When you let p be a fact, you cannot decisively desire it to be a fact,
since decisively desiring something to be a fact is decisively desiring to
cause it to be a fact. But you could adopt some other non-conative atti-
tude to it, such as wishing or being glad that p becomes a fact. Since there
is no decisive desire or intention that p be the case when you let it be the
case, I do not think that it qualifies as intentional, strictly speaking.
Letting p be the case by refraining from causing q is rather something that
you engage in knowingly, consciously, or wittingly because you anticipate
that p will be the case when you do not form a decisive desire to perform
the preventive action of causing q.
Whereas you do not cause anything if you simply let it be the case,
when you knowingly or intentionally perform an act, that is, cause
something to be a fact, you must of course be the cause of something.
According to the analysis of the concept of desiring that I advance in
Chapter 3, this concept refers to a state of your organism—in all
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Introduction and Outline of the Book 11

probability a state of your brain—which is causally operative along with

a thought that it presupposes to the effect that you can perform the relevant
action. In 6.2 I argue, however, that, strictly speaking, mental episodes,
like thoughts, are not causes; instead, it is the neural processes with which
they are correlated that are causes. As already remarked, mental episodes
are related to each other and to bodily events in terms of their contents.
This may be clearest in cases in which we infer a proposition from
some other propositions that we think true because it logically follows
from them, but similarity between what mental images are images of,
and the fact that they are images of things that have regularly accompanied
each other, are other examples of the contentual relations that we exploit
when we engage in those psychological associations in which our inten-
tionally imagining or thinking of something consists. Furthermore,
according to CORCON, when we act intentionally, the relation between
what we in fact cause and what we think that we cause is also contentual:
the former corresponds to and makes true the content of the latter. The
direction of fit is here opposite to what it is in the case of thinking some-
thing true on the basis of perception, which is involved in the sensory
feedback that we normally receive when we act. Although the explanatory
relations on the mental level are contentual, I believe that they presuppose
the truth of causal explanations on a ­physical level, between the neural
states with which the mental states are correlated. When letting p be a
fact by refraining from acting explains why p is a fact, it is clear that the
explanation cannot be causal.
It has been seen that we do not experience our decisions—whether
they be decisions to do or believe—as being caused and that they are in
principle unpredictable by us. 6.3 appeals to these facts together with
the fact, established in 4.1, that practical decisions cannot be contentually
constrained in the way beliefs can be by premises that entail them, or by
perceptions that verify them, to offer a debunking explanation of the
strong sense that we have that these decisions are up to us or determined
by us. Such an illusory sense of self-determination is presumably what
lends credence to libertarian conceptions of free will. Finally, 6.4 exam-
ines whether it must be true that we can refrain from (not) doing what
we ought (not). My conclusion is that this is not necessarily so, though
when we cannot refrain, we could at least have eschewed responsibility
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Granfer, and One
Christmas time
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever.
You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project
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Title: Granfer, and One Christmas time

Author: Eleanora H. Stooke

Illustrator: E. Woolmer

Release date: September 29, 2023 [eBook #71759]

Language: English

Original publication: London: National Society's Depository, 1903

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRANFER, AND ONE

CHRISTMAS TIME ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

MR. NORRIS TAKES UNA TO SEE THE LAMB.

GRANFER
 AND

ONE CHRISTMAS TIME

BY

ELEANORA H. STOOKE

AUTHOR OF

"THE HERMIT'S CAVE," "LITTLE MAID MARIGOLD," ETC.

WITH FRONTISPIECE BY ETHEL WOOLMER

LONDON

NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY

BROAD SANCTUARY, WESTMINSTER

NEW YORK: THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 & 3 BIBLE HOUSE

[All rights reserved]

PRINTED BY

SPOTTISWOODE AND CO. LTD., NEW-STREET SQUARE

LONDON
 CONTENTS

GRANFER

CHAPTER I. IN THE FARM-KITCHEN

CHAPTER II. NEW NEIGHBOURS

CHAPTER III. VISITORS AT LOWERCOOMBE FARM

CHAPTER IV. THE BOOK-MARKER

CHAPTER V. UNA LEARNS A SECRET

CHAPTER VI. UNA'S ACCIDENT

CHAPTER VII. GRANFER'S HEART'S DESIRE

CHAPTER VIII. GRANFER'S EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY

ONE CHRISTMAS TIME

CHAPTER I. CONCERNING A DOLL IN AN AMBER-COLOURED

GOWN

CHAPTER II. HOW THE DOLL WAS RECEIVED IN THE BLUNDELL

FAMILY

CHAPTER III. CONCERNING JIM BLEWETT AND HIS LANDLADY

CHAPTER IV. MAGGIE IS INVITED TO A PARTY

CHAPTER V. PREPARING FOR MRS. METHERELL'S PARTY

CHAPTER VI. MRS. METHERELL'S PARTY

 CHAPTER VII. JIM BLEWETT VISITS THE BLUNDELLS, AND
INTERFERES IN THEIR CONCERNS

CHAPTER VIII. THE RESULTS OF JIM BLEWETT'S INTERFERENCE

 GRANFER

CHAPTER I

IN THE FARM-KITCHEN

IT was spring. The bright March sun in a cloudless blue sky was shining into
the kitchen of Lowercoombe Farm, upon the spotless china on the dresser,
the glistening tin ware on the mantelpiece, and the old copper warming pan
hanging from its accustomed nail against the wall. The farm-house kitchen
was a pleasant place: the stone floor was kept scrupulously clean, and the
large deal table was as white as scrubbing could make it, whilst the oak
settles by the fire-place and the few chairs placed at equal distances around
the room shone with the constant application of 'elbow-grease,' as the
housewives call rubbing and polishing. On the hearth burnt a large wood fire,
over which in an iron crock simmered a savoury stew which Mrs. Maple, the
farmer's wife, who was engaged in getting up her husband's shirts at the table,
put down her iron to stir occasionally.

The mistress of Lowercoombe was a comely, middle-aged woman, with a

pleasant, ruddy face, and bright blue eyes that were in the habit of looking
kindly upon every one and everything. Her husband often said that if she
could find no good to say of people they must be either very disagreeable or
very wicked, for his wife had a way of finding out folks' good qualities, and
always tried to think the best of those who crossed her path in life.

Now, as she held up the last of the shirts at arm's length to survey her work
better, she heard a footstep approaching the kitchen door, which opened
straight into the yard, and in another moment her father, who had made his
home at Lowercoombe since her marriage to the farmer, entered, and going to
the fire-place, sat down in a corner of the settle.

He was a tall old man of nearly eighty, with a pair of shrewd dark eyes and a
stern face. Jabez Norris was known as honourable and upright, but was
considered a hard man. Many years ago he had turned his only son, David,
then a lad of eighteen, out of his house, because he wished to become an
artist, instead of following in his father's footsteps, and being a farmer. From
that day to this, Mr. Norris had never seen nor heard of his son, but whether
this was a trouble to the old man or not nobody knew, for he rarely mentioned
David to any one, and even his favourite daughter, with whom he lived, and
who had loved her brother dearly, spoke of him but seldom.

"Are you tired, father?" asked Mrs. Maple in her bright, cheerful tones. "I
always think these days of early spring are trying!"

"Ay, ay, to folks of my age, no doubt. I'm beginning to feel the weight of years,
Mary!"

"You are a wonderful man for your age, father; every one says so."

"I'm not complaining, but at my time of life, I must expect to be failing. It is a

lovely day, but, as you say, trying. Summer in the sun, and winter in the
shade!"

"It's time for Nellie and Bessie to be home from school," Mrs. Maple remarked,
adroitly changing the conversation as she glanced at the grandfather's clock
that ticked loudly in a corner of the kitchen.

Nellie and Bessie were her two little daughters, aged respectively eleven and
nine. Mr. Norris was very proud and fond of them both, and his stern face
softened at the mention of their names.

"How fast they do grow!" he exclaimed. "Why, they'll be women almost

directly. Nellie is like her father, but I don't think Bessie takes after either you
or your husband, Mary!"

"No," Mrs. Maple answered; then she added, in a lower tone, "but I know who
she is like, though!"

"Who's that?" enquired the old man with a sharp glance at his daughter.

"Why, David, to be sure! Every one remarks the likeness! She has his soft
brown eyes, and his winning manner, and her very voice seems to have an
echo of his!"

Mr. Norris was silent, his eyes fixed on the flames which leaped and danced
on the hearth. His daughter plucked up her courage and continued:
"Have you forgotten what day it is, father? The third of March! David's
birthday! I wonder where he is now! I would give a great deal to know! An only
son, and brother, and to think we have neither seen nor heard of him for
fifteen years!"

"That is his fault, Mary!"

"I don't know about that! You were hard on him, father, and told him never to
show his face at home again, and he took you at your word!"

"It is his pride that has kept him silent!" the old man exclaimed angrily. "It is to
be hoped that your Bessie does not take after him in disposition as well as in
appearance, or you'll have trouble with her yet!"

"Oh, father, how can you speak like that when she's such a good child?" the
mother cried in reproachful accents. "She has never given me a moment's
anxiety! But, speaking of David, I do wonder what has become of him, and
whether he is married or not!"

At that moment two pairs of light footsteps were heard in the yard, and Nellie
and Bessie entered, rosy with struggling against the March wind.

"Well, children," their mother said in greeting, as she turned her bright face
with its welcoming smile upon them, "are your appetites ready for dinner?"

"Oh, yes!" they both answered, and Nellie went to the hearth and peeped into
the crock, remarking:

"How good it smells!"

Bessie sat down on the settle by her grandfather's side and slipped her little,
warm fingers into his cold palm.

"How grave you look, Granfer!" she exclaimed, calling him by the name she
and her sister had given him. "What have you and mother been talking
about?" she added coaxingly.

"About some one you never saw—your Uncle David!" the old man responded,
much to the surprise of his daughter, who had never known him mention their
uncle to the children before.

"Oh, I've heard of him!" Bessie cried. "He wanted to be an artist, and he went
away and never came back again! He used always to be painting pictures,
didn't he, Granfer?"
"Yes; neglecting his work and idling his time! He cared nothing for the farm,
but was for ever with a pencil or a paint-brush in his hand!"

"Painting was his talent," Mrs. Maple remarked quietly.

"Then I suppose God gave it to him," Bessie said thoughtfully. "It wouldn't
have been right if he had not been an artist, would it, Granfer?"

"What do you mean, child?"

"I think I understand," Mrs. Maple interposed, seeing her little daughter hardly
knew how to explain. "You mean that if your uncle David had not used the
talent God had given him, he would have been like the man in the parable
who hid his talent in the earth!"

"Yes," Bessie said eagerly, "he ought to have used it, and instead he put it
away so that it was no good to any one!"

Mrs. Maple glanced at her father somewhat anxiously. He was looking at

Bessie attentively and gravely, but not as though he was angry.

"So you think my son was perfectly right in disobeying me," he said. "I wanted
him to be a farmer, and he would not!"

"He knew he could never be a good farmer," Mrs. Maple put in quietly. "We
must be just, father!"

"Ay; but I don't forget how he defied me."

"What became of him?" asked Nellie. "Do you think he has become rich,
Granfer?"

The old man laughed disagreeably.

"I never heard of a rich artist yet!" he declared.

"Oh, but, Granfer, sometimes artists make a lot of money; they do really!"
Nellie cried eagerly. "They are not all poor, you know. The girls at school the
other day were speaking of a great artist who was introduced to Queen
Victoria!"

"It has sometimes crossed my mind that David may have been successful,"
Mrs. Maple said thoughtfully. "I'm sure I hope he has! I wish we knew
something about him—poor David!" and she sighed regretfully. There were
tears in her kind blue eyes as she spoke of her brother, for she had treasured
the memory of his handsome boyish face and winning ways in her heart for
many a long year; and, rich or poor, if he had returned at any time he would
have found his sister's love the same.

"Don't you wish Uncle David would come home, Granfer?" Bessie asked
softly. "I do!"

"Yes, I should like to see him once more," the old man acknowledged, "for
though he defied me, he is my only son."

His eyes rested thoughtfully and wistfully upon Bessie's face; and as he saw
the likeness to that other countenance that had passed out of his sight in
anger, more than fifteen years before, he sighed regretfully too, and his
daughter caught the murmured words:

"Perhaps I was to blame as well as the boy. As the child says, it was his one
talent! I wish David would come home!"

CHAPTER II
NEW NEIGHBOURS

NOT five minutes' walk from Lowercoombe Farm, situated a little back from
the high road, was a large-sized, detached cottage called Coombe Villa,
standing in its own grounds. It had been unoccupied for some months, but
one day towards the end of March, as Nellie and Bessie Maple went by on
their way to school, they noticed a large furniture van drawn up in front of the
garden gate, and several men engaged in carrying different articles of
household furniture into the cottage. They paused a moment to watch, and
then ran on to make up for lost time, wondering who the new inhabitants of
Coombe Villa were, and wishing they knew all about them.
On their return journey they found the van had gone, and an old man was
sweeping up the straw and litter that strewed the garden path, whilst a
maidservant stood at one of the open windows looking out.

The children went home in some excitement to inform their mother that
Coombe Villa was occupied again; and during the time the family was seated
at dinner the conversation was mostly about the newcomers.

"The cottage has been taken by a Mr. Manners," the farmer said. "I was told
so in the village this morning—in fact, Mr. Manners was pointed out to me, and
a fine-looking gentleman, he seemed, with a pleasant face. They tell me he is
a widower with an only child, a little girl of about the same age as our Bessie, I
should think."

"Oh, have you seen her?" the children enquired with great interest.

"Yes; she was with her father this morning. They had evidently been shopping
in the village, for they were laden with parcels. They look nice people, but of
course one cannot always judge by appearances."

Nellie and Bessie were very curious about their new neighbours, and felt the
advent of strangers to the parish to be an exciting event, for, like most country
children, they rarely saw a face they did not know, unless on the few
occasions when they went with their parents to the nearest market town. So
they peeped into the garden of Coombe Villa every time they passed, in the
hope of seeing the little girl, but nearly a week elapsed before they caught
sight of her. On that occasion she was at play with a black and white fox-
terrier, and laughing merrily as the dog frisked around her delighted with the
game.

She stood inside the gate looking through the bars as Nellie and Bessie came
within view, and when she met their eager glances she smiled a little shyly,
and said: "Good morning!"

"Good morning!" they echoed, and passed on slowly.

Once they looked back, and perceived the little girl gazing after them with her
face full of lively interest. Next morning she was there again—this time
evidently watching for them. She greeted them in the same manner as before,
adding quickly:

"Oh, please, do stop a minute!"

They paused, and there was a moment's silence; then the little stranger
asked:

"Are you going to school?"

"Yes," Nellie answered.

"I thought so. I don't go to school, because father teaches me. You pass here
every day, don't you? Have you far to go?"

"About a mile—that is not far when the weather is fine, but it seems a long
way in the winter if it is rainy or snowy. We live at Lowercoombe Farm."

"That is the house down in the valley, isn't it? Is your father a farmer?"

"Yes."

"How nice! I should like to be a farmer if I were a man, and keep lots of
horses, and dogs, and cows!"

"And sheep, and pigs, and poultry," added Nellie, laughing, "but it's hard work
looking after them all!"

"I suppose it is. My name is Una Manners—what is yours?"

"I am called Nellie—Nellie Maple," the elder little girl explained, "and she,"
pointing to her sister, "is Bessie!"

"I think Nellie and Bessie are pretty names! Oh, are you going already? Can't
you stay and talk to me a little longer?"

"We should like to, but we should be late for school if we did, and that would
never do," Nellie replied, "but perhaps we shall see you another day!"

"Very likely. I will be on the look-out for you. This is my dog 'Crack.' Are you
fond of dogs?"

"Oh, yes," both children answered; and Bessie added: "We have a dear old
sheep-dog called 'Rags.'"

"I should like to see him! Oh, must you really go now? Good-bye!"

The little girls ran off and were soon out of sight. Una, after watching them till
they disappeared, opened the gate, and strolled into the road. As she went
along she gathered a bunch of primroses and a few white violets to take home
to her father.

Presently she heard a sheep-dog barking, and coming to a gateway saw a

man crossing the field towards her, bearing in his arms a little white lamb that
bleated pitifully, whilst a rough old English sheep-dog rushed towards her
growling and snarling.

Una drew back hastily with a cry of alarm, and Crack, who was close at her
heels, gave a sharp, indignant bark. The man called to his dog, and the well-
trained animal returned obediently to his side, looking up into his master's face
for further instructions.

"Don't be frightened, Missy," said the farmer, for it was Mr. Maple himself.
"Rags will not hurt you; but he saw you were a stranger, and he was
wondering what you were doing here!"

Una smiled, reassured, and as Rags came up to her again, fixing his brown
eyes on her face as though to ascertain if she was to be trusted or not, she
extended her little white hand to him. The big dog sniffed at it for a moment in
doubt, then he gave it a friendly lick, while Crack walked round him
inquisitively.

"There now!" exclaimed the farmer laughing. "Rags has quite made up his
mind to like you, and he'll know you when he sees you again. He's very fond
of children; my little maids can do anything with him; and he's really very
good-tempered, although he looks so fierce. Ah, dogs know those who
understand them."

"Are Nellie and Bessie your little girls?" Una enquired. "Then you must be the
farmer at Lowercoombe Farm?"

"Yes," he answered, "but how did you come to know that?"

"I was talking to your little girls just now," she explained. "They pass our house
on their way to school. I live at Coombe Villa with my father and Nanny—she's
my nurse. We have another servant named Polly, but she has not been with
us long. Nanny has lived with us ever since I was born. What are you going to
do with that dear little lamb?"

"Why, I am going to take it home to my wife to see if she can't rear it up by

hand. The poor creature has lost its mother."
"Oh, dear, how sad!" cried Una. "Do you think it will live?"

"I hope so. We shall do our best for it, anyway. You must pay us a visit, little
Missy, one of these days, to see for yourself how the lamb is doing. Will you?"

"Oh, yes, if father will let me, and I know he will! How kind of you to ask me!"

"My wife and children will be pleased to see you, I know," the farmer
continued; "you'll be very welcome."

"And Rags?" said Una, smiling as she put her hand on the dog's shaggy back,
"you will be pleased to see me too, won't you, Rags?"

"You are fond of animals, I can see," remarked Mr. Maple.

"Oh, yes!" she answered readily, "so is father! He says he cannot think how
any one can serve animals badly! It's so unchristian, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is, Missy, though I never thought of it in that light before!"

"Don't you remember what God says: 'Every beast of the forest is Mine, and
the cattle upon a thousand hills. I know all the fowls of the mountains, and the
wild beasts of the field are Mine.' Animals belong to God just as much as we
do, don't they?"

The farmer nodded, looking with interest at the bright, animated face of the
child. She put up her hand, and softly caressed the curly fleece of the
motherless lamb.

"Dear little thing!" she murmured, "I do hope it will live! How will your wife
manage to feed it?"

"She puts the finger of a kid glove on to the spout of a tea-pot, and lets the
lambs who lose their mothers take the milk that way. She's reared many like
that, and it's wonderful how soon the little creatures get to know her."

With a cheery "Good morning," the farmer turned his footsteps homewards,
followed by Rags; and Una calling to Crack, who was rat hunting in the hedge,
ran back along the road towards Coombe Villa.

She found her father at the garden gate looking for her, and immediately
began to tell him about the farmer and his dog and the little lamb, to all of
which he listened with an amused smile. Then she spoke of her interview with
Nellie and Bessie.
"I may go to the farm one day, may I not, father?" she asked coaxingly.

"We will see about it, my dear; I dare say you may. Perhaps the little girls may
mention the matter to you; and if they do, I have not the least objection to your
going. I hear the Maples are nice people, and much respected in the district,
and I dare say the children will be good companions for you. The folks at
Lowercoombe Farm are our nearest neighbours, and I should wish to be on
good terms with them."

"Oh, yes, father! See what beautiful flowers I have gathered for your studio!
Are not the violets sweet?"

"Very," Mr. Manners answered; "I think they are my favourite flowers, for they
always remind me of your dear mother. It was Spring when she died, and
some white violets that I gave her one day were the last flowers she noticed, I
remember."

He sighed, and the shadow of a deep grief crossed his face as he mentioned
his dead wife. Una gave his hand a little, sympathetic squeeze, and he looked
down at her with a tender, loving smile as he whispered:

"Little comforter! You always understand!"

CHAPTER III
VISITORS AT LOWERCOOMBE FARM

"MARY, there's some one knocking at the door!"

It was old Mr. Norris who spoke. He was seated with his Bible open upon his
knee, in his favourite corner of the settle.

"Coming, father!" his daughter's voice responded from the dairy. And in
another moment Mrs. Maple hurried into the kitchen and opened the door to