She coughed and ventured tentatively—

"I missed the last train."

"Did ye!" said the porter coldly. It was not a question; there was no flicker of the interest of a question in his voice, only a dreary indifference which seemed to demand what in the world you were thinking of to trouble him about a stupidity which had happened twenty times a day throughout twenty years of his service on the line. Darsie drew herself up with a feeling of affront. He was a rude, ill-mannered man, who ought to be taught how to speak to ladies in distress. She would ask her father to complain to the railway!

What were porters paid for but to make themselves useful to passengers? She drew herself up in haughty fashion, then as suddenly collapsed as her eye rested on her dusty boots and blackened, bloodstained skirt. Ridiculous to act the grand lady with such handicaps as these! She drew a sharp breath, and said in a voice of childlike appeal—

"I'm left behind! My friends have gone on. It's very awkward!"

"Are ye?" asked the porter indifferently. He took one hand out of his pocket and pointed woodenly to the right. "Waiting-room first door. Ye can sit there!"

Of all the callous, cold-blooded—! Darsie turned with a swing and marched forward into the bleak little cell which had the audacity to call itself a first-class waiting-room, seated herself on a leather- covered bench which seemed just the most inhospitable thing in the way of furniture which the mind of man could conceive, and gave herself up to thought. Never, never so long as she lived would she ever again leave home without some money in her pocket! How in the name of all that was mysterious could she contrive to possess herself of eightpence within the next hour? "Our old woman" would lend it with pleasure, but Darsie shrank from the idea of the darkening country road with the dread of the town-dweller who in imagination sees a tramp lurking behind every bush. No, this first and most obvious suggestion must be put on one side, and even if she could have humbled herself to beg from the porter, Darsie felt an absolute conviction that he would refuse. At the farther side of the station there stretched a small straggling village. Surely somehow in that village—! With a sudden inspiration Darsie leaped to her feet and approached the porter once more. Into her mind had darted the remembrance of the manner in which poor people in books possessed themselves of money in critical moments of their history.

"Porter, will you please tell me the way to the nearest pawnshop?"

"P-p—!" Now, indeed, if she had wished to rouse the porter to animation, she had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams! He spun round, and gaped at her with a stupefaction of surprise. "Pawnshop, did ye say? P-awn! What do you want with a pawnshop, a slip of a girl like you?"

"That's my business!" returned Darsie loftily. Since he had been so unsympathetic and rude, she was certainly not going to satisfy his curiosity. Her dear little watch would provide her with money, and somehow—she didn't understand why—pawnbrokers gave things back after paying for them, in the most amiable and engaging of fashions.

"That's my business! If you would kindly direct me—"

"We haven't got no pawnshop," said the porter gruffly. He stared at her slowly up and down, down and up, appeared to awake to a suspicious interest, and opined gruffly, "You'd better go 'ome!"

"Just what I'm trying to do," sighed poor Darsie to herself. She turned and went slowly back to her leather seat, and a second disconsolate review of the situation. In time to come this experience would rank as an adventure, and became an oft-told tale. She would chill her listeners with hints of The Tramp, evoke shrieks of laughter at her imitation of the porter. Darsie realised the fact, but for the moment it left her cold. Summer evenings have a trick of turning chill and damp after the sun is set, and the vault-like waiting-room was dreary enough to damp the highest spirits. How was she going to obtain that eightpence for a ticket?

The station clock struck nine; the porter took a turn along the platform and peered curiously through the dusty window; a luggage train rattled slowly past, an express whizzed by with thunderous din. The station clock struck the quarter, and still the problem was as far as ever from solution.

"Well," sighed Darsie miserably, "I must just wait. I'm perished with cold already. In two more hours I shall be frozen. Rheumatic fever, I suppose, or galloping decline. It will settle Aunt Maria, that's one good thing! but it's hard all the same, in the flower of my youth! To think of all that a human creature can suffer for the sake of a miserable eightpence!"

She got up stiffly and pressed her face against the pane. People were beginning to assemble for the nine-ten. An old man with a satchel of tools, two old women with baskets. "The poor are always generous to the poor. Suppose I ask them? Twopence three farthings each would not kill them!" But when one is not used to begging, it is extraordinary how difficult it is to begin. Darsie tried to think of the words in which she would proffer her request, and blushed in discomfort. No! she could not. Of the two disagreeables it really seemed easier to shiver two hours, and retain one's pride intact, and then, suddenly, the door of the waiting-room opened with a bang, and Dan's heavy figure stood on the threshold! The cry of delight, of breathless incredulity with which Darsie leaped to her feet, must have been heard to the end of the platform. She rushed forward, clutched his arm, and hugged it fast in the rapture of relief.

"Oh, Dan—you angel—you angel! Have you dropped down straight from the skies?"

"Not I! Nothing so easy. Scorched along bad roads on a rickety machine. Would you be kind enough to let go my arm and stop shrieking! You'll have the whole village here in a moment. So you're all right, I see! Sitting quietly here, after scaring us half out of our wits—"

"I think I'm the one to be scared! You were all ready enough to go on, and leave me stranded by myself. I've gone through a martyrdom. Dan! tell me, when did you miss me first?"

Dan gave an expressive grimace. He looked hot and dusty, and thankful to sit down on the leather bench.

"Well, it was too much of a scrimmage to think of anything for the first few miles, but things have a way of printing themselves on one's brain, and when I did begin to think, there seemed something missing! I remembered Vie's face—the colour of a beetroot, and Clemence limping in the rear. I remembered John and Russell hauling up Hannah by her arms, and the two mothers were safely in their carriage—I'd made sure of that, but—I couldn't remember a thing about you! Then I asked Vie, and she said you were a long way behind, and I began to guess what had happened. At the first stop I did a rush round, and—there you weren't! So of course I came back."

"But how—how? There was no train. Did you cycle? Where did you get your machine?"

"Borrowed him from the stationmaster, and left my watch in exchange, in case I never went back. Jolly good exchange for him, too. It's the worst machine I ever rode, and that's saying a good deal. I told your mother I'd bring you back all right, and persuaded her to go home. What on earth possessed you to be such a muff?"

Darsie tossed her head, gratitude giving place to wounded pride.

"Muff, indeed! You don't know what you are talking about, or you wouldn't be so unkind. I ran like the rest, but I fell—caught my foot on something, and fell on my face. I believe I fainted." There was an irrepressible note of pride in her voice as she made this last statement, for fainting, being unknown in the healthy Garnett family, was regarded as a most interesting and aristocratic accomplishment. "I do believe I fainted, for for several minutes I didn't know where I was. And I hurt myself, too; look at my hand!"

Dan looked and whistled.

"Skinned it properly, haven't you! Reminds me of the days of my youth. Better sponge it clean with your handkerchief and some of that water. And when you did remember, the train had gone—."

"Yes—and not another until after ten, and not a halfpenny in my pocket to buy a ticket, and no one but a callous wretch of a porter to consult. Oh, Dan, I was wretched—I'll bless you all my life for coming back like this!"

"Rot!" said Dan briskly. "I was the only man. Couldn't do anything else. I say, you know, it was your doing that I came to this blessed old picnic at all, and you have let me in for a day! Eleven to eleven before we've done with it—twelve solid hours! I've had about as much picnic as I want for the rest of my natural life."

"I'm sorry. I thought it would be so nice. I'm sorry I bothered you, Dan." Darsie was tired and cold, in a condition of physical depression which made her peculiarly sensitive to a slighting mood. She leaned her head against the ugly wall, and shut her lids over her smarting eyes. Her cheeks were white. Her lips quivered like a wearied child's, but she made a charming picture all the same, her inherent picturesqueness showing itself even in this moment of collapse.

Dan's gaze grew first sympathetic, then thoughtful, as he looked. In a dim, abstract way he had been conscious that Darsie Garnett was what he would have described as "a pretty kid," but the charm of her personality had never appealed to him until this moment. Now, as he looked at the dark eyelashes resting on the white cheek, the droop of the curved red lips, the long, slim throat that seemed to-night almost too frail to support the golden head, a feeling of tenderness stirred at his heart. She was such a tiny scrap of a thing, and she had been tired and frightened. What a brute he was to be so gruff and ungracious! "Buck up, Darsie! Only ten minutes more to wait. I'll get you a cup of coffee when we arrive. Your mother said we were to take a cab, so all the worry's over and nothing but luxury ahead."

But Darsie, quick to note the soothing effect of her prostration, refused to "buck up," and looked only more worn and pathetic than before. The opportunity of lording it over Dan was too precious to be neglected, so she blinked at him with languid eyes, and said faintly—

"I'll try, but I'm so very tired! Do you think you could talk to me, Dan, and amuse me a little bit? That would pass the time. Tell me about yourself, and all you are going to do when you go up to Cambridge."

And to his own astonishment Dan found himself responding to her request. His was one of the silent, reserved natures which find it difficult to speak of the subjects which lie nearest to the heart, but even silent people have their moments of expansion, and when once Dan had broken the ice, he found it unexpectedly easy to talk, with Darsie's big eyes fixed on his in eloquent understanding. She was a capital little listener; never interrupted at the wrong moment, indulged in senseless ejaculations, or fidgety, irritating movement. Nothing about her moved, hardly even the blue eyes, so fixed and absorbed was their gaze, while Dan spoke in low, rapid tones of the course of work which lay ahead, of the ambitions and dreams which were to crown his efforts. He must take first-class honours at Cambridge; nothing less than first-class honours would do—honours so distinguished that he would have no difficulty in obtaining a good post as schoolmaster to tide him over the next few years. "Teaching's the thing for me—for it leaves four months over for my own work, the real work of my life—scientific study and research! That's the only thing worth living for from my point of view, and I shall plump for that. I don't care for money, I don't want to marry, I'd be content to make enough to keep body and soul together, if I could only help on the cause of humanity. I am not going up to Cambridge for two years. I can do better grinding quietly at home, and the governor doesn't mind. In fact, he is just as well pleased to think I shall have more time to run when Hannah goes up to Newnham."

Darsie drew her breath sharply.

"Oh, Dan! how fortunate you are—how fortunate Hannah is, to be able to do as you like! I would give my ears to go up to Newnham, too, but father says it's impossible. He can't afford it with the boys' education getting more expensive every year. I shall have to stay at home, and turn into a miserable morning governess, teaching wretched little kids to read, and taking them for a walk round the park. Oh, oh! it makes me ill to think about it."

Dan laughed shortly.

"Excuse me! it makes you well. You look quite like yourself again. I'll give you a bit of advice if you like: don't believe that anything's impossible in this world, because it isn't! Put the nursery governess idea out of your mind, and fire ahead for Newnham. There's always the chance of a scholarship, and even if that didn't come off, who can tell what may happen in three years' time? The way may clear in a dozen ways; it probably will clear, if you get ready yourself. There are precious few things one can't gain by steady slogging ahead."

Darsie looked at him with a kindling glance, her lips set, a spot of red showed on either cheek.

"Right!" she said briefly, and at that moment the train steamed into the station and the conference was at an end.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

AUNT MARIA'S CHOICE.

Aunt Maria arrived on Tuesday night, bringing "my woman" in attendance. She was more like a parrot than ever, for her face had grown narrower, her nose bigger, and the roundness of her eyes was accentuated by gold- rimmed spectacles. When a richly coloured Paisley shawl was drawn tightly over her sloping shoulders the resemblance was positively startling to behold, and the terrors of an eight-weeks visit loomed larger than ever before the minds of the Garnett sisters.

The extraordinary thing was that Aunt Maria seemed to take no notice of the girls, whom, as everybody was aware, she had come to inspect. She talked to father, she talked to mother, she cross-questioned the boys as to their progress at school and expressed regret that they had not done better; she displayed an intelligent interest in the neighbours, the servants, and the new dining-room rug, but for the three daughters of the house she had not a word, hardly, it was believed, a glance.

In the presence of such utter indifference it was impossible to keep up the various roles which each girl had privately practised with the view of concealing her charms and diverting Aunt Maria's attention from herself. Clemence had decided that rounded shoulders and a lurching gait were defects which at seventeen threatened a painful permanence, and had therefore lurched persistently throughout the first evening, since which time she had slowly but steadily recovered her natural gait.

After long practice before the mirror Darsie had decided that an open mouth and falling under-jaw could work marvels in the way of stupidity of expression, and had nerved herself to sit agape for the period of forty-eight hours. Lavender had decided to sulk. "Every one hates sulks! It would be better to live alone on a desert island than with a person who sulks. I'll sulk, and she won't be paid to have me!" So one sister had sulked and the other gaped the whole of that first long evening, and then, becoming increasingly freed from their fears, began to smile secretly across the table, to nod and to nudge, to telegraph messages in the silent but eloquent fashions to which members of a large family resort when visitors are present and talking is not allowed. And Aunt Maria munched her food, and wrapped the Paisley shawl more closely round her shoulders, and cast not a glance to right or left! A blissful possibility was broached that she had changed her mind, and did not desire a visitor after all.

Wednesday and Thursday passed in increasing calm, but on Friday morning certain alarming symptoms became visible. Mrs Garnett came to breakfast with unmistakable signs of agitation upon her face. Mr Garnett was silent and distrait, hid behind his newspaper, and answered at random the remarks of his family. Late arrivals were allowed to pass without reproach, and Tim's raids upon the marmalade received no further protest than a flickering smile.

The die was cast! The girls knew it without a word; in a stupor of misery they sat, ears cocked, hearts in their boots, waiting for a sign which should betray the truth, and decide once for all the identity of the victim.

It came at last, towards the end of the meal, in the midst of a ghastly silence.

"Darsie, darling," said Mrs Garnett fondly, "won't you have some more coffee?"

"Darling!" Never were Mrs Garnett's north-country lips known to use that term except under stress of the most poignant emotion. To be "darling" one was compelled to be very ill, very sad, angelically repentant, or in an extremity of fear, and Darsie, who this morning was not afflicted in any one of these three ways, realised in a flash the awful significance of the term. She sat white and silent, too dazed for speech, and to do them justice Clemence and Lavender looked almost as perturbed as herself, relief on their own account being eclipsed for the moment by a realisation of the loss which the holiday party was about to sustain. With a sudden and uninvited humility each sister mentally acknowledged that for the general good of the family it would have been better had the choice fallen upon herself!

Darsie braced her feet against a leg of the table, and struggled with a lump in her throat. Coffee? she never wanted to drink any more coffee so long as she lived! The sight, the smell of it would be for ever associated with this ghastly moment. She turned big, woeful eyes on her mother's face and stammered a breathless inquiry:

"Mother, you have something to say! Please say it. Don't break it to me, please; it's worse to wait. Say it bang out!"

"Oh, Darsie, darling; yes, darling, it is as you suppose! Aunt Maria has chosen you. She wants you to start with her on Saturday morning, but if it's too soon—if you would rather stay over Sunday, I will arrange..."

Darsie bit her lips in the desperate resolve not to cry, but to carry off the situation with a high air.

"If I'm to go at all, I'd rather go at once, and get it over. There's nothing to be gained by delay. 'Better to die by sudden shock than perish piecemeal on the rock.'"

"But you will want to say goodbye to your friends, dear; you will have little arrangements to make..." Mrs Garnett was all nervousness and anxiety to appease, but after the manner of victims Darsie felt a perverse satisfaction in rejecting overtures, even when by so doing she doubly punished herself.

"I don't mean to say goodbye. I don't wish to see any one before I go. I hate scenes."

"Well, well! just as you please, dear. After all, it is for a very short time. Eight weeks will soon pass."

Silence. Every youthful face at the table was set in an eloquent declaration that eight weeks was an eternity, a waste, a desert of space. Mr Garnett put down his newspaper and hurriedly left the room. He had the usual male horror of scenes, and, moreover, Darsie was his special pet, and his own nerves were on edge at the thought of the coming separation. If the child cried or appealed to him for protection, he would not like to say what he might do. Flight appeared to be his safest course, but Darsie felt a pang of disappointment and wounded love at this desertion of her cause, and the smart did not help to improve her temper.

"Aunt Maria wishes to see you, dear, as soon as you have finished your breakfast," continued Mrs Garnett, elaborately conciliatory. "Father and I are very grateful to her for her interest in you, but you know, dear, how we feel about losing you, how we sympathise with your disappointment! We are convinced that in the end this chance will be for your benefit; but in the meantime it is very hard. We are sorry for you, dear."

"And I," declared Darsie coldly, "am sorry for Aunt Maria!"

She pushed back her chair and stalked out of the room, while her brothers and sisters stared after her agape. Along the narrow oil- clothed hall she went, up the steep, narrow staircase to the little third-floor bedroom, the only place on earth which was her very own. There was nothing luxurious about it, nothing of any intrinsic value or beauty, but in the eyes of its occupant every separate article was a pearl of price. All her treasures were here—her pictures, her ornaments, her books, mementoes of journeyings, offerings of friends. It was a shrine, a refuge from the cold outer world. Alone in "my room" one lost the insignificance of a member of a large family, and became a responsible human being face to face with personal trials and responsibilities...

Eight weeks out of a life! To the adult mind a sacrifice of so short a period may be a disappointment, but can hardly be deemed a trial; to schoolgirl fifteen it may seem a catastrophe which clouds the whole horizon. To Darsie Garnett the change of plan was the first real sorrow of her life, and these moments of reflection were full of a suffocating misery. Anticipated joys rose before her with intolerable distinctness. She saw her companions happily at play, and felt a stabbing dart of jealousy. Yes, they would forget all about her and feel no loss from her absence! Clemence and Vie would enjoy their tete-a-tete, would be unwilling to admit a third into their conferences at her return. Dan would take them for boating and fishing expeditions. Dan would grow to like Clemence better than herself! Darsie gave a little sob of misery at the thought. She had no sentimental feelings as regards Dan, or any one else at this period of her life, but as the one big boy, almost man, of her acquaintance Dan stood on a pedestal by himself as a lofty and superior being, whose favour was one of the prizes of life. That Dan should become more intimate, more friendly with Clemence and Lavender than with herself was a possibility fraught with dismay.

Darsie sobbed again, but her eyes were dry; she was angry, too angry to cry; her heart was seething with rebellion. Some one knocked at the door and received no answer, knocked again and was curtly ordered to "go away"; then Mr Garnett's voice spoke, in gentle and conciliatory tones—

"It's father! Let me in, dear; I've just a minute..."

It was impossible to refuse such a request. Darsie opened the door, and there he stood, tall and thin, with the embarrassed boy look upon his face which always made him seem especially near to his children. It was the look he wore when they were in trouble and he essayed to lecture and advise, and it seemed to say, "I've been there myself; I understand! Now it's my part to play the heavy father, but I'm not nearly so much shocked as I pretend!" To-day his manner was frankly commiserating.

"Well, Kiddie, dear! I was running off to town like a coward, but at the last moment I was obliged to come up for a word. It's hard lines for you, dear, and I want you to know that it's hard lines for me, too! The country won't be half so jolly as if we'd all been together. I'll miss you badly, little lass!"

"Don't! I'll howl. Don't make me howl!" pleaded Darsie hastily, the tight feeling about her eyes and lips giving place to an alarming weepiness at the sound of the tender words. "If you really care, father, couldn't you—couldn't you possibly refuse?"

Mr Garnett shook his head.

"No! That's settled. We talked it over, mother and I, and agreed that it must be done. It's a duty, dear, and we can't shelve duties in this life. I'm sorry for you in your disappointment, and only wish I could help, but in this matter no one can help but yourself. You can do a lot if you try. Shall I tell you, Darsie, how you could get over your regret, and turn your visit to Arden into something far more agreeable than you can now imagine?"

Darsie cocked an eye at him, suspicious and hesitating. He was going to preach! She knew the symptoms of old, and by way of counter-action put on her most dour and sullen expression.

"Um!"

"Very well, then, here it is! Turn your back on the might-have-been, and try with all your might to like what is! Aunt Maria will, I know, be all that is kind and indulgent—in her own way! It won't be your way, however, and that's the rub. If you begin your visit in a spirit of irritation, I'm afraid you are going to have a pretty poor time, but if you try to enjoy every little thing that comes along out of which enjoyment can be squeezed and to laugh at the rest, to laugh instead of to cry—well, it's astonishing how the scene will change! Do you think you could try?"

Darsie pouted, sulky and unconvinced. "Were you resigned when you were fifteen?"

"No, my lassie! I wasn't, indeed. Very far from it, I'm sorry to say. But when one has travelled on for many years and come many a cropper on the way one does long to show one's children the short cuts! That's one short cut. Darsie; I wish you'd take it, and avoid the falls. If you can't have what you like, try to like what you have. Expect good, not evil. Say to yourself every morning: 'This is going to be a good day, a happy day, one of the happiest days of my life,' and then you are half-way towards making it so. Poor little Kiddie! it sounds hard, but try it—try it—and occasionally, just for a change, forget that you are Darsie Garnett for five minutes or so at a time, and pretend instead that you are Maria Hayes! Pretend that you are old and lonely and ailing in health, and that there's a young girl staying with you from whom you are hoping to enjoy some brightness and variety! Eh? The other morning in church you were beside me when we were singing 'Fight the good fight!' You sang it heartily, Darsie; I enjoyed your singing.—I thought you looked as if you really meant the words. Well, here's the battlefield for you, dear! Are you going to play coward? I don't believe it. I think better of my girl!"

He laid his hand on her shoulder with a caressing touch. Darsie wriggled and screwed up her little nose in eloquent grimace, but when the hand crept up to her chin she lifted her face for the farewell kiss, and even volunteered an extra one on her own account on the dear, thin cheek.

Mr Garnett smiled contentedly to himself as he descended the staircase. Darsie had made no promises, but he was satisfied that his words had not been in vain. And Darsie, left alone in her room, fell instinctively to repeating the words of the grand old hymn—

"Run the straight race through God's good grace, Lift up thine eyes, and seek His Face..."

A little sob punctuated the lines. To the blind eyes of earth the straight race appeared so very very crooked!



CHAPTER EIGHT.

FIRST DAYS.

Darsie left home on the following Thursday, and in company with Aunt Maria and "my woman" took train for Arden, in Buckinghamshire. The journey was a nightmare, for Lady Hayes disliked travelling, and was in a condition of nervousness, which made her acutely susceptible to the doings of her companions. Within an hour of starting Darsie had been admonished not to sit facing the engine because of the draught, not to look out of the window in case she got a cinder in her eye, not to read in case she strained her eyes, not to rub her fingers on the pane, not to cross her knees because it was unladylike, not to shout, not to mumble, not to say "What?" not to yawn without putting her finger over her mouth, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Being called to account so frequently was an exhausting process, and Darsie felt a thrill of joy at the announcement of lunch. A meal in a train would be a novel and exciting experience which would go far towards making up for the dullness of the preceding hour, but alas! Aunt Maria refused with scorn to partake of food, cooked goodness knew how, by goodness knew whom, and had supplied herself with a few Plasmon biscuits, the which she handed round with the information that they contained more nourishment than ounces of beefsteak. They were very dull and very dry, however, and Darsie managed to get a crumb down the wrong way, and coughed continuously for the next hour in a tickling, aggravating manner, while Aunt Maria reiterated, "Really, my dear! Most unpleasant!" and seemed to consider herself personally aggrieved.

When Arden was reached the position improved, for stationmaster and porters alike flew to hover round the great lady of the neighbourhood, and Darsie sunned herself in the novel consciousness of importance. Outside the station a cart was waiting for luggage, and a large, old- fashioned barouche with two fat brown horses, and with two brown- liveried servants upon the box. The village children bobbed curtsies as the carriage bowled through the village street, and Darsie smiled benignly and bent her yellow head in gracious acknowledgment. As niece and guest of the Lady of the Towers, these greetings were surely partly intended for herself. She felt an exhilarating glow of complacence, and determined to describe the scene to Vie Vernon on the earliest possible opportunity.

The Towers was a large, very ugly, stucco house, surrounded by a beautiful rolling park. Inside, the rooms were huge and square, and one and all characterised by a depressing pitch of orderliness, which made it almost impossible to believe that they could be used as ordinary human habitations!

Darsie was escorted to a bedroom with ponderous mahogany furniture, so complete a contrast from her own shabby, cheery little den that the sight of it added the final touch to her depression. She refreshed herself by a long splash in hot water, brushed out her tangled mane, put on her Sunday dress, and descended in state to partake of dinner, which was served an hour earlier than usual in consideration of the travellers' hunger and fatigue.

Despite her weariness and nervous exhaustion, Lady Hayes had made what appeared to Darsie's unsophisticated eyes a magnificent toilette for the meal, and she eyed the Sunday frock with a criticism which was anything but approving. "But it's the best I've got, except the party one, and I can't wear that for one old lady," said Darsie to herself as she followed meekly behind the moire antique train, and seated herself at the end of the dining-table. Two men-servants stood at attention—two! one for each diner, solemn, immovable-looking creatures who seemed to move on wheels and who kept their eyes glued upon every mouthful you ate, ready to pounce upon your plate and nip it swiftly and noiselessly away. They were stricken with dumbness also, if you were to trust the evidence of your senses, but had certainly ears, and could drink in every word you said.

For the rest, it might be soothing to one's pride to live in a big country house, but it was certainly abnormally dull. The day's programme never varied by a hair's breadth, and Aunt Maria, though kind, possessed the failing of all others most trying to the youthful mind. She fussed! She fussed about clothes, she fussed about food, she fussed about draughts, she fussed about manners, deportment, speech, the way you sat down, the way you got up, the way you laughed, yawned, sneezed, crossed the room, and did your hair. From morning to night, "My dear, don't!" or "My dear, do!" rang in Darsie's ears, till she was almost beside herself with irritation.

Honestly and laboriously she tried to practise her father's advice: to put the thought of the seaside party aside, make the most of the good points of her own position, and "fight the good fight," but the effort seemed to exhaust her physically, as well as mentally, until by the end of the day she looked white and drooping, pathetically unlike her natural glowing self. Aunt Maria noticed the change, and fussed about that, too, but with an underlying tenderness that was upsetting to the girl's strained nerves.

"You look very tired to-night, my dear! Are you not well? Is there anything the matter?"

"Quite well, thank you. Only—lonely!" replied Darsie, with a plaintive accent on that last word which brought Lady Hayes's glance upon her in quick inquiry—

"Lonely! But, my dear, you haven't been a minute alone all day long."

"No," agreed Darsie meekly, and said no more, but the little monosyllable was more eloquent than any disclaimer. Lady Hayes flushed, and knitted her brows in thought.

"I must ask some young people to meet you. I have some nice young friends living about a mile away. They are visiting at present, but will soon be home. I will write. Naturally you miss the young society."

She was so kind, so considerate, that it seemed mean to feel bored and impatient; but, oh dear, how long the days did seem, how dull and monotonous the morning drive, the afternoon needlework, the evening game of patience or bezique.

The climax came one rainy afternoon when the ordinary two-hours drive could not take place, and the hostess and her young guest had spent most of the day together in the library. Now it is trying for an old lady as well as for a young one to be deprived of the usual exercise, and if Darsie's impatience and rebelliousness of spirit were more acute than usual, Lady Hayes was also more nervous and exacting. In this instance the weight of the old lady's displeasure seemed to fall upon Darsie's unfortunate coiffure. Whatever turn the conversation might take, it returned with relentless certainty to "Your hair, my dear! When I was young, young girls wore their hair neatly braided. I intensely dislike all this purring and elaboration. You would look a different girl if you brushed it smoothly."

"I should," agreed Darsie coolly. "I should look a sight. My pompadour is the best pompadour in my class. The girls all say so. They ask me how I do it. I've taught lots of them to do their own."

"I'm sorry to hear it. Time enough when you come out to wear 'pompadours,' as you call them. And your bow! Ridiculous size! If it were neat and small—"

"They wear them twice as big in America. And in France. Sash ribbons! I would, too, if I could afford. It's the fashion, Aunt Maria. Every one wears them big."

"Surely that is all the more reason why a sensible girl should set a good example by being neat and moderate herself! I don't approve of hair being allowed to grow long at your age, but if it is long, it ought certainly to be kept in bounds. Yours is hanging all over your shoulders at this moment. Most untidy! I am speaking for your own good."

There was a moment's chilly silence, then Darsie asked in a tone of extraordinary politeness—

"Just exactly how would you do my hair, Aunt Maria, if you were in my place to-day?"

Lady Hayes straightened herself briskly. "I should brush it," she said emphatically. "It is naturally curly, no doubt, but I cannot believe that a good brushing would not reduce it to order! I should damp it and brush it well, and then tie it back so that it would not hang loose over your shoulders like a mane. It would be pleasant to see what a difference it would make. A neat head is one of the things which every young gentlewoman should strive to possess."

Darsie folded her needlework, put it neatly away in her bag, and, rising from her seat, marched slowly from the room. It was nearing the hour for tea, when she usually went upstairs to wash and tidy-up generally, so that there was nothing unusual in her departure; it was only when she was safe inside her room that the extraordinary nature of to-day's preparations was revealed.

She took off the lace collar and pretty bead necklace which gave an air of lightness to her plain dark dress, wrapped a dressing-jacket round her shoulders, and dipped her head deep into a basin of water. Then with a comb the wet hair was parted accurately in the centre, and brushed to the ears till it had the air of being painted rather than real, so smooth and plastered was the effect. The ends, plaited with merciless tightness, were looped together with a fragment of a broken shoelace, so tightly that from the front no sign of their presence could be suspected. When all was finished and the dressing-jacket thrown aside the effect was positively startling to behold. It did not seem possible to believe that this prim, demure damsel could be the same brilliant-looking creature who had entered the room but ten minutes before, and Darsie herself was half-shocked, half-triumphant at the completeness of the transformation.

"'Spose I had a fever and lost my hair! How simply awful!" she said to herself in terror. "If they could see me at home, they'd never call me pretty again. I think even Aunt Maria will jump!"

She skipped with delight at the possibility, and the gesture seemed so singularly out of keeping with her appearance that she laughed again, restored to good temper by the delightful experience of taking part in a prank once more.

Ten minutes later, accurately at the moment when the tea equipage would be in course of arrangement in the drawing-room, Darsie composed her face into a "prunes and prism" decorum, and slipped noiselessly into the room.

To a certain extent all was as she had expected. Mason stood majestically over the tea-table; James, his satellite, approached with a tray of cakes and sandwiches; Aunt Maria sat waiting in her high-backed chair—so far all was just as she had planned; what she was all unprepared for, however, was the presence of three youthful visitors, two girls and a youth, who sat facing the door, staring at her in stunned dismay.

The Percivals! By all that was ill-timed and embarrassing, the Percivals themselves, returned from their visit, choosing a wet afternoon to drive over and pay their respects to Lady Hayes's young guest! Sheer horror of the situation took away Darsie's breath; she stood stock still in the middle of the floor, felt her lips gape apart, the crimson rush to her face, saw in a mental flash a vision of the country bumpkin she must appear—just for a moment, then Aunt Maria's voice said, in even, equable tones—

"Ah, here she is! Darsie, these are my young friends of whom I have spoken. I am pleased that you should become acquainted. My niece, Darsie Garnett. Noreen, Ida, and Ralph Percival... Now we will have tea!"

The voice, the manner, were absolutely normal. Was it possible that she had not seen? Darsie shot a quick glance at the old lady's face, met an unconcerned smile, and for the first time in the history of their acquaintance felt a thrill of admiration. Splendid to have such self- control, to show no sign of surprise or irritation! She shook hands awkwardly with the three visitors, and sat down on the nearest chair.

"So awfully pleased to meet you!" cried Noreen gushingly. She was a smart-looking girl of sixteen, with brown eyes and a deeply dimpled chin. Darsie knew exactly what she was thinking—understood that the gushing manner had been adopted to disguise dismayed disappointment in the aspect of a possible companion. Ralph was quite old—eighteen at least, with well-cut features, thin lips, and small grey eyes, a dandy wearing a fancy waistcoat and resplendent white spats. His whole aspect breathed a loud, "I told you so! You would drag me with you. Told you how it would be. Lady Hayes's grand-niece! What could you expect?" Ida was bubbling over with curiosity. What a fine story she would have to tell to the family party on her return!

Conversation would have dragged pitifully if it had not been for Aunt Maria's efforts, for the visitors seemed smitten with dumbness, and beneath no the fire of their glances Darsie's embarrassment increased rather than diminished. She had no spirit left; a succession of monosyllables and an occasional "Oh, really!" made up the sum of her contributions to the conversation. It must have been a strong sense of duty which nerved Noreen Percival to offer the invitation which presumably was the object of her visit.

"We want to know if you will come to lunch with us on Thursday, and stay for the afternoon? If it's fine, we can have some tennis. We will drive you back after tea."

Darsie hesitated, but apparently the decision was not to be left to her. Aunt Maria accepted with a gracious acknowledgment of Mrs Percival's kindness, and in answer to a scowl from Ralph his sisters rose and made a hasty adieu.

"We came in the governess cart. The pony gets restless—mustn't keep him waiting. Thank you so much! Goodbye!"

They were gone; the outer door was shut behind them. Darsie, standing by the tea-table, caught a glimpse of her own reflection in a mirror at the opposite end of the room, a stiff, Dutch-doll of a figure, with plastered hair, crimson cheeks, and plain frock. She glanced at Aunt Maria reseating herself in her high-backed chair, and taking up the inevitable knitting. Now for it! now for the lecture! Well, after all, she had in only done what had been suggested, a trifle more perhaps than had been suggested, but that was erring on the right side, not the wrong. Besides, if a naughty impulse to annoy and humiliate Aunt Maria had really existed, in the end she had been a thousand times more humiliated herself. And now, if you please, she was to be scolded and lectured into the bargain!

But Aunt Maria neither lectured nor scolded. All through that next hour when pride kept Darsie chained to her place, the older lady talked in her most natural manner, and even smiled at her companion across the patience-board without a flicker of expression to betray that the figure confronting her was in any way different from the one which she was accustomed to see.

Once more admiration vanquished irritation, and Darsie roused herself to join in the problem of "building," and ended in actually feeling a dawning of interest in what had hitherto appeared the dreariest of problems. When seven o'clock struck, and the old lady closed the board, and said, in her natural, every-day voice, "And now we must dress for dinner!" Darsie walked slowly across the room, hesitated, and finally retraced her steps and knelt down on a footstool by Lady Hayes' side.

"Aunt Maria—please! I should like to thank you!"

"Thank me, my dear. For what?"

"For—for saying nothing! For not crowing over me as you might have done!"

The flushed, upturned face was very sweet—all the sweeter perhaps for the plastered hair, which gave to it so quaint and old-world an air. Lady Hayes laid a wrinkled hand on the girl's shoulder; her eyes twinkled humorously through her spectacles.

"No, I won't crow, my dear! That would be ungenerous. Circumstances have been pretty hard on you already. This—this little exhibition was not intended for an audience, but for my own private edification. It was unfortunate that the Percivals should have chosen such a moment for their first call. I was sorry for your discomfiture."

"You oughtn't to have been! I meant to be naughty. Oh, you've scored—scored all the way. I apologise in dust and ashes, but please— if you will be very noble—never speak of it again!"

She reached the door once more, was about to make a bolt for the staircase, when Lady Hayes's voice called to her to return—

"Darsie?"

"Yes!"

"Come here, child!"

The thin hand was held out to meet hers, the kind old eyes looked wonderfully soft and tender.

"I think it is only fair to tell you that ... in your own language, you have scored also! ... Oblige me by doing your hair in your ordinary fashion for the future!"

"Oh, Aunt Maria, you duck!" cried Darsie, and for the first time in her life flung her arms voluntarily around the old lady's neck and gave her a sounding kiss.



CHAPTER NINE.

THE PERCIVALS.

It was really rather fun dressing for the visit to the Percivals on Thursday; trying to make oneself look one's very best, and imagining their surprise at the transformation! Aunt Maria, too, seemed quite to enter into the spirit of the thing, inquired anxiously which dress, and gave special instructions that it should be ironed afresh, so that it might appear at its freshest and best.

"My woman" had evidently been instructed to take the young guest's wardrobe under her care, since new ribbons and frilling now appeared with engaging frequency, giving quite an air to half-worn garments. Darsie in a blue muslin dress, with a white straw hat wreathed with daisies, and her golden locks floating past her waist, made a charming picture of youth and happiness as she sat in the old barouche, and when the hall was reached Aunt Maria cast a keen glance around the grounds, transparently eager to discover the young people and share in the fun of the meeting.

Ralph was nowhere to be seen, that was not to be wondered at under the circumstances, but the two girls were on duty on the tennis-lawn in front of the house, ready to come forward and welcome their guest immediately upon her arrival.

The blank gapes of bewilderment with which they witnessed the alighting of the radiant blue and gold apparition afforded keen delight both to aunt and niece. They were literally incapable of speech, and even after Aunt Maria had driven away, coughing in the most suspicious manner behind a raised hand, even then conversation was of the most jerky and spasmodic kind. It was amusing enough for a time, but for a whole afternoon it would certainly pall, and Darsie did want to enjoy herself when she had a chance. She decided that it was time to put matters on a right footing, and looked smilingly to right and left, at her embarrassed, tongue-tied companions.

"I think," said Darsie politely, "that I owe you an explanation!"

She explained, and Noreen and Ida pealed with laughter, and danced up and down on the gravel path, and slid their hands through her arm, vowing undying friendship on the spot.

"How per-fectly killing! I do love a girl who is up to pranks. What a prank! How you must have felt when you saw us sitting there! And Lady Hayes—what did she say? Was she per-fectly furious?"

"Aunt Maria behaved like an angel, a dignified angel! I never liked her so much. How did you feel? Tell me just exactly your sentiments when you saw me walking into that room?"

"I certainly did feel upset, because we had to ask you! Mother said we must, and we asked each other what on earth should we do with you all day long. Ida did say that your eyes were pretty. She was the only one who stuck up for you at all! I thought you looked too appalling for words."

"What did your brother say?" asked Darsie with natural feminine curiosity, whereupon Noreen answered with unabashed candour—

"He said you were 'a rummy little frump,' and that he would take very good care to have an engagement for to-day as many miles as possible away from home!"

"Did he, indeed!" The colour rose in Darsie's cheeks. "Well, I'm very glad he did. I like girls best, and I thought he looked conceited and proud. My best friend has a big brother, too, but he's not a bit like yours. Rather shaggy, but so clever and kind! He promised to write to me while I was here, just because he knew I should be dull. It's really an honour, you know, for he is terrifically clever. Every one says he will be Prime Minister one day. He's going to Cambridge. Your brother is, too, isn't he? I shouldn't think they would be at all in the same set!"

The Percival girls looked at each other and smiled.

"Poor old Ralph! Isn't she blighting? You don't know anything about him, you know. It's only because he called you a frump, but never mind, he has to be back to tea to look after some work for father, and then he'll see! If you are going to be friends with us, you mustn't begin by disliking our brother. He may be conceited, but he is certainly not 'shaggy,' and he is much nicer to his sisters than most big boys. He thinks we are really nicer than other girls."

Darsie regarded them critically.

"Well, I think you are!" she conceded graciously. "Oh, how thankful I am that there is some one young in the neighbourhood. I was beginning to feel so painfully middle-aged. Let's sit down and talk. Tell me about yourselves. Do you go to school? Which school? Do you go in for exams? What subjects do you like best?"

Noreen laughed, and shook her head.

"We have a governess. We are going for a year to a finishing school in Paris, but mother doesn't approve of exams, for girls. She wants us to be able to play, and sing, and draw, and speak German and French, and she says that's enough. We don't bother about Latin or mathematics or any of those dull old things."

"They are not dull. They're glorious. I revel in them. But you're rich, of course, and won't have to work. I shall have to earn money myself, so I want to pass all the exams. I can."

The Percivals stared in solemn surprise. The idea was so strange it took some time to digest. All their friends were well off like themselves; really, when they came to think of it, they had never met a prospective working girl before! They regarded Darsie with a curiosity tinged with compassion.

"Do you mean it—really? Tell us about yourself? Where do you live?"

"In Birchester, Craven Street, Sandon terrace—the corner house in Sandon Terrace."

"Craven Street. Really!" The girls were plainly shocked, but Ida rallied bravely, and said in her most courteous air: "It must be so interesting to live in a street! So much to see. And have you very interesting people living across the road?"

"No. Rather dull. Husbands and wives, and one old bachelor with a leg—lame leg, I mean. No one at all thrilling, but our friends—our best friends—live in a terrace at right angles with ours. We have great times with them. I'll tell you about our latest craze."

Noreen and Ida sat breathlessly listening to the history of the telegraph, till it was time to go into the house for lunch, when Darsie was introduced to Mrs Percival, a very smartly dressed lady, who looked astonishingly young to be the mother of a grown-up family. After lunch the three girls attempted tennis, but gave it up in deference to the visitor's lack of skill, visited stables and kennels and conservatory, and were again brought face to, face with the different points of view existing between the town and the country dweller.

"Do all people who live in the country go and stare at their horses and dogs every day of their lives?" demanded Darsie with an air of patient resignation, as Noreen and Ida patted, and whistled, and rubbed the noses of their four-footed friends, fed them with dainty morsels, and pointed out good points in technical terms which were as Greek in the listener's ears. "Aunt Maria goes every single day; it's a part of the regular programme, like knitting in the afternoon and Patience at night. I get—so bored!"

The shocked looks which the Percival sisters turned upon her seemed ludicrously out of proportion with the circumstances.

"Don't you—don't you love animals?"

"Certainly—in their place. But I cannot see the interest in staring in through a stable door at the same horses standing munching in the same stalls day after day. It's no use pretending that I can," declared Darsie obstinately. "And the dogs make such a noise, and drag at your clothes. I'm always thankful to get away. Let's go back to the garden and look at the flowers. I could stare at flowers for ages. It seems too glorious to be true to be able to pick as many roses as you like. At home mother buys a sixpenny bunch on Saturday, and cuts the stalks every day, and puts them into fresh water to make them last as long as possible, and we have nasturtiums for the rest of the week. I love the fruit and vegetable garden, too. It's so amusing to see how things grow! Especially,"—she laughed mischievously, showing a whole nest of baby dimples in one pink cheek, "I warn you frankly that this is a hint!—especially things you can eat!"

Noreen and Ida chuckled sympathetically.

"Come along! There is still a bed of late strawberries. We'll take camp-stools from the summer-house, and you shall sit and feast until you are tired, and we'll sit and watch you, and talk. We seem to have had strawberries at every meal for weeks past, and are quite tired of the sight, so you can have undisturbed possession."

"And I," said Darsie with a sigh, "have never in my life had enough! It will be quite an epoch to go on eating until I want to stop. That's the worst of a large family, the dainties divide into such tiny shares!"

Ten minutes later the three girls had taken up their position in the kitchen garden in a spot which to the town-bred girl seemed ideal for comfort and beauty. The strawberry-bed ran along the base of an old brick wall on which the branches of peach-trees stretched out in the formal upward curves of great candelabra. An old apple-tree curved obligingly over the gravel path to form a protection from the sun, and it was the prettiest thing in the world to glance up through the branches with their clusters of tiny green apples, and see the patches of blue sky ahead. Darsie sat stretching out her hand to pluck one big strawberry after another, an expression of beatific contentment on her face.

"Yes—it's scrumptious to live in the country—in summer! If it were always like this I'd want to stay for ever, but it must be dreadfully dull in winter, when everything is dead and still. I shouldn't like it a bit."

"No! No!" the Percival girls protested in chorus. "It's beautiful always, and livelier than ever, for there's the hunting. Hunting is just the most delightful sport! We hunt once a week always, and often twice—the most exciting runs. We are sorry, absolutely sorry when spring comes to stop us."

"Oh, do you hunt!" Darsie was quite quelled by the thought of such splendour. In town it was rare even to see a girl on horseback; a hunt was a thing which you read about, but never expected to behold with your own eyes. The knowledge that her new friends actually participated in this lordly sport raised them to a pinnacle of importance. She munched strawberries in thoughtful silence for several moments before recovering enough spirit to enter another plea in favour of town.

"Well, anyway—if you don't hunt, it must be dull. And lonely! Aren't you scared to death walking along dark lanes without a single lamppost? I should live in terror of tramps and burglars, and never dare to stir out of the house after three o'clock."

"No you wouldn't, if you were accustomed to it. Our maids come home quite happily at ten o'clock at night, but if they go to a city they are nervous in the brightly lit streets. That's curious, but it's true. We used to leave doors and windows open all day long, and hardly trouble to lock up at night, until a few months ago when we had a scare which made us more careful. Till then we trusted every one, and every one trusted us."

"A scare!" Darsie pricked her ears, scenting an excitement. "What scare? Do tell me! I love gruesome stories. What was it? Thieves?"

Noreen nodded solemnly.

"Yes! It's gruesome enough. Simply horrid for us, for so many other people lost their—but I'll tell you from the beginning. It was the night of the Hunt Ball at Rakeham, and the house was crammed with visitors. We were allowed to sit up to see them all start. They looked so lovely—the men in their pink coats, and the ladies in their very best dresses and jewels. Well, it was about half-past seven; the ladies had gone upstairs to dress about half an hour before, when suddenly there was a great noise and clamour, and some one shouted 'Fire!' and pealed an alarm on the gong. No one knew where it was, but you never heard such a hubbub and excitement. Doors opened all down the corridors, and the ladies rushed out in dressing-gowns and dressing- jackets, with hair half done, or streaming down their backs, shrieking and questioning, and clinging to one another, and rushing downstairs. The men were more sensible; they took it quite calmly, and just set to work to put the fire out. It was in a little room on the second floor, and the strange thing was that it hadn't been used for months, and no one could account for there being a fire there at all. After a little time one of the men came out into the corridor, and said: 'There's something wrong about this—this is not the result of accident! I don't like the look of it at all.' Then he turned to the ladies, who were all huddled together, gasping and questioning, with their maids and the other servants in the background, and said: 'Ladies! I advise you to go back to your rooms as quickly as possible. There is not the slightest danger, but it might be just as well to look after your jewellery!'

"You should have heard them shriek! They turned and rushed like rabbits, and the maids rushed after them, shrieking too, but that was nothing to the noise two minutes after, when they got back to their rooms and found their jewels gone! They were laid out ready to be put on, on the dressing-tables, and the alarm had been cleverly timed to give the ladies enough time to get half dressed, but not enough to have put on their jewellery. Only one out of all the party had put on her necklace. She was pleased!

"Well, they shrieked, and shrieked, and some of the men left the fire and came upstairs to the rescue. Captain Beverley was the smartest, and he just tore along the corridor to a dressing-room over the billiard- room, and there was a man letting himself drop out of the window, and scrambling over the billiard-room roof to the ground! Captain Beverley gave the alarm, and the servants rushed out to give chase. It was very dark, and they could not tell how many men there were, for they kept dodging in and out among the trees. Some people said there were only two, and some said they saw four, but only one was caught that night—an idle, loafing young fellow who had been staying at the village inn for a few weeks, pretending to be a city clerk convalescing after an illness. The worst of it was that he had only a few of the smaller things in his pockets, none of the really big, valuable pieces."

"Goodness!" Darsie's eyes sparkled with animation. "That was an excitement. I wish I'd been here. Go on! What happened after that?"

"Oh, my dear, the most awful evening! The visitors had all brought their very best things, as the Hunt Ball is a great occasion, and they almost all cried, and one poor lady went into hysterics. Her father had been an ambassador and had all sorts of wonderful orders and things which she had had made into brooches and pendants, and they could never be replaced, no matter how much money she spent. Dinner was the most weepy meal you can imagine, and only one or two of the sensible ones went on to the ball. The others stayed at home and moped, and mother had to stay, too. Poor dear! she had to keep calm, and comfort every one else, when she'd lost all her own pet things. There was one string of pearls which has been in our family for generations, and each new owner adds a few more pearls, so that it gets longer and longer, and more and more valuable. It would have belonged to Ralph's wife some day. He was so funny about it, so disappointed! He kept saying: 'Poor little girl! it is rough luck!' We said: 'Why pity her, when you haven't the least idea who she is?' He said: 'Why not, when I know very well that I shall know some day!'"

Darsie smiled with politely concealed impatience. She was not in the least interested in Ralph's problematical wife, but she was devoured with anxiety to hear further particulars of the exciting burglary.

"Well, well! Go on! You said they only caught one man that night. That means, I suppose—"

"Yes!" Noreen sighed tragically. "That was the saddest part of it. The next morning they found another man lying just outside the walled garden. He had scrambled up, holding on to the fruit-trees, and had then jumped down and broken his leg, and he was not a stranger, but one of our very own men—an under-gardener whom we had all liked so much. Father believed that he had been bribed and led away by the man from London, and offered to let him off if he would tell all he knew, how many thieves there had been, and give the names and descriptions of the ones who had escaped, but he wouldn't. Nothing would make him speak. We all tried in turns, and then the Vicar came and was shut up with him for an age, but it was no use. They say 'there's honour among thieves,' and it's true. He wouldn't give the others away, so the two were sent to prison together, and they are there still. Father says they won't mind a few months' imprisonment, for when they come out they will get their share of the money and be quite rich. They'll probably sail off for America or Australia and buy land, and live in luxury ever after. It is a shame! Father and mother feel it awfully. Such a dreadful thing to happen when you ask your friends to stay!"

"Yes! it's a comfort to have nothing to lose. Mother has one diamond ring, which she always wears above the wedding one, and there's nothing else worth stealing in the house, except watches and silver spoons, so that Aunt Maria need fear no qualms on account of her present visitor. No one will set her house on fire on account of my jewels—a few glass beads and a gold safety-pin, all told! You see them before you now!" Darsie tossed her head and pointed towards her treasures with an air of such radiant satisfaction that Noreen and Ida dropped the effort to be polite, and pealed with delighted laughter.

"You are a funny girl! You do amuse us. It's so nice to have a new friend. The girls near here are so deadly dull. You seem so full of spirit."

"Too full. It runs away with me. I act first and think afterwards. Not a good principle for a working life," pronounced Miss Darsie sententiously as she searched among the green leaves for a strawberry sufficiently large and red to suit her fastidious taste. The Percivals watched her with fascinated gaze. An hour before they would have professed the most profound pity for a girl who lived in a street, owned neither horse nor dog, and looked forward to earning her own living, but it was with something more closely resembling envy that they now regarded Darsie Garnett, weighted as she was with all these drawbacks. There was about her an air of breeziness, of adventure, which shook them out of their self-complacence. It no longer seemed the all-important thing in life to belong to a county family, attend the hunt, and look forward to a presentation at Court; they felt suddenly countrified and dull, restricted in aim and interest.

It was while Darsie was still conversing in airy, discursive fashion, and her companions listening with fascinated attention, that footsteps were heard approaching, and Ralph's tall figure appeared at the end of the path. He was evidently taking a short cut through the grounds, and as Darsie was out of his line of vision, being planted well back among the strawberry plants, he saw only his two sisters, and advanced to meet them with cheerful unconcern.

"Hulloa! Here's luck! Hasn't she come?"

"Oh, yes! But it is luck all the same. Look for yourself!" cried Noreen gleefully, pointing with outstretched hand to where Darsie sat, a pale blue figure among a nest of greenery, her little, flushed, laughing face tilted upward on the long white throat, her scattered locks ashine in the sun. With the air of a queen she extended finger-tips crimson with the strawberry juice towards the newcomer, and with the air of a courtier Ralph Percival stooped to take them in his own.

For a moment they stared full into each other's eyes, while the bewilderment on the young man's face slowly gave place to recognition.

"Glad to see you again, Princess Goldenlocks! Let me congratulate you on the breaking of the spell. Who was the kind fairy who set you free to appear among us in your rightful guise?"

He spoke like a book; he looked tall and handsome enough to be a prince himself. Darsie forgave him on the instant for his former lack of respect, and bent upon him her most dimpling smile.

"I freed myself. I wove my own spell, and when I was tired of it I broke loose."

Ralph looked down at her with a slow, quizzical smile.

"You had better be careful! Spells are awkward things to move about. They might alight, you know, on some other shoulders, and not be so easily shaken off!"

His eyes, his voice, added point to the words. It was the first, the very first compliment which Darsie had ever received from masculine lips, and compared with the blunt criticisms of Dan Vernon, she found it wonderfully stimulating.

"Come along, girls!" cried Ralph with a sudden return to a natural, boyish manner. "There's a whole hour yet before tea, and we can't sit here doing nothing. Let's go down to the river and punt. Do you punt, Miss Garnett? I'll teach you! You look the sort of girl to be good at sport. You'll pick it up in no time."

The three girls rose obediently and followed Ralph's lead riverwards, while Noreen and Ida, gesticulating and grimacing in the background, gave the visitor to understand that a great honour had been bestowed upon her, and that she might consider herself fortunate in being the recipient of an unusual mark of attention.



CHAPTER TEN.

A TREATY.

If there were innumerable good points in an acquaintance with the Percival family, there was certainly the inevitable drawback, for on the days when she was alone with her great-aunt, Darsie was rendered lonelier and more restless than before by the knowledge that a couple of miles away were three agreeable young companions who would be only too pleased to include her in their pastimes. The different points of view held by youth and age were, as usual, painfully in evidence. Darsie considered that it would be desirable to meet the Percivals "every single day"; Aunt Maria was glad that you had enjoyed yourself; was pleased that you should meet young friends, and suggested a return invitation, "some day next week!" pending which far-off period you were expected to be content with the usual routine of morning drive, afternoon needlework, and evening patience. Really—really—really, to have lived to that age, and to have no better understanding! Letters from the seaside did not tend to soothe the exile's discontent. It seemed callous of the girls to expatiate on the joys of bathing, fishing, and generally running wild, to one who was practising a lady- like decorum in the society of an old lady over seventy years of age, and although Dan kept his promise to the extent of a letter of two whole sheets, he gave no hint of deploring Darsie's own absence. It was in truth a dull, guide-booky epistle, all about stupid "places of interest" in the neighbourhood, in which Darsie was frankly uninterested. All the Roman remains in the world could not have counted at that moment against one little word of friendly regret, but that word was not forthcoming, and the effect of the missive was depressing, rather than the reverse. Mother's letters contained little news, but were unusually loving— wistfully, almost, as it were, apologetically loving! The exile realised that in moments of happy excitement, when brothers and sisters were forgetful of her existence, a shadow would fall across mother's face, and she would murmur softly, "Poor little Darsie!" Darsie's own eyes filled at the pathos of the thought. She was filled with commiseration for her own hard plight... Father's letters were bracing. No pity here; only encouragement and exhortation. "Remember, my dear, a sacrifice grudgingly offered is no sacrifice at all. What is worth doing, is worth doing well. I hope to hear that you are not only an agreeable, but also a cheerful and cheering companion to your old aunt!"

Darsie's shoulders hitched impatiently. "Oh! Oh! Sounds like a copy- book. I could make headlines, too! Easy to talk when you're not tried. Can't put an old head on young shoulders. Callous youth, and crabbed age..."

Not that Aunt Maria was really crabbed. Irritable perhaps, peculiar certainly, finicky and old-fashioned to a degree, yet with a certain bedrock kindliness of nature which forbade the use of so hard a term as crabbed. Since the date of the hair episode Darsie's admiration for Lady Hayes's dignified self-control had been steadily on the increase. She even admitted to her secret self that in time to come—far, far-off time to come,—she would like to become like Aunt Maria in this respect and cast aside her own impetuous, storm-tossed ways. At seventy one ought to be calm and slow to wrath, but at fifteen! Who could expect a poor little flapper of fifteen to be anything but fire and flame!

Wet days were the great trial—those drizzling, chilly days which have a disagreeable habit of intruding into our English summers. Darsie, shivering in a washing dress, "occupying herself quietly with her needlework" in the big grim morning-room, was in her most prickly and rebellious of moods.

"Hateful to have such weather in summer! My fingers are so cold I can hardly work."

"It is certainly very chill."

"Aunt Maria, couldn't we have a fire? It would be something cheerful to look at!"

"My dear!" Lady Hayes was apparently transfixed with amazement. "A fire! You forget, surely, the month! The month of August. We never begin fires until the first of October."

"You'd be much more comfortable if you did."

There being no controverting the truth of this statement, Lady Hayes made no reply. But after the lapse of a few minutes she volunteered a suggestion.

"There is a grey Shetland shawl folded up under the sofa rug. You had better put it over your shoulders, since you feel so cold."

"I?" Darsie gave an impatient laugh. "Fancy me wrapped up in a Shetland shawl! I'd sooner freeze."

Lady Hayes dropped her eyelids and tightened her lips. Her manner pointed out more eloquently than words the fact that her guest was wanting in respect, but as hostess it was her duty to consider the comfort of her guest, so presently she rang the bell and gave instructions that a cup of hot cocoa should be served at eleven o'clock instead of the usual glass of milk. She herself was never guilty of the enormity of eating between meals, so that the listener knew perfectly well for whose benefit the order was given, but being at once cold, lonely, and cross, her heart was hardened, and she spoke no word.

Between that time and the appearance of James with the tray Aunt Maria made three successive attempts to open new topics of conversation, which were each time checkmated by monosyllabic replies. There was a tone of relief in her voice, as of one hailing a much-needed assistance, as she said briskly—

"Now, my dear, here is your cocoa! Drink it while it is hot. It will warm you up."

"Thank you, I don't drink cocoa. It makes me sick."

There was a moment's silence. James stood at attention, tray in hand. Lady Hayes tightened her lips, and the little red lines on her cheeks turned a curious bluish shade. Then she cleared her throat, and said in her most courteous tones—

"I am sorry. Would you kindly tell James what you would like instead. Tea—coffee—soup? A warm drink would be better than milk this morning."

"Nothing, thank you."

"Nothing, James! You may go."

James departed. Aunt Maria went on with her knitting, the click-click of the needles sounding startlingly distinct in the silent room. Darsie sat shamed and miserable, now that her little ebullition of spleen was over, acutely conscious of the rudeness of her behaviour. For five minutes by the clock the silence lasted; but in penitence, as in fault, there was no patience in Darsie's nature, and at the end of the five minutes the needlework was thrown on the floor, and with a quick light movement she was on her knees by Lady Hayes's side.

"Aunt Maria, forgive me. I'm a pig!"

"Excuse me, my dear, you are mistaken. You are a young gentlewoman who has failed to behave as such."

"Oh, Aunt Maria, don't, don't be proper!" pleaded Darsie, half- laughing, half in tears. "I am a pig, and I behaved as much, and you're a duchess and a queen, and I can't imagine how you put up with me at all. I wonder you don't turn me out of doors, neck and crop!"

Lady Hayes put down her knitting and rested her right hand lightly on the girl's head, but she did not smile; her face looked very grave and sad.

"Indeed, Darsie, my dear," she said slowly, "that is just what I am thinking of doing. Not 'neck and crop'—that's an exaggerated manner of speaking, but, during the last few days I have been coming to the conclusion that I made a mistake in separating you from your family. I thought too much of my own interests, and not enough of yours." She smiled, a strained, pathetic little smile. "I think I hardly realised how young you were! One forgets. The years pass by; one falls deeper and deeper into one's own ways, one's own habits, and becomes unconscious of different views, different outlooks. It was a selfish act to take a young thing away from her companions on the eve of a summer holiday. I realise it now, my dear; rather late in the day, perhaps, but not too late! I will arrange that you join your family at the sea before the end of the week."

Darsie gasped, and sat back on her heels, breathless with surprise and dismay. Yes! dismay; extraordinary though it might appear, no spark of joy or expectation lightened the shocked confusion of her mind. We can never succeed in turning back the wheels of time so as to take up a position as it would have been if the disturbing element had not occurred. The holiday visit to the seaside would have been joy untold if Aunt Maria had never appeared and given her unwelcome invitation, but now!—now a return to Seaview would be in the character of a truant carrying within her heart the consciousness of failure and defeat. In the moment's silence which followed Aunt Maria's startling announcement the words of advice and exhortation spoken by her father passed one by one through Darsie's brain.

"If you cannot have what you like, try to like what you have... Put yourself now and then in your aunt's place.—A sacrifice grudgingly performed is no sacrifice at all... What is worth doing at all, is worth doing well."

Each word condemned her afresh; she stood as judge before the tribunal of her own conscience, and the verdict was in every case the same. Guilty! She had not tried; she had not imagined; everything that she had done had been done with a grudge; the effort, the forbearance, the courtesy, had been all on the other side... There fell upon her a panic of shame and fear, a wild longing to begin again, and retrieve her mistakes. She couldn't, she could not be sent away and leave Aunt Maria uncheered, unhelped, harassed rather than helped, as the result of her visit.

"Oh, Aunt Maria," she cried breathlessly, "give me another chance! Don't, don't send me away! I'm sorry, I'm ashamed, I've behaved horribly, but, I want to stay. Give me another chance, and let me begin again! Honestly, truly, I'll be good, I'll do all that you want..."

Lady Hayes stared at her earnestly. There was no mistaking the sincerity of the eager voice, the wide, eloquent eyes, but the poor lady was plainly puzzled as to what had wrought so speedy a change of front. With her usual deliberation she waited for several moments before replying, studying the girl's face with serious eyes.

"My dear, don't imagine that I am thinking of sending you back in disgrace. Not at all. I will take all responsibility upon myself, and explain to your parents that I have come to the conclusion that it would be a mistake to prolong your visit. It has been very dull for you alone with an old woman, and I am sure that though you have not always succeeded, you have at least had the intention of making yourself pleasant and agreeable."

"No!" Darsie shook her bright head in vigorous denial. "I haven't! I can be fifty times nicer than that, when I really try. Let me stay, Aunt Maria, and you'll see... It's quite true that I was cross at first. I hated giving up the holiday with the Vernons, and there seemed nothing to do; but I've changed my mind. I didn't know you, you see, and now I do, and I—I would like you to be pleased with me before I go! Please, please, Aunt Maria, let me stay!"

"Certainly, my dear, I shall be most pleased." Lady Hayes still wore a somewhat puzzled expression, but she was undoubtedly gratified by the girl's appeal, and Darsie bent forward and kissed her cheek with the feeling of one who has narrowly escaped a great danger.

"That's settled, and now we are going to live happily ever after!"

"Ah, my dear, I am afraid that is too much to expect! I have no amusements to offer you to relieve the dullness. My health obliges me to live a quiet life, and I have grown to dread change. Of course, there are plenty of books to read—improving, well-written books, very different from the rubbish published to-day. If you would like to have a little reading aloud, or I could give you lessons in knitting and crochet..."

Darsie laughed, a bright, audacious laugh.

"I wouldn't like it a bit! I've another plan to suggest, fifty times nicer and more exciting. Suppose,"—she leaned her arms on the old lady's knee and looked gaily into her spectacled eyes—"suppose, instead of your trying to make me old with you, I tried, for a time, to make you young with me? Eh? What do you think? Wouldn't it be far more fun!"

"You ridiculous child!" But Lady Hayes laughed in her turn, and showed no signs of dismay. "That would be too difficult an undertaking even for you. To make me young again, ah, Darsie! that's an impossible task."

"Not a whit more impossible than to make me old!" cried Darsie quickly. "Suppose we took turns? That would be only fair. Your day first, when you would read aloud dull books with the blinds half down; and then my day, when I'd read funny ones, with the blinds drawn up to the top, and the sun streaming into the room; your day, when we drove the ordinary round and came back to lunch; and mine when we went away over the hill and took a picnic basket and drew up at the side of the road, and ate it, and got milk from a cottage and drank it out of cups without saucers! Your night, when we played Patience; and mine when I showed you tricks and danced figure dances as we do at school. I'm sure you'd like to see me dance the Highland fling! Now—now—promise! I know you'll promise. I can see the softening in your eye!"

"Ridiculous child!" protested Lady Hayes once more, but Darsie was right; there was certainly a softening in her eye which bespoke a disposition to yield. In truth it was not so much of Darsie as of herself that Lady Hayes was thinking at that moment, for as the young voice spoke the old heart quickened with quite an agreeable sense of expectation. Years since she had read a "funny book," years since she had partaken of a picnic meal; years—many, many years since she had looked on while a young girl danced! Radical changes and innovations in the routine of life she could not face at this late day, but Darsie's girlish plan attempted nothing so ambitious. Let the child have her way! It would be interesting, undoubtedly interesting, to see how she behaved.

So Darsie gained her point, and for the next week she and her hostess played in turn the part of Mistress of the Ceremonies, to their mutual benefit and satisfaction.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

A DANGEROUS ADVENTURE.

One of the privileges gained by the alliance between aunt and niece was that the former veto against bicycle riding was withdrawn, and that Darsie was set free each afternoon for an hour's enjoyment of this favourite exercise.

In deference to Lady Hayes's nervousness and sense of responsibility the high-road was avoided as much as possible, and detours taken through quiet lanes, where traffic was reduced to a minimum; and it was along one of these lanes that Darsie rode joyously some five or six days after her visit to the Percivals, bearing in her pocket a return invitation to her new friends. She had been longing to meet them again, had keenly regretted a domestic upset which had delayed the invitation until now, but all the same the last days had passed wonderfully quickly and happily. Afire with resolution to "begin again" and show herself in the light of a cheerful and cheering companion, she had neglected no opportunity to make herself agreeable to her hostess, while Aunt Maria in return had been sweetly considerate, and on occasions quite startling in her divination of hidden wishes and desires. The eyes behind the gold-rimmed spectacles would rest upon the girl's face with an intent scrutiny which seemed to have the power to draw free confidences, till to her own surprise Darsie found herself discussing fluently the all- important subject of her own future, and setting forth her hopes and fears in relation to a scholarship for Newnham. On this, as on almost every topic which came up for discussion, the old woman and the girl held almost diametrically opposite opinions, but so far Darsie had contrived to subdue her impatience, and to listen with some appearance of humility to Lady Hayes's somewhat sententious criticism.

"But I wonder if it can last!" she was asking herself doubtfully this afternoon, as she pedalled through the sweet-smelling lanes. "I wonder if I can possibly go on being so unnaturally good without falling ill from the strain! How I hope the Percival girls will be at home! If I can let off steam for an hour, and make as much noise as I like, it will be no end of a relief, and help me to last out without a relapse. I'd hate to have a relapse and spoil it all, just when I'm trying so hard; and she's really a dear, quite an old dear! I love to please her. Whenever I begin to feel scratchy I must make an excuse and get over to the Percivals for an hour to be soothed down. I do hope they are in to-day!"

But alas! the butler announced "Not at home," in reply to Darsie's inquiry, then, seeing the blank disappointment on the young face, he added graciously: "The young ladies are out for a ride. They will probably be home about four o'clock. Will you not step in and wait?"

Darsie brightened instantly. Four o'clock, and she had promised to be back by five. Yes, she could enjoy half an hour's talk, and still leave ample time for the ride home, but as it was now barely three o'clock she did not feel tempted by the prospect of sitting cooped in the house for so long a time.

"Thank you," she said briskly. "I should like to wait, but I think I'll stay in the garden. Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell them when they return."

The man bowed and withdrew, and Darsie strolled away in the direction of the rose pergola, the beauty of which had attracted her so greatly on her first visit. She wandered up and down the archways, sniffed at the fragrance of the late blooms which still remained, indulged in a little of the sentimental poetising which seems to flow so readily when one is "alone among the roses," began to grow bored, wandered aimlessly ahead, grew very bored indeed, and, consulting her watch, was dismayed to find that only fifteen minutes had passed away. Fifteen! and there still remained forty-five before her companions were likely to arrive! What could she find to do to while away a whole forty-five minutes? As a matter of prudence Darsie put the suggestion of the fruit garden resolutely aside. It would not be safe to put herself in proximity with those tempting strawberries, since on a second visit to a house one was, unfortunately, not on sufficiently intimate terms to take without being asked.