"Such a fine fellow! I can't think how the wretches managed to kill him without noise."

Mary stopped short and turned very white; she looked anxiously at Mrs Vallance, who was pouring out tea. Was it Squire Chelwood they had killed, or was it Hamlet? She did not dare to ask any questions.

"Is anything the matter, my dear child?" asked Mrs Vallance. "You look frightened, and so pale."

Mary murmured something about being tired, and crept into her place at the table.

"I never like those expeditions to Maskells," continued Mrs Vallance; "you all run about so wildly and excite yourselves so much."

"Morris says," said Mr Vallance, turning round from the window, "that all his finest pullets are gone, too, and some of his ducks."

Morris was the poultry-man at the White House.

"Do you hear that, Mary?" said Mrs Vallance. "Morris has just been down to tell your father that the poultry-yard was robbed yesterday."

"And your old enemy the great turkey gobbler was found dead on the ground," added Mr Vallance.

Mary breathed again. If it were only the turkey gobbler.

"Was anything else killed?" she asked in a trembling voice.

"How they managed it I can't think," repeated Mr Vallance; "and they appear to have got clear off with their spoil, there's no trace of them."

"Except the poor turkey gobbler," said Mrs Vallance.

"Did they get into the house?" Mary now ventured to ask.

"No, my dear, no; they were not so daring as that. This sort of tramps is not too fond of going where there are likely to be dogs and pistols."

"We must take warning by this, Mary," said Mrs Vallance, "and be careful about our fowl-house; it would not do to lose my cochin-chinas or your pretty white bantams in the same way."

"I don't suppose there's much fear of their attempting a second robbery in the same place," said Mr Vallance. "They're probably far enough away by this time; still, I'm sorry we've no dog now. Poor old Brutus! We miss him, don't we?"

While all this was going on Mary felt as guilty as if she had stolen the fowls and killed the turkey gobbler. She knew where the thieves were, safely hidden in the old house, and no doubt planning some other dreadful deed. If she could only have spoken! Her food tasted like dry chips in her mouth, she swallowed it with the utmost difficulty, and it was only by taking great gulps of tea that she could get on at all. Mrs Vallance noticed her disturbed looks.

"I think you ran about in the sun too much yesterday, Mary," she said at last. "I will send up to Fraulein and ask her to excuse your lessons this morning. You will be better for a quiet day at home with me."

Mary was relieved not to go to the White House, for she dreaded more questions from the children, but as to spending a "quiet" day at home, that was not possible. It never would be possible any more, she thought, for now she had to consider and contrive how to get her money to the appointed place at six o'clock that evening. She knew the spot well, it was only a little distance beyond the White House. Just where the four roads met there stood a sign-post; near this was a large old oak-tree, and at its foot a broad flat stone with a hollow under one side. It was there she had to put her money, but how to get it there without observation?

Her mind was so full of this as the day went on that everything else seemed like a sort of dream; she heard Mrs Vallance talking to her, and answered, but so absently that her mother looked at her in surprise. "She is certainly very much over-tired," she said to herself; "I always knew that Maskells was not a place for the children, and I shall tell Mrs Chelwood so."

Meanwhile the dreaded hour drew nearer and nearer, the bell was ringing for evening service, and Mr Vallance came out of his study and put on his wide-awake.

"Would you rather not go to church this evening, Mary?" said Mrs Vallance.

"My head aches," answered Mary. "If they will only go without me," she said to herself, "I can do it."

"Very well, darling," said kind Mrs Vallance; "I will stay with you, and we will go on with that nice book you like so much."

Mary's face became as red as it had been white a moment ago.

"Oh, no," she stammered; "I'd rather be alone. May I go and lie down on my bed until you come back?"

What a strange request from the ever-active Mary!

"Do as you like, dear," said Mrs Vallance, and as she left the house she added to her husband, "I hope the child's not going to be ill, she looks so dull, and flushes up so."

Mary listened until she heard the click of the garden gate, then she sprang up from her bed, wrapped all her money in a piece of paper and put it in her pocket. She looked at the clock, in five minutes they would be in church, then she would start, and if she ran all the way she would be in time.

Concealment was so new to her that she felt as though she were doing something very wicked as she ran quickly along the familiar road; she met no one, but every rustle in the hedge, every innocent sound, made her start and tremble, and when in the distance she saw the tall sign-post standing there with outstretched arms she shook with fear. She reached it; no one in sight; all the four roads silent and bare; and having hidden her packet tremblingly under the broad stone she turned to go, with guilty footsteps, when suddenly, from the tree above, there fell at her feet a small screwed-up piece of paper. She looked up; amongst the thick leafy branches in the very heart of the oak there was a freckled face peering down at her. It was the youth Bennie. She stood motionless with terror, staring at him, and he pointed at the piece of paper, making signs that she was to pick it up. As she stooped to do so there sounded in the distance the steady trot of a horse, and looking round the tree she saw, coming along the road from Dorminster, a sturdy grey cob with a broad-shouldered man on his back. Even at that distance Mary knew the cob and she knew the man. It was Squire Chelwood: Bennie's quick eye saw him too.

"Hide!" he said, in a low threatening voice, and pointed to a gap in the hedge opposite.

Mary's brain reeled. Should she stop Mr Chelwood and betray Bennie? But then the gypsies would claim her, she would belong to them, they would take her away. Anything was better than that. She jumped through the gap, and crouched down behind the hedge.

On came the squire, nearer and nearer, his square shoulders rising and falling with his horse's movement, his jolly brown face puckered with a frown of annoyance; no doubt he had been trying to find out the thieves. How strong he looked, how ready he would be to help her, how glad to know where Bennie was! Now he was passing close, close to her hiding-place; if she sprang out now she could stop him. But no, she could not; in another minute it was too late, the cob had turned briskly into the Wensdale Road, and the sound of his hoofs soon became faint in the distance.

She now saw Bennie slide nimbly to the ground, cast one quick glance round, and snatch the money from under the stone; then stooping low, he ran swiftly along under the hedge in the direction of Maskells, like some active wild animal, and disappeared.

Left alone, Mary also crept out of her hiding-place and took her way back to the vicarage as fast as she could. Humble and crest-fallen, how different to the Mary of two days ago, who had such lofty ambitions! How foolish now seemed those vain dreams and fancies! No "Lady Mary," but a gypsy child; it was a change indeed. She got home before service was over, threw herself on her little bed, and hid her face on her pillow. How unhappy she was! No one could help her, and yet she had many kind friends near, who would be so sorry for her if they knew. But they must not know, that was the worst part of it, she must bear this dreadful thing all alone. She had been fond once of having "a secret," a mystery she could share with Jackie only, and talk about in corners. What a different matter it was to have a real one to keep!

Presently she heard Mrs Vallance's step on the stairs; Mary felt that she could not answer any questions about her headache, so she shut her eyes and pretended to be asleep. When her kind mother bent over her and kissed her, how hard it was not to put her arms round her neck and tell her how miserable she was; but she must not, she must lie quite still, and soon she knew that Mrs Vallance was going softly out of the room. It grew gradually dusk; Mary got up and began to undress herself, she would not go down-stairs again that night, she would go to bed at once, she thought. As she put her hand into her pocket, she felt something there beside her handkerchief, and drew it quickly out. There was the dirty scrap of paper Bennie had thrown from the tree, and which she had quite forgotten. What did it mean? Was there anything inside it? With a thrill of fear she darted to the window, untwisted the paper, and by the dim light could just make out the following scrawl: "Leeve the en roost oppen nex Munday nite." Mary gazed at it with horror, unable for the first few minutes to take in the sense, but when she did so she sank down on the ground and burst into tears. What wicked, wicked people they were! Not content with taking all her money, they wanted to rob the hen-roost, to steal her pretty bantams and Mrs Vallance's splendid white cochin-chinas. It was too cruel. She clenched her fist passionately. "They sha'n't do it," she said to herself starting to her feet. "I will tell the squire; I will have them punished. They shall be put in prison."

Then another thought came, and she drooped her head mournfully. "If I do that they will claim me for their child. 'Not all the parsons and all the squires as ever was could prevent it,' Seraminta had said. What would happen then? I should have to go away from Wensdale, from father and mother, from Jackie, and all of them at the White House. They would all know that I belonged to thieves—not only to common, poor people, but to bad people. I should have to tramp about the country in dirty old clothes, and perhaps no shoes. Anything would be better. I would rather they stole all the chickens. Perhaps after that they will go away, and I shall never see them again."

She seized the scrap of paper and spelt it over a second time. Monday night—that was Jackie's birthday, a whole week off. Surely something might happen before then. The squire might find out the gypsies' hiding-place, and lock them up. Oh, if she might only give him the least little hint!

But she soon made up her mind firmly that she would risk nothing. She would do all they told her, she would leave the door unlocked, and help them to steal the chickens, and neither by word or look would she do anything to lead to their discovery. For she felt certain of what would follow if she did—disgrace, ragged clothes, and utter misery.

After many sorrowful thoughts of this kind she at last sobbed herself to sleep, and dreamed that she saw Perrin the gypsy man stealing stealthily out of the garden with a hen under each arm.

During the week that followed she felt as though she were dreaming still, though everything went on as usual with quiet regularity. She worked in her garden and fed her chickens, and went to the White House for her lessons with Fraulein. Outwardly it was all exactly the same, but within what a heavy heart she carried about with her! If she forgot her troubles for a few minutes in a merry game or a book, they all came back to her afterwards with double force. She belonged to gypsies; Monday they would steal the chickens; it was Jackie's birthday, and she could give him no present. Those three things weighed on her mind like lead and altered her in so many ways that everyone was puzzled. She was submissive at home and obedient to Fraulein at the White House, never even smiling at her funniest English words; she was ready to give up her own will and pleasure to the other children; and more than once Jackie had discovered her in tears—she was "proud Mary" no longer.

As the days went on it became almost impossible to be so unhappy without telling someone. Often, when she and Jackie were alone together, her heart was so full that the words were on the very tip of her tongue, but fear kept them back. It was a heart-rending thing just now to feed the chickens and to hear Mrs Vallance talk so unconsciously about them, and say how many eggs they laid. Only three more days and they would all be gone; the fowl-house would be empty, and there would be no white cock to waken her in the morning with his cheerful crow.

There seemed no chance now that the gypsies would be discovered, for the stir which the robbery had caused had quite quieted down. No other theft had been heard of, and the village people had ceased to talk about the affair, and settled their minds to the idea that the scamps had got off to some great distance. Only Mary knew better.

The Chelwood children did not let the matter drop so lightly. They had composed a game founded on the event, which they called "Robbers," and were much disappointed when Mary steadily refused to join them in it, for they had counted on her help in adding interesting details and finishing touches. She seemed, however, to shudder at the very idea.

"I believe Mary's afraid," said Patrick jeeringly; but even this taunt failed to rouse her. She took it quite quietly. What could be the matter with Mary?

"I shouldn't be a bit surprised," was Rice's remark, "if Miss Mary's sickening for something."

The days flew past. Saturday now, and Mary came down to breakfast in a state of dull despair.

"Mary, dear," said Mrs Vallance, smiling as she entered the room, "I have just made a plan for you that you will like. Your father is going to drive in to Dorminster, and you are to go with him and buy Jackie's present."

She waited for the look of delight which she felt sure of seeing, for she knew what Mary had set her heart on for Jackie—the squirrel out of Greenop's shop.

Poor Mary! Her thoughts flew to the empty post-office upstairs. Not a penny in it. No squirrel for Jackie, no drive to Dorminster for her. As she remembered what a jolly little squirrel it was, what bright eyes it had, what soft red-brown fur, and how Jackie would have liked it, her heart swelled. Now, she must go to his birthday party empty-handed, and it would have been the best present there.

With eyes full of tears and a scarlet flush on her cheeks she muttered very low:

"I've changed my mind. I don't want to buy the squirrel."

"You don't want the squirrel!" repeated Mrs Vallance in great surprise.

"N-no," stammered Mary, and she put her head suddenly down on the table and cried.

Mrs Vallance was much perplexed and very sorry for Mary's distress, for she knew how she had looked forward to giving the squirrel to Jackie. It was not like her to change her mind about such an important matter for any slight cause.

"I'm afraid you and Jackie have been quarrelling," she said, stroking Mary's hair gently; "but if I were you I should take this opportunity of making it up. Give him the squirrel and be friends, and then you'll be happy again."

How Mary wished she could! She made no answer, only sobbed more bitterly, and felt that she was the most miserable child in the world.

For now she had no longer any hope. Evidently nothing would happen to discover the gypsies and save the chickens. The days went on with cruel quickness, and Monday would be here in no time—a black Monday indeed.

Sunday morning came, and she sat with those thoughts in her mind by Mrs Vallance's side, and looked round at all the well-known objects in church with a half feeling that one of them might help her. They were such old friends. From the painted window opposite the twelve apostles in their gorgeous coloured robes had gazed seriously down at her every Sunday for the last five years. Much study of them during sermon time, though she always tried to attend, had made her quite familiar with their faces, and to-day she fancied that Peter would be the one she would choose to ask for advice and assistance. Turning from these her eye fell on another acquaintance of her earliest childhood—the life-size stone figure of a man. He lay in a niche in the chancel, peacefully at rest on his side, with closed eyes and one hand under his cheek. He had a short peaked beard and wore an enormous ruff; his face looked very grave and quiet—so quiet that it always filled Mary with a sort of awe. He had lain there for more than three hundred years, undisturbed by pain, or trouble, or joy. Would he be sorry for her, she wondered, if he knew how unhappy she was? But no—he would not mind— his calm face would not alter; "nothing matters any more," it seemed to say. There was no comfort for her there. With a sigh she turned a little to the right where the Chelwoods sat—the Squire and Mrs Chelwood in front, and Fraulein with the children behind. Restless Jackie, to whom it was torture to sit still so long, was not ready as usual to catch her eye, for he was following with breathless interest, which Patrick shared, the progress of a large black spider towards Fraulein's ungloved hand. Fraulein was very frightened of spiders, and there was every reason to hope that, when it touched her hand, she would give a great jump and shriek out "Himmel!"

Mary's glance wandered further, but suddenly it stopped short, for at last it was met and answered by another pair of eyes, dark and eager, with such longing earnestness in their gaze, that she felt as though she could not look away again. For a minute, which seemed a long, long time, she stared fixedly at them, and then began to wonder who it was that took so much interest in her. It was a tall woman of about thirty, who sat among the servants from the White House; a stranger, with nothing remarkable about her except the extreme plainness of her dress, and a certain hungry expression in her eyes. "I wonder who she is," thought Mary, "and why she stares at me like that."

She turned her head away again, and five minutes afterwards the service was over and the congregation clattering out of the church. As she stood in the porch waiting for the Chelwood children the strange woman came quickly up to her, and, bending down, said hurriedly:

"Might I ask, missie, what your name is?"

"My name's Mary Vallance," said Mary.

The woman shrank back, and the eager light died out of her eyes.

"Thank you, missie. I ask pardon," she murmured, and passing on went quickly down the churchyard to the gate.

What an odd woman! When the children were all walking together towards the vicarage they passed her, and Mary asked who she was.

"That?" said Agatha. "Oh, that's our new school-room maid."

"She only came yesterday," added Jennie. "She comes from Yorkshire. And what do you think? When Patrick first heard she was coming he said he was sure he shouldn't like her; and when Rice asked him why, he said, 'Because I hate Yorkshire pudding so.'"

"Well," said Patrick, "it's the only thing I know about Yorkshire."

"But you oughtn't to judge people by puddings," said Agatha reprovingly.

"Anyhow," returned Patrick, "she doesn't look nice—there's such a great big frown on her forehead. I expect she's cross."

"No, she's not cross," said Jackie, "she's sorry; mother told us all about it. She lost her child a long while ago. That's what makes her look grave. Mother says we ought to be very kind to her."

"Jennie and I shall have most to do with her," remarked the matter-of-fact Agatha, "because she's going to brush our hair instead of Rice."

They had now reached the vicarage gate, and Jackie lingered after the rest to have a few last words with Mary.

"You'll come early to-morrow afternoon, won't you?" he said, "because I want to show you my presents before the others come. I know what two of 'em are going to be. Jolly! Something you'll like as well."

Jackie cut a high caper of delight as he spoke, in spite of its being Sunday and Fraulein quite near. His pleasure in anything was always doubled if Mary could share it. That was so nice of Jackie. It made it all the more distressing at that moment to remember that she could give him no present to-morrow, besides the mortification of appearing mean and stingy to the other children. She began to think that it would be almost better to give up going to his birthday party. But what excuse could she make? Then another idea came to her. Was there anything among her own possessions that he would like to have? She ran them over in her mind. Books? Jackie hated books; it was only under strong pressure that he would ever open one, and she could not pretend to be ignorant of this. If only Jackie were a girl! Then she could give him her work-box, which was nearly new, or a doll, or a set of tea-things, but it was no use to think of that. Still pondering the matter she went upstairs into her own little room, and the moment she entered her eye fell on the little clog standing in the middle of the mantel-piece. The very thing! Jackie had often and often admired it, and though everyone would know that she had not spent any money in getting it, still it would be much much better than having nothing at all to give. She took it off the mantel-piece and polished it up with her pocket-handkerchief. Dear little clog, she would be sorry to part with it, and it would leave a great gap among the other ornaments, but still it must go—after all it would not go far, only to the White House. Thinking thus, and rubbing it meanwhile, she noticed for the first time that there were two letters faintly scratched on the wooden sole, "BM." Who was BM? "Perhaps that's my name," she thought; "but I don't want to know it if it is. I'd rather be Mary Vallance." And then the dark faces of Perrin and Seraminta came before her and she frowned. How hateful it was to belong to them! She, Mary Vallance, who had always been so proud and delicate in her ways, so vain of her white skin, and so sure, only the other day, that her people were rich and great. That was all over now; even Rice could not call her "Tossy" any more.

It was in a very humble and downcast spirit that she paid a farewell visit to the fowls on Monday afternoon, before starting for the White House. The white bantams had become very tame, and when they pecked the corn out of her hand it was almost too much to bear. It was the last time she should feed them! Angry tears filled her eyes as she thought how they would be stolen that night; she longed to punish the gypsy people, and yet she was powerless in their hands, and must even help them in their wickedness. Poor Mary! She was very unhappy, and surprised that nothing happened to prevent it. It seemed so hard and cruel. Nevertheless, every step she took that afternoon towards the White House was bringing her nearer to help and comfort, though she did not know it.

Jackie came running to meet her in the hall, arrayed in his best suit and best manners.

"Come along into the school-room," he said, "and see the presents."

While he was showing them to her, two little heads looked in at the open window from the garden. They were Patrick and Jennie.

"We've guessed what your present is, Mary," they both cried at once.

The twins were such tiresome children! If there was an uncomfortable thing to say, they always said it.

"I'm sure you haven't," answered Mary sharply.

"It comes from Dorminster," said Patrick grinning.

"And it begins with S," added Jennie.

"It lives in a cage," chimed in Patrick.

"And eats nuts," finished Jennie in a squeaky voice of triumph.

Their little eager tormenting faces came just above the window sill: Mary felt inclined to box their ears.

Jackie, who was a polite boy, pretended not to hear. He knew quite well that Mary had brought him a present, and he more than suspected what it was, but this was a most improper way to refer to it.

"Shut up, will you," he said, and just at that minute Agatha came into the room with some visitors. They had all brought presents, and Mary knew by the way Agatha stared at her that she was wondering where hers was. Perhaps it would be better to give the clog now, though she had intended to wait until she and Jackie were alone. She was drawing it out of her pocket when Fraulein, who had been admiring the various gifts and chattering away in broken English, said suddenly:

"And vair is Mary's present? It is zumzing ver pretty, ver nice, ver wot you call 'jollie,' I suppose. Zumzing better zan all, as she and Jean are so attach."

This speech changed Mary's intention. She was ashamed to produce the clog now. She drew her hand out of her pocket empty, gave a proud toss of the head, and said with crimson cheeks:

"I haven't brought anything."

There was silence in the room. Every eye was fixed upon her; it was the most cruel moment of her life. Even Jackie flushed hotly, turned away, and began to pull out all the blades of a new pocket-knife someone had given him.

How stupid it was of Fraulein not to let the matter drop, without saying anything more! Instead of this she held up her hands and exclaimed:

"Est-ce possible? Do I onderstand? Nozing? You have not brought nozing for Jean's jour de fete? But perhaps I do not onderstand?"

It was so irritating to see her standing there waiting for an answer, that Mary, never very patient, lost her temper completely.

"No, you don't understand. You never do," she said, and rushed out of the room into the garden. She ran quickly when she once got outside, for she felt that she could not get far enough away from the whole party in the school-room; from Fraulein with her stupid remarks, from the visitors who had all stared in surprise, even from Jackie who misunderstood. But it was natural, after all, that he should do that. How could he know she had brought anything for him? And now she had been rude to Fraulein, and made his party uncomfortable. She wondered presently whether they would come after her, and persuade her to go back; it would be unkind if they did not, and yet she would rather be alone just then. There was no one following her, and she thought she would go somewhere out of sight. The nut-walk would be best. So she turned into the kitchen-garden, and soon came to the nut-walk; the trees grew on each side of it with their branches meeting overhead, and in one of the biggest Jackie had contrived to fix a sort of perch made out of an old board. There was a convenient notch a little lower down, where you could place your feet, and it was considered a most comfortable seat, amply large enough for two. Mary was fond of sitting there, and now it seemed a sort of refuge in distress; she swung herself up into it, sat down, and leaned her bare head against the branches at the back. Through the thick leaves she could see a long way—all over the kitchen-garden, and a bit of the lawn near the house, and the brown roof of the stables, where the pigeons sat in a long row. When the children came out she should see them too, she thought, but she need not join them unless she liked. For some time the garden was very quiet, and she began to think that perhaps they meant to play indoors. That was not at all like Jackie, who always liked a game with a good deal of running in it, and besides, he must want to know where she was. It was rather dull, after all, to sit there alone, while the others were enjoying themselves. Should she go a little nearer the house? Just as she thought this, she was startled by a distinct cry of "Whoop!" which seemed to come from the walk below. She peeped down through the leaves. There was Jackie crouching in a frog-like attitude behind a tree, with his limbs gathered into the smallest possible compass. The rustling made him look up, and he held out his hand with all the fingers outstretched, and a sudden grimace which meant "Don't speak." They were playing hide-and-seek.

Mary knew better than to spoil the game, but she gave a beseeching glance at him, and beckoned. Jackie shook his head; evidently his feelings were hurt, and he did not mean to be friends just yet. Mary was in despair. How could she manage to speak to him? Perhaps this was her only chance of doing so alone. From her perch she could see the pursuers scouring wildly about in a wrong direction at present, but soon they could not fail to search the nut-walk, and then it would be too late. She took the little clog from her pocket, cautiously descended the tree, and creeping up to Jackie, placed the parcel noiselessly at his side. It was neatly folded in white paper, and had his name written on it in elegant fancy letters. Jackie turned his head and saw the inscription:

"For Jackie, with Mary's love."

His screwed-up mouth widened into a grin, he picked it up, turned it round and round, and at last whispered hoarsely:

"Why didn't you give it before?"

"Because of Fraulein," answered Mary in the same tone; "they're a long way off. Come up into the tree."

Both children were soon tightly wedged into the nut-tree seat, and Jackie at once began to examine his package; watching his face, Mary could see that he was surprised when the clog appeared, though he tried to hide it by another grin.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"It's the only thing I had," explained Mary hurriedly. "I meant to give you such a nice thing. I saved my money, and I had enough. You would have liked it so—" She stopped and sobbed a little under her breath.

Jackie said nothing. He was evidently wondering why she had not given him this nice thing. The reason was such a dreadful reason, and it was so hard not to be able to explain it all to him, that Mary could not keep back her tears: she bit her lip, and screwed up her face, but it was useless, they would come, so she leant her forehead against Jackie's velveteen shoulder, and cried in good earnest, without saying another word. Jackie was both startled and uncomfortable; the tree quite shook with the violence of Mary's sobs, and her long hair got into his eyes and tickled his face as he sat, screwed up close to her in the narrow perch. He did not mind that, but he was very sorry indeed to see her so unhappy, and could not think how to comfort her. Lately he had seen her cry several times, but never as badly as this. What could be the matter? With some difficulty he tugged out of his pocket a small handkerchief, which by a lucky chance was perfectly clean, and, raising her face a little, dabbed her eyes softly with it.

"Don't," he whispered. "I like the shoe awfully—much better than the other thing you were going to give me. Don't cry."

But Mary cried on.

"You don't surely mind what that owl of a Fraulein said, do you?" continued Jackie.

"N-no," said Mary.

"What are you crying for, then?"

If she could only tell him!

"Is it anything about the Secret?" asked Jackie.

No answer.

"I expect it is," he went on in an excited whisper. "But you ought to tell me, you know, however horrid it is. Is it horrid?"

Mary nodded. There was comfort even in that, though she must not say anything.

Jackie leant eagerly forward. Splash! Fell a great rain-drop on the tip of his nose, and a pelting shower quickly followed. Patter, patter, fell the fast-falling rain on the leaves above the children's heads, sprinkling Mary's yellow hair and Jackie's best velveteen suit.

"We must go in," he said; "all the others have gone. Won't you just tell me first?"

"I can't tell you," said Mary mournfully. "And I don't want to go in. I should like to stop here always."

"Well, you couldn't do that, you know," said Jackie gravely. "There's no roof, and you'd get wet through, and hungry too. Come along."

He gave her hand a gentle pull, and prepared to descend. As he cautiously lowered one leg, a woman with a shawl over her head came running down the nut-walk; it was Maggie, the new school-room maid.

"Why, there you are, Master Jackie," she said; "we've been looking everywhere for you. You're to come in out of the rain this minute, please. And have you seen Miss Mary? Marcy me, my dear, where did you get yon?"

She pointed excitedly to the little shoe which Jackie still held.

"Mary gave it me," he answered.

Without further ceremony this strange woman seized the shoe from him, and with trembling hands turned it over and looked closely at the wooden sole. Then she clasped it to her breast, and with a sudden light in her eyes exclaimed:

"I knew it. I felt it was her. Heaven be praised!" and before Jackie had at all regained his breath, she had rushed away down the nut-walk, and was out of sight.

Mary, who had remained unseen, looked down from the tree.

"Isn't she an odd woman?" she said. "Do you think she's mad? Or perhaps those are Yorkshire ways."

"If they are," replied Jackie much ruffled and discomposed, "I don't like Yorkshire ways at all. What business has she to cut away like that with my shoe?"

There was something mysterious altogether about Maggie's behaviour, for when the children reached the house they found that the others were full of excitement and curiosity. She had been seen to rush wildly in from the garden with the little shoe hugged to her breast, and now she had been talking to mother alone for a long while. But soon tea-time came, all manner of games followed, and the school-room maid was forgotten in more interesting matters. Even Mary was able to put away her troubles for a little while, and almost to enjoy herself as she had been used before they began. She was to stop at the White House that night, because it was still wet and stormy, so she resolved not to think of the chickens or Perrin or Seraminta just for that one evening. It would be time enough to be miserable again when morning came.

Everything went on merrily until Jackie's guests were all gone away.

"What shall we do now?" he said, yawning a little, for there was still an hour to be filled up before bed-time. Just as he spoke Mrs Chelwood came into the school-room.

"Children," she said, "would you like me to tell you a story?"

Nothing could possibly be better, and the offer came at the right moment when things were feeling a little flat; the children received it joyfully, and gathered round their mother eagerly, and yet with a certain seriousness, for it was an honour as well as a delight to have a story from her—it happened so seldom.

"This is a story," began Mrs Chelwood when they were all settled, "which I have only just heard myself, and it is a true one. It has something to do with one of Jackie's presents to-day."

"I wonder which?" said Jackie, rubbing his knees.

"You shall hear," said his mother. "Now, listen.

"Once there was a poor mother who lived far away from here in the north of England, and worked in a factory. She had only one child, which she loved so fondly that it was more than all the world to her, and though she had to work very hard all day, it seemed quite light and easy for the child's sake."

"Why didn't the father work?" asked Agatha.

"The father was dead."

"Was it a boy or a girl?" asked Patrick.

"And what was its name?" added Jennie.

"It was a little girl," said Mrs Chelwood, "and she was called Betty."

"But Betty isn't a name," objected Agatha, "it's short for something."

"In the north it is used as a name by itself," replied Mrs Chelwood; "many of the children there are christened Betty, and so was this little girl, though she was very seldom called so."

"Why?" asked Mary.

"Because the people in the village had given her a nickname. They called her 'Little Clogs.'"

"What a frightful name to give her!" said Agatha. "What did they do it for?"

"Because she was so proud of a tiny pair of shoes which someone had made for her. They were exactly like that one Mary gave Jackie, and they are properly called 'clogs.'"

"They're not a bit like the clogs Mrs Moser, the charwoman, wears," said Agatha.

"If you interrupt me so often I shall never finish my story," said her mother. "Well, this poor mother couldn't take her child with her into the factory, so she used to leave her with a friend close by, and fetch her after her work. But one evening when she went as usual there was no baby to be found—she was gone!"

"Where?" said Mary.

"No one knew. She had been stolen away, or lost, and on the door-step, where she had been playing, there was one little clog left."

"Who had stolen her?" asked Mary anxiously.

"They heard later that a fair-skinned child had been seen with gypsies on the road to London, but that was not till long afterwards. For years the mother heard no news of her, and wandered up and down the country with the one little clog in her hand seeking her: she felt sure she should know her again, though all this time the child was growing up, and was a baby no longer. But the mother never quite despaired, and she had a feeling that somehow the little clog would help her in her search: on its wooden sole, as well as on that of the lost one, she had scratched two letters—BM.

"So the time went on and on. It was seven long years after she had lost her child that the mother heard of a situation in a place called Wensdale, and went there to live. Now you can tell me the mother's name."

"Why, of course, it must be Maggie," said Jackie, who had been staring fixedly at Mary for the last two minutes with his mouth wide open; "and that's why she caught hold of my shoe and—"

"Let me finish the story," said Mrs Chelwood, "and then you shall talk about it as much as you like. In this very place there was a little girl living at the vicarage who had been left in the garden there by gypsies seven years ago. She had a funny little shoe with her when she was found, and had kept it ever since; and now, perhaps, you know who that little girl is."

"It's me!" cried Mary, starting up—"it's my shoe—and I saw the letters—and I don't belong to the gypsies after all, and—"

"My dear," said the squire, putting his head in at the door, "I'm too muddy to come in, but you'll all be glad to hear that we've caught those rascals and they're all in Dorminster jail."

Mrs Chelwood hurried out of the room, and the children all began to talk at once, to ask questions, to exclaim, to wonder if the gypsies would be hanged, and so on. Presently, however, it was found that Mary had strange and dreadful experiences to relate. A silence fell upon the others until she had finished, and then they looked at her with a sort of awe.

"So our chickens won't be stolen," she repeated, "and that dreadful Seraminta can't take me away."

"It's a tremendously puzzling thing though," said Jackie reflectively; "here you've got two mothers, you see, and two names. How will you manage, and where will you live?"

"She's only got one real mother," cried Patrick.

"And one real name," said Jennie.

"And shall you mind," continued Jackie seriously, "about not being grand? You're not Lady anything, you see, but just 'Betty.'"

"I don't want to be grand any more," said Mary earnestly, "and I don't mind anything else one bit, now I don't belong to the gypsies."

"How glad your last mother—no, I mean your first mother—must be," said Agatha, "that someone made you that Pair of Clogs."

This was only one of many and many a conversation amongst the children on the same subject during several following weeks. And what a wonderful subject it was! Surely never had such a strange thing happened in a quiet village as this discovery of Mary's mother, and as to Mary herself, she was now surrounded by an air of romance which was more interesting than any story-book. If she could only have remembered a little about that time she passed with the gypsies! But none of Jackie's earnest appeals to "try hard" produced any results, for all that part of her life was wiped as clean out of her memory as when one washes marks off a slate with a sponge. It was all gone, and when she looked back it was not Seraminta and Perrin and the donkey-cart she saw, but the kind faces of Mr and Mrs Vallance and her happy, pleasant home at the vicarage. And yet, though her earliest recollections were of these, she did not in truth belong to them; they were not her people, and sunny Wensdale was not her place; Maggie was her mother, and cold, grey Haworth on the hillside was her real home. It was, as Jackie had said, a most puzzling thing, and the important question arose—would Mary have to go away? It was wildly irritating to be shut out from all the talks and conferences which were always going on now between Mary's two mothers and Mrs Chelwood. The children felt that it was more their concern than anyone's, but they were told nothing, and the air of the school-room was so full of excitement and curiosity that Fraulein was in despair. The slightest noises in the house during lesson time now seemed to carry deep meaning—perhaps only a bell ringing, or some one shutting the door of mother's sitting-room, but it was enough to make Jackie put down his slate-pencil and look at Mary with an awestruck and impressive gaze. She would give an answering nod of intelligence, and Patrick and Jennie, not to be left out in the cold, would at once begin to nod rapidly at each other, as much as to say, "We understand too." It was only Agatha who took her placid way undisturbed. But the day came when, matters being at last arranged, the children were told all about it, and this is what they heard:

Mary was to spend a year with her real mother at Haworth, and a year with Mrs Vallance at Wensdale, alternately, until she was eighteen years old. On her eighteenth birthday she might choose at which of these two homes she would live altogether.

"If you could choose," Jackie had once said to her in jest, "whose daughter would you be?"

And now, in years to come, the choice would really have to be made—the choice between Haworth and Wensdale, hard work and idleness, poverty and riches. Which would it be?

"Of course," was Jackie's first remark, "you'll choose Wensdale, won't you?"

But so many strange things had happened lately to Mary that she did not just now feel as if anything was "of course."



STORY TWO, CHAPTER 1.

BUZLEY'S COURT.

"It's a terr'ble lonesome part from what I hear tell. Miles from the rail, and the house don't stand as it might be in the village street, but by itself in the fields. Mrs Roy—that's the Reverend Roy's wife— was very straight with me about it. 'If you think, Mrs Lane,' says she, 'that your daughter'll find the place too dull and far away I'd rather you'd say so at once, and I'll look out for another girl. It's not at all like London,' says she, 'and I make no doubt Biddy will feel strange at first.'"

Mrs Lane wielded a large Britannia metal teapot as she spoke, kept an eye on the sympathetic neighbour sitting opposite at the tea-table, and also contrived to cast a side glance at Biddy, who stood at the fire making toast and listening to the conversation. She had heard her mother say much the same thing a great many times since it had been settled that she was to go to Wavebury and take care of Mrs Roy's baby, and she was now quite used to hearing that it was a "lonesome" place, though she did not know what it meant. At any rate it must be something impossible to get at Number 6 Buzley's Court, Whitechapel, where she had lived all the thirteen years of her life. Perhaps she might find it pleasant to be "lonesome," she thought, and yet her mother always added the word "terr'ble" to it, as if it were a thing generally to be disliked.

Meanwhile the conversation went on:

"And she goes to-morrow, then?" said Mrs Jones. "Now I dessay it's a fairish long journey by rail?"

"We've got all directions wrote out clear, by the Reverend Roy hisself," answered Mrs Lane proudly. "Biddy, reach me that letter out of the chany jug on the shelf."

Receiving it, she flattened it carefully out on the table with the palm of her hand before the admiring eyes of Mrs Jones, and, pointing to each word, read out slowly and loudly the directions for Biddy's journey.

"She gets out, yer see, at Canley station. That's as far as the rail goes. There she'll be met and druv over to Wavebury—eight miles, Mrs Roy said."

"Dear!" exclaimed Mrs Jones, as the letter was folded up again, "what a outlandish place!"

"We've worked hard, Biddy and me," continued Mrs Lane with a glance of pride at her daughter and a little sigh, "to get all her things nice and ready. Two new dark laylock prints I've got her."

"With a spot?" inquired Mrs Jones full of interest.

"No, with a sprig—I always think there's an air about a laylock print with a sprig. It looks respectable and like service. I don't hold with them new-patterned bright cottons. Once in the wash-tub, and where are they afterwards? Poor ragged-out things not fit to wear. I remember I had laylock prints when I first went to service as a gal, and there's bits of them very gowns in the patch-work quilt yonder."

"Ah!" said Mrs Jones admiringly. Then looking at Biddy's capable little square figure she added, "You'll miss her at first a goodish bit at home."

"If it wasn't that baby's out of hand now and runnin' about I couldn't let her go, not if it was ever so," replied Mrs Lane emphatically. "But I shall rub along somehow, and seven pounds a year's a consideration. Yes, she's a handy gal, Biddy is, with children. She had ought t'know summat about 'em, for she's helped to bring six of 'em up. There was Stevie—a deal of trouble we had with him. Always weakly, and cut his teeth in his legs. Never out of arms, that child wasn't, till he was pretty nigh two year old. I never should a' reared him if it hadn't been for Biddy. That I own."

On the subject of Stevie's sufferings Mrs Lane had always a great deal to say, and when she paused, less from lack of matter than want of breath, Mrs Jones took up the tale and added experiences of a like nature. Biddy therefore heard no further reference to herself and her prospects, and pursued her own thoughts undisturbed. And she had a great deal to think of, for to-morrow she was going into the world! She would say good-bye to Buzley's Court and to all the things and people in it she had known and lived with, and turn her face to meet new things and new people. Nothing would be familiar to her in that strange world, not even tea-cups with blue rims like these she was washing up for the last time. Everything new, down to the two lilac prints, made longer than ever before, lying at the bottom of the new black box. It was wonderful to think of, and very confusing to the mind. There would even be a new baby to look after. But when Biddy reached this point she smiled securely, for she had no fears about the baby, though Mrs Roy had looked so doubtfully at her and said that she was small. Small! What had that to do with it? Biddy felt in herself a large capacity for handling babies. Had she not brought Stevie through teething attended with alarming complications? She was not likely to think much of Mrs Roy's baby after that.

And indeed Biddy was one of those people who seem formed by nature in body and mind on purpose to be nurses. The babies were comfortable in her strong capable arms, and their little woes and troubles were quieted and soothed by her patient placid temper. Then, too, she had, as her mother had said, a great deal of experience, for though she was only thirteen years old now, she had always, ever since she could remember anything, had a baby on her mind. A baby had always been the chief circumstance in her life from the time when she was too small to do anything but keep watch by its cradle, to that when she learnt her lessons for school with a baby in her arms. In her play-hours, when the children of Buzley's Court gathered to enjoy themselves after their own manner in the summer evenings, Biddy looked on from the door-step—with the baby. By the time baby number one was beginning to stagger about, and seize upon knives and scissors and other dangerous playthings, baby number two—pink and incapable—was ready for Biddy's closest attention. Life, therefore, without a baby on hand would have seemed to her unnatural and even impossible; and the baby at Wavebury, instead of something to be dreaded, was the only idea her mind rested on with the confidence of long familiarity.

"For babies," she thought, "are pretty much alike. There's fat ones and there's thin ones. The fat ones don't cry so much, and the thin ones do, and that's about the only way they differ."

That night was a very short one to Biddy, and it seemed to her that she was still asleep and dreaming as she and her mother hurried along the cold grey streets in the early morning. Even when they reached the station, much too soon for the train, she could hardly take in the sense of all her mother was repeating to her so earnestly, though she heard the words.

Not to lean against the door, not to lose her ticket, not to forget her box, or the name of the station she was going to. Finally, to be a good gal and mind her work, and remember to say her prayers, and to give Mrs Lane's dooty to her mistress. All of which she promised, and presently found herself seated in a third-class carriage clasping in one hand her cotton umbrella, and in the other a small shiny black bag which Mrs Lane called a "ridicule." Then, when she saw her mother standing alone on the platform, she began to wake up and to feel that it was no dream or anything like one. She was really setting forth by herself for a "lonesome" place where there would be no mother. Mother had scolded sometimes, and said sharp things on washing days, but she was fond of Biddy, and proud of her too, and Biddy knew it; the tears rose to her eyes as the train moved away, and as long as she could she waved the "ridicule" in answer to mother's energetic farewells with her umbrella. But soon, the train quickening its pace, the familiar figure was lost to sight—checked shawl, best black bonnet, gingham umbrella, all vanished, and Biddy was alone, whirling along rapidly towards strange places and people.

Then, for one minute, she felt she must "give way," but not having been used to such a luxury in Buzley's Court, where there was never a moment to spare, she thought better of it, winked back the tears, and sat very upright.

Soon there were plenty of surprising things to be seen out of the window, and first the exceeding greenness of the landscape struck her with astonishment, although it was November and the trees were bare. Then, as she got further into the country, she wondered to see so few houses. "Where does the folks bide?" she said to herself. It seemed an empty sort of place, with nothing going on, and Mrs Roy had been quite right when she had said, "The country's not at all like London." Biddy's round brown eyes were still staring out of the window with a fixed expression of surprise when the short winter day began to close in, and a misty gloom spread over the fields and hills as they seemed to chase each other hurriedly past. But though she still tried to look out, and sat stiffly upright in her corner, her head nodded forward now and then, and the whirr and rattle of the train sounded with a sort of sing-song in her weary ears. She struggled to keep awake, but her eyelids seemed pressed down by some determined hand, and at last she gave it up and let them remain closed. After that she was conscious of nothing till she heard a shout of "Canley station!" quite near her, and she jumped up with a start and saw a porter holding the carriage door open; the light of his lantern shone on the wet pavement, but everywhere else it was quite dark and raining fast.

"Oh, please," said Biddy, "I'm to get out; and is there anyone here from Wavebury?"

She had repeated this sentence so often to herself that it came out now without the least effort.

"All right!" said the porter good-naturedly, "you come alonger me;" and he helped Biddy out and opened her umbrella for her, and asked if she had any luggage. Then diving into the van he reappeared with the precious black box on his shoulder, and led the way along the dripping platform.

"There's a gen'leman waiting for yer," he said.

Outside the little station there was a flickering gas-lamp, and by its light Biddy saw a farmer's spring-cart standing in the road with a small rough pony harnessed to it; in it there sat a young man very much muffled up in a number of cloaks—he wore a wide-awake pulled well down over his face, and was smoking a pipe. "Can it be the Reverend Roy?" thought Biddy.

But she had not time to wonder long, for he turned quickly towards her.

"Are you the little girl for Truslow Manor?" he asked; and then continued, speaking so rapidly that there was no answer needed:

"All right—here you are—give me your hand. Rather a high step. Take care. Capital!" as Biddy struggled up with the porter's help, and arrived, umbrella and all, flat at the driver's feet in the bottom of the cart.

"Now, then," he went on, having picked her up and placed her on the narrow seat at his side, "put this on, and this, and this."

He plunged into the back of the cart and produced numerous shawls and wraps, which he threw upon the breathless Biddy, talking all the while.

"You'll find it fresh up on the downs. Where's your box? In at the back? All right! Then off we go!"

Biddy was quite confused and "put about" by this impetuous behaviour, and she had just made up her mind that this was not the Reverend Roy, when her ideas were upset by the porter, who called out, "Good-night, Mr Roy!" as they drove away. Parsons in the country were, then, different from those in London, like everything else. It was surprising to find them so "short and free in their ways."

To her relief he did not speak to her again, but puffed away at his pipe in silence while they crawled slowly up a long hill leading out of the town. But this quiet pace did not last, for, the road becoming level, the pony took to a kind of amble which seemed its natural pace, and was soon urged from that into a gallop by its driver. Rattle, rattle, bump! Went the little cart over the rough road; and Biddy, feeling that she must otherwise be tossed out like a nine-pin, clung desperately to her new master's many wrappings. The Reverend Roy drove very wild, she thought, and how dark it was! She could just dimly see on either side of her, as they bounded along, wide open country stretching far away in the distance; great gently swelling downs were lying there in the mysterious darkness, and all the winds of heaven seemed to have met above them to fight together. How it blew! And yet it managed to rain too at the same time. The wind battled with Biddy's umbrella, and tugged madly at her bonnet strings, and buffeted Mr Roy's wide-awake, and screamed exultingly as it blew out his pipe!

"Fresh up here, isn't it?" he remarked as he took it out of his mouth.

Fresh! Biddy had never felt so cold in her life, and could not have thought there had been so much fresh air in the whole world put together.

On they went, swinging up and down until her brain reeled; on, on, through the rain and whistling wind, over the lonely downs, while she strained her eyes in vain for sight or sound of a living creature. If this was what they meant by a "lonesome" place it was "terr'ble" indeed.

Hours seemed to pass in this way, and then the pony slackened its pace a little. Biddy peered from under the edge of the umbrella and could now make out that they were in a sort of lane, for instead of open country there was a hedge on each side of the road. They must be near Wavebury now, she thought, though she could see no houses or lights or people; her fingers were cramped and cold, and she could not cling on much longer either to her umbrella or Mr Roy's cloak. But suddenly the pony was checked to a walk, the cart ceased to jump up and down so wildly, and she was able to relax her hold, with a deep sigh of relief.

"It's an awkward bit just here," said Mr Roy, "for they've been felling a tree, and left pieces of it lying about in the road."

In front of them was a white gate which stood open and led into what looked like a farmyard, for there were sheds and outbuildings round it and straw scattered about. Through this they drove, jolting over a good many rough obstacles and then through another gate and stopped. They had arrived at last, and this was Truslow Manor. All Biddy could see, however, was a deep stone porch, with a seat on each side of it like the entrance to a church, and then a massive oak door, with heavy hinges and a great brass knocker. There was no light anywhere; but presently, as Biddy, stiff with cold, was preparing to unwind her many wrappings, the door swung slowly back, and a little figure appeared with a lamp in its hand. By its faint glimmer she recognised her new mistress, Mrs Roy, whom she had already seen in London.

"Oh, Richard," said a plaintive voice, "how glad I am you're back! Is the girl there?"

"Here we are," answered Mr Roy cheerfully, as he helped Biddy to climb out of the cart.

"It's an awful night. How's the baby?"

"I don't think she's worse, but the spots are still there, and Mr Smith hasn't been. Come in, Biddy."

Following her mistress Biddy found herself in a narrow stone passage, and caught through an open door to the left a glimpse of a panelled room lighted up by a great glowing wood fire. It looked splendidly comfortable after the cold dreariness outside. Mrs Roy opened another door at the end of the passage.

"Mrs Shivers," she said to some invisible person within, "here's Biddy Lane. Please, give her some tea, and let her get warm, and then send her to me in the drawing-room."

The door closed on Biddy, and Mrs Roy returned to the panelled room, where her husband, having emerged from his wet wrappings, was spreading his hands over the blaze and shivering.

"Well, Richard," she said earnestly, "what do you think of her?"

"Of whom?" asked Richard.

"Why, of the girl."

"Well, I think, judging by myself, she must be cold and hungry."

"She's very small," continued Mrs Roy, sitting down in a low chair and glancing thoughtfully at the cradle which stood near it—"smaller than I thought."

"Who? The baby?"

"No. Of course, I mean the girl. I wish you wouldn't joke, Richard, when you know how anxious I am."

"I didn't mean to, really," said Mr Roy penitently, as his wife looked up at him with distressed blue eyes. "Only, as you always call the baby 'She,' how was I to know? As to being small, you know—well, the last girl was big enough, I'm sure."

"And stupid enough," added Mrs Roy sadly. "I couldn't have kept her, even if she hadn't insisted on going away."

"I suppose you've cautioned Mrs Shivers not to gossip to this girl?" said Mr Roy in lowered tones.

"Oh, yes, indeed," answered his wife, casting a nervous glance round the room. "She won't hear anything about that. And I do hope, if she's handy with the baby, that she'll stay. It would be such a comfort. Only I wish she wasn't so small."

At this moment the door opened, and, after some hoarsely encouraging whispers from Mrs Shivers, who remained unseen, the small form of Biddy herself appeared. She had put on a white apron and a large cap; there was a great deal of cap and apron and very little of Biddy, and being nervous, she stood with her arms hanging forward in rather a helpless way which did not impress Mrs Roy favourably. Fortunately for Biddy, however, the baby, wakened just then by the noise of the door, began to cry, and its mother stooped over the cradle and lifted the child in her arms. Biddy's shyness vanished. The cry of a baby was to her as the sound of trumpets is to a war-horse. She advanced eagerly and stood close to her mistress.

"The baby's not at all well to-night," said Mrs Roy appealingly. "She's covered with tiny red spots, and so feverish. I'm expecting the doctor every minute."

Biddy came still nearer, and examined the small face attentively.

"Lor'! Mum," she exclaimed triumphantly, "you've no call to mind about that. That's only thrush, that is. Three of ourn had it, and did beautiful. She's bound to be a bit fretful, but she won't come to no harm, so long as you keep her warm."

The confidence with which Biddy spoke, and the manner in which she shortly afterwards took the baby in her arms, and soothed it to sleep with a proper rocking movement of one foot, comforted Mrs Roy immensely. And when the doctor came he confirmed Biddy's opinion. It was thrush. After that Mrs Roy went to bed happier in her mind than she had been for weeks. Though small, her new nurse-maid would evidently prove a support and a treasure; the only thing to be questioned now was—would she stay?



STORY TWO, CHAPTER 2.

TRUSLOW MANOR.

Truslow Manor, where the curate and his wife lived, and Biddy had come to take care of the baby, had belonged in days gone by to the ancient family of Truslow.

There were no Truslows in Wavebury now, but traces of them were still left there, for in the church there was not only an antiquely carved pew called the "Truslow Pew," but also a tablet in the chancel bearing the date 1593, which set forth the virtues of a certain John Truslow in the following terms:—

"The body of John Truslow here doth rest, Who, dying, did his soule to Heaven bequest. The race he lived here on earth was threescore years and seven, Deceased in Aprill, '93, and then was prest to Heaven. His faith in Christ most steadfastly was set, In 'sured Hope to satisfy His debt. A lively Theme to take example by, Condemning Deth in Hope a Saint to dye."

Notwithstanding this the people of Wavebury did not hold the memory of the Truslows in much veneration; they had been "a bad lot," it was rumoured, and the old manor-house, which still bore their name, was looked on with suspicion as a place which had possibly witnessed many a deed of darkness. But the days both of its wickedness and grandeur were now over, and it stood in the fields with a forlorn and deserted air, although its mullioned windows and panelled rooms and tall chimneys gave it a look of decayed dignity. One wing of it, however, had completely disappeared; at the back, which was near the road, it was hemmed in by mean sheds and outbuildings, and the front was approached, not by a stately avenue, but by a little wicket gate leading through a field without a footpath. Small and needy farmers had been its only tenants for years, but when Mr and Mrs Roy came to Wavebury they took a fancy to the old house, and arranged to hire five rooms in it. Terms being satisfactorily settled with Mr Shivers, their landlord, who with his wife continued to occupy the other part of the house, they took up their abode with much comfort and contentment, and, when Biddy arrived, had been living there for nearly two years. They were fond of Truslow Manor, and found only one little drawback to it, which, they were accustomed to say to each other, was hardly worth mentioning; for the present, therefore, we will not mention it either.

Biddy looked out of her window with some curiosity the morning after her arrival; she wondered what she should see by daylight. Not much, but everything was in startling contrast to Buzley's Court. A field, a row of tall elms growing at the end of it, which cut off any further view; a flock of geese, a flock of turkeys, a little black donkey, a foal, and a rough pony—that was all. She afterwards discovered that there was a gate at the end of the field, and that a little sluggish river, called the Kennet, flowed along under the row of elms; a narrow footway crossed this, and led directly through the churchyard into the village, or if you liked to turn to the left, it brought you at last into the high-road at the back of Truslow Manor. In dark evenings this way into the village was not without its perils, for an unwary traveller might easily step over the edge of the path as he crossed the river and find himself in its muddy bed.

Biddy soon knew this way to church very well; and amongst the many strange customs at Wavebury, she thought it curious that there should be two services every day, though the congregation was seldom more than two or three in number.

"Whenever you like to go to church, Biddy," said her mistress, "I will always take the baby."

So Biddy went sometimes, though she never ceased to wonder why the prayers should be read when there was scarcely anyone to listen to them. Once, indeed, there were only herself and Mr Roy in the church, and as they walked home together after the service she felt obliged to apologise.

"Please, sir," she said, hurriedly drooping one knee as she walked, "I'm sorry you had to read all them long prayers jest for me."

Whereupon Mr Roy tried to make her understand why he should still have read them, whether she had been there or not. Biddy did not feel very clear about it at the end of the explanation, though she was conscious that he "talked very kind," and she fell back on the thought that after all it was the country, and quite different from London.

But this difference was "borne in upon her" most strongly of all when she went for the first time to the downs which closely surrounded Wavebury. Passing up the long straggling village with its thatched cottages, she came suddenly on them stretching away in the distance, pathless, and, as far as she could see, endless. Then she stood bewildered. Such lots of space everywhere; so much sky over her head; such a great green carpet under her feet, spread over the gentle rising and falling of the hills. All green, except for the scattered flocks of sheep, and the cairns of grey stones, and the groups of stunted thorn trees, bent and twisted and worried by the wind into a thousand odd shapes.

Looking back towards the village, where part of the land had been cultivated, she could see the oxen ploughing, their horned heads clearly outlined against the sky, and—stranger sight still—long rows of women in flapping sun-bonnets bending patiently to their labour in the fields. Beyond these, a little collection of thatched roofs, and grey church, and yellow stacks, made up the village of Wavebury; after that, downs again as far as the eye could reach.

It was, indeed, a "lonesome" place, and there was something "terr'ble" in its solitude compared to the comfortable closeness and crowding chimneys of Buzley's Court; but, fortunately for Biddy, her busy life at Truslow Manor did not leave much leisure for dwelling upon this. As time went on she and her mistress, drawn together by one common interest, became really attached to each other; the baby's crumpled red hand, which could just hold one of Biddy's fingers, kept her a willing prisoner in its feeble yet mighty grasp, and all went on well. For Mrs Roy was not disappointed in her hope of finding her little nurse a support and comfort, and valued her opinion highly with regard to the baby's ailments; true, it was sometimes rather irksome and annoying to hear so often that "our" Johnnie, or "Julia," or "Stevie" had cut their teeth and felt their legs exactly in the same way as dear little Dulcie. Mrs Roy naturally felt it impossible that there should be another baby the least like Dulcie; but she was wise enough to conceal this, and to allow Biddy's confidences about Buzley's Court and the Lane family to flow on unchecked.

So, despite the strangeness of many things in Wavebury, and their contrast to all she had been used to, Biddy was happy, and soon began to feel at home there; but she did not cease to wonder at some country customs, and amongst them the fact which specially struck her, that nearly all the women worked in the fields as well as the men. When in her errands to and from the village she passed these tramping along the roads, she stared at them with astonishment that did not lessen with time. Everything about them was so curious. Their deeply lined faces were red with wind and weather and old before their time—made harsher, too, than nature intended, because all the hair was tucked away under the cotton sun-bonnet, which were the most feminine-looking of their garments, the rest of which gave a general effect of coarse sacking ending in heavy boots.

Biddy singled out one of these women as an object of almost fearful interest, and got into a way of watching for her as she passed Truslow Manor every morning to her work. She was tall and very powerfully built, her features were coarse and swollen, and there was something repelling and yet fascinating to Biddy in her cunning, shifty glance. The way in which she strode along the road, too, swinging a rake, or hoe, or pitchfork in her hand, gave an impression of reckless strength which made the little nurse-girl shudder, and yet she felt unable to remove her gaze as long as the woman was in sight.

One day as Biddy was hastening home from an errand in the village she saw this well-known figure coming towards her with its usual rolling movement, and to her surprise it came to a stand in front of her, and, leaning on the handle of its pitchfork, surveyed her with a sort of leer. Biddy stopped too, and they looked at each for a minute in silence. Then the woman spoke:

"You be the new gal yonder?" she said with a jerk of her head.

"I'm Mrs Roy's nurse," replied Biddy, trembling a little, yet with some dignity.

The woman chuckled hoarsely.

"You don't sleep much at nights, I reckon?" she continued.

"Yes, thank you," said Biddy, who had been taught to be always polite; "the baby doesn't cry scarcely any."

For all answer the woman gave a loud stupid laugh and strode away, leaving Biddy standing in the road much discomfited. She stared after her for a moment and then hurried back to Truslow Manor, and told her mistress of the meeting.

"Oh!" said Mrs Roy quickly, "that was only poor Crazy Sall. She's half silly, and she has dreadful fits of drinking, besides. You mustn't mind anything she said to you, and you must promise never to speak to her again, or take any notice of her at all."

"I won't, mum," said Biddy; and indeed she did not feel anxious for Crazy Sall's further acquaintance, though the failing mentioned by her mistress did not surprise or shock her, she knew too many people in the neighbourhood of Buzley's Court who were troubled in the same way.

"And," continued Mrs Roy, looking earnestly at Biddy, "I want you to promise me another thing, and that is, never to stop and listen to any gossip when I send you into the village."

Biddy promised that too; but it was not quite so easy to keep this promise as the first, for she was a sociable character, and in London had become quite used to enjoying fragments of chat on door-steps and elsewhere. When, therefore, in the baker's shop at Wavebury, which was also the post-office, she sometimes found a busy knot of talkers, it was natural to her to stand open-mouthed and drink in the conversation. Really anxious to obey her mistress, she struggled hard with this bad habit, but it was so strong within her that she was not always successful, and lately she had caught a chance word now and then which was at once dreadful and attractive—the word "ghost." Not only several times at the post-office, where the speakers had nudged each other and become suddenly silent when she appeared, but once she was certain she had heard Mrs Shivers say it to Mrs Roy. They were talking earnestly together, and when Biddy threw open the door and bore in a trayful of clattering cups and saucers they stopped, but not before she had plainly caught that one terrible word. Her curiosity now reached an almost unbearable pitch, but it was soon to be further enlightened.

One bright morning, when she had been at Wavebury for nearly two months, she was walking up and down near the house with the baby in her arms, waiting for Mrs Roy, who had carefully warned her meanwhile not to go out of the sunshine or to stand still, and to keep within sight of the windows. Her walk, therefore, was rather a limited one; it lay backwards and forwards between the farmyard gate and the kitchen door.

On her way she passed and repassed an open cart-shed where Mr Roy, whistling cheerily, was engaged in his favourite pursuit of carpentering. He had cast aside his black coat, and for his better convenience wore a short blue-flannel boating-jacket; about his feet the yellow-white shavings curled in larger and larger heaps every minute, as he bent over his carpenter's bench in the all-absorbing enjoyment of measuring, smoothing, and planing. The shed was also occupied by two goats and a family of cocks and hens, some turkeys were perched on the empty wagon at the farther end, and an inquisitive pig looked in now and then in a friendly manner. These all eyed their human companion thoughtfully from time to time, but without any alarm, for they had now discovered that both he and his various edged tools were perfectly harmless.

Up and down went Biddy in the sunshine, keeping up a low murmur of conversation with the baby, casting a glance at her busy master, and catching a scrap now and then of a gossip going on at the kitchen door between Mrs Shivers and Mr Peter Sweet, landlord of the village inn.

She did not take much heed of this until suddenly this sentence, uttered in the loud tones of Mr Sweet, sounded clearly in her ear: "And so the Truslow ghost's been, seen again!" Biddy started; she could not help quickening her steps, so that she soon got back again to the kitchen door, where Mr Sweet's broad back was turned towards her. She could not see Mrs Shivers, but she knew it was her voice that said:

"Jest as the clock strikes ten—crosses the Kennet at the end of the field."

Biddy felt rooted to the spot. She must hear more about it, and she glanced round to see if Mr Roy noticed where she was standing. No. His earnest face and pursed-up mouth looked more engrossed than ever. Neither of the speakers could see her, for between her and them there was a small piece of thick yew hedge. So, secure in her wrong-doing, Biddy lent an attentive ear and forgot her duty, the baby, and everything else. She could hear every word.

"It's my belief," said Mrs Shivers, "and it's what I've always held to, that it's one of them old Truslows, as was a wicked lot, come out of his grave to see the place where he committed a crime. It's likely he murdered some one in this very house, and that makes him oneasy. Some gambling quarrel, I make no doubt it was, for they say you may see a party of men playing cards in the drawing-room here any night after twelve. It's only naturable to think it."

"Well," said Mr Peter Sweet reflectively, "I don't say as you mayn't be right, for it do seem to come straight out of the churchyard as it were. But what bothers me is, why it should go on all-fours. I don't suppose them old Truslows were in the 'abit of doing that in their lifetime. And then there's summat white on its head that flaps like a couple o' large ears. What would that be?"

"That's hid from us," answered Mrs Shivers solemnly, "by the merciful workings of Providence."

"It's never seen after it crosses the Kennet?" resumed Mr Sweet.

"No one ever stops to see it," replied Mrs Shivers; "everyone's too scared. Why," (in a lowered voice), "the last gal as was here she met it as she was going with a message to the rectory. She jest turned and rushed back to the house, and come into the kitchen in vi'lent 'isterricks."

"Very natural," said Mr Sweet approvingly. "Now, what does the curate think on it?"

"Oh, he jest laughs," said Mrs Shivers rather contemptuously. "You know his way. But Mrs Roy, I can see she's timid about it, though she won't hear it talked on. She's afraid this new gal will get frightened away like the other."

At this moment, when Biddy's ears were strained to the utmost, and her eyes had grown large and round with horror, her mistress's voice calling her from the other side of the house roused her with a guilty shock. She recovered herself as well as she could and went hurriedly away, but the knowledge which she took with her destroyed her peace of mind for many a day. Things hitherto familiar and friendly now became full of terror, and the comfort of her life was gone. Even her own shadow, cast by the flickering fire and dancing in grotesque shape on the ceiling, made her shudder; and when at night she peered timidly out of her lattice, and saw the row of elms standing dark against the sky at the end of the field, she shook with fear. Turning hastily from this to the shelter of the bed-clothes she would find no refuge, but a place full of restless fancies; for now, instead of dropping at once into a dreamless slumber, she remained broad awake and seemed to hear fragments of the ghost story over and over again. The "old Truslow," the flapping ears, the terrible adventure of the last nurse-girl chased each other through her poor little worried mind and would not be forgotten. Crazy Sall's words came back to her, and she heard her repeat mockingly: "You don't sleep much at nights, I reckon?"

Biddy became very miserable, for even sunshine and the baby in her arms were powerless to drive away those dark fancies entirely, though they then became easier to bear. It was not only the consciousness of knowing about the ghost, but to know it alone and not to talk of it to anyone! That was doubly dreadful. Sometimes she thought she must tell her mistress or Mrs Shivers, but then she remembered she would also have to confess her disobedience. She could not do that, for Mrs Roy would never trust her again, and perhaps send her away. What would mother say then? A good place and seven pounds a year lost! It was impossible to risk it.

So she kept silence, but it was a heavy burden to bear, and under its weight she became downcast and gloomy, a different Biddy from the briskly alert one of two months ago. The baby was the first to notice this. She missed her nurse's cheerful voice, and looking up in her face found there a settled sadness instead of the usual ready smile. This she resented in her own fashion, and cried dismally, wrinkling up her tiny features in disgust, and when this had happened once or twice Mrs Roy's attention was also drawn to the change.

"Are you quite well and happy, Biddy?" she asked. "You don't look so bright as you used to."

Biddy twisted up the corners of her apron and hung her head on one side, but made no answer.

"Are you quite happy, Biddy?" persisted her mistress.

Biddy would have given worlds to say, "I'm terr'ble afraid of the ghost," but her tongue refused to utter the words, and after waiting a moment Mrs Roy turned away. But that night she said to her husband in mournful emphatic tones:

"Richard, I hope it's only my nervousness, but I do believe that somehow or other Biddy has heard something about that."

No one was quite happy and comfortable at Truslow Manor just now, for latterly the baby had been ailing; she had evidently caught a chill and was feverish and fretful. "How could Dulcie have taken cold?" Mrs Roy wondered many times in the day, while the conscience-stricken Biddy stood speechless, and thought of that conversation at the kitchen door. Mr Roy was made uneasy too by his wife's anxiety, and also felt deeply incapable of making any suggestion about the origin or treatment of Dulcie's illness; everything seemed a little ruffled and disturbed in its usual even flow.

"You know I have to take the service over at Cherril to-night," said Mr Roy to his wife one morning. "They've asked me to dine there afterwards. You won't mind my leaving you? I shall get back by ten."

"Oh, no!" replied Mrs Roy readily, though in truth she was not fond of spending the evening at Truslow Manor alone. "I shall have Biddy down to sit with me; and I do think baby seems better to-day. It's a long walk for you, though, Richard, and there's no moon."

"Oh, I'll take a lantern!" said the curate, and accordingly he started off that afternoon on his six-miles walk thus provided.

Biddy and her mistress spent the evening together, talking softly over their needlework, so as not to disturb Dulcie's sleep in the cradle near. The glowing fire, the cheerful room, and Mrs Roy's kind chat were almost sufficient to drive away Biddy's usual terrors; at any rate she forgot them for a time, and was peacefully happy. But this did not last long. Suddenly the baby's breathing became hoarse and difficult, and Mrs Roy, kneeling at the side of the cradle, looked up in alarm at her nurse.

"Oh, Biddy," she cried, "what is the matter with her? See how she struggles for breath!"

"Lift her up, mum," suggested Biddy, "perhaps she'll be more easy-like."

But Dulcie was not easy-like. On the contrary, her tiny face grew almost purple, she gasped, clenched her fists, and seemed on the point of choking.

"Biddy," said Mrs Roy calmly, but with despair written on every feature, "I believe it's croup!"

Biddy stood speechless. Here was a case outside her experience; she could offer no suggestion—not one of the Lane babies had ever had croup.

"Get hot water," said Mrs Roy, "and then run as fast as you can for the doctor. Take a lantern. Run, Biddy, run—" for the girl stood motionless—"every minute is of consequence."

But Biddy did not stir; she only gave one miserable despairing glance at the clock. Three minutes to ten! It would be crossing the Kennet just as she got there.

"Biddy, Biddy," cried her mistress, "why don't you go?"

Poor Biddy! She looked at Dulcie struggling for breath in her mother's arms, and fighting the air with her helpless little hands. It was pitiful, but she could not move; she only gazed horror-stricken, and as if turned into stone.

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs Roy in tones of anguish, "why doesn't Richard come home? What shall I do?"

Biddy's heart was touched; she clasped her hands and exclaimed, almost unconsciously:

"Oh, mum, it's the ghost! I'm dreadful feared of meeting it!"

The secret was out now, but Mrs Roy scarcely noticed it at all. If the room had been thronged with ghosts she would not have minded them just then—her whole heart was full of Dulcie.

"Send Mrs Shivers then," she said, "and bring the hot water at once."

Recovering the use of her limbs Biddy quickly had a hot bath ready; but, alas! She came back from the kitchen with the news that Mr and Mrs Shivers were both out, and had taken the lantern.

"Then, Biddy," said her mistress looking up as she knelt by the bath, where the baby was now breathing more quietly, "there is only you. I can't leave her, and if this attack comes on again I don't know what to do. Most likely you'll meet Mr Roy long before you get to the village. Send him on if you do, and come back yourself. Only go, for my sake!"

Her beseeching eyes were full of eloquence, but still Biddy hesitated.

"Nothing can hurt you," continued Mrs Roy in a pleading voice; "and I shall bless you all my life long. Oh, Biddy, you wouldn't let Dulcie die!"

To go and meet the ghost, or to let Dulcie die—they were equally dreadful to Biddy. As she thought of the first, icy-cold water seemed to be trickling slowly down her back; and as she thought of the second, a great aching ball came into her throat and her eyes filled with tears.

"I'll go, mum," she gasped out. "Don't you lose heart."

Mrs Roy gave a trembling sigh of relief as Biddy's sturdy form moved towards the door.

"Put on my thick grey shawl hanging in the passage," she said; "and oh, Biddy, make him understand that he must come as quickly as ever he can."

Biddy threw the heavy shawl over her head and shoulders, and stepped out through the dark porch into the darker field. Mrs Roy had said there was no moon that night, but there was—a small pale one, just enough to make everything look dimly awful. The wind was high, rattling the bare branches of the trees, and chasing the clouds hurriedly along; it blew coldly in Biddy's face as she left the warm shelter of the house. She could see the track across the field and the white gate at the end of it, and the row of dark elms tossing their arms wildly. Towards these she set her face, and, bending down her head, ran steadily on. "Go back, go back!" the wind seemed to shout as it pressed against her with its strong outspread hands; "Go on, Biddy, for my sake!" whispered Mrs Roy's pleading voice behind her. And these two sounds were so distinct that in the middle of the field she stopped uncertainly. But the little voice from Truslow Manor and the thought of Dulcie's danger were stronger than the wind, and drove her on again till she stood with trembling knees close to the river, her hand touching the latch of the gate. What, oh! What was that, looming towards her, shapeless and awful, across the bridge! A cow, perhaps?—it was too low; a dog?—it was too large. On it came, slowly, nearer and nearer, and Biddy could see that where its head should have been there was something that napped about loosely; the rest of it was a formless, moving piece of darkness. Biddy could not stir—she clung in an agony to the gate-post and stared without making a sound. To run away would be impossible, even if her limbs had not been useless from terror: it would be far worse to feel this creature at her back than to face it. So she stood for a minute, which seemed a lifetime, and then, recovering her voice, uttered a shrill, despairing scream. At the sound the thing stopped, reared itself, as it were, on its hind-legs, and swayed about uncertainly in front of her. Still clinging to the gate, Biddy thought of her mother and began to say her evening prayers; her knees were giving way, and she felt she must soon sink upon the ground.

Then—oh, blessed moment!—there suddenly sounded out of the darkness, at the back of the awful figure, a cheerful human voice and a firm human footstep. Mr Roy's lantern flashed in the surrounding gloom.

"What's the matter? Who's this?" he said in comfortable human accents, and held the light full in the ghost's face. What did Biddy see? Not the spectral features of any strange old Truslow, but the earthly and familiar ones of—poor Crazy Sall!

Dulcie did not die. When, a little later, the curate came hastening back with the doctor, she was quite well and sleeping calmly in her cradle. It had not been croup, the doctor said, and Mrs Roy had alarmed herself without cause. Nevertheless Biddy had earned her mistress's undying gratitude by her conduct that evening, and she was quite as much praised and thanked as if she really had saved the baby's life.

"For it was so brave of her, you know, Richard, because she could not tell then that it was only poor Crazy Sall."

Only poor Crazy Sall, returning half-tipsy from the public-house!

Cunning enough to know that in this condition she could not safely trust her unsteady, reeling steps over the narrow bridge, it had occurred to her on one occasion to crawl on her hands and knees. This once done, it was often repeated, and, as surely as the night was dark and she had freely indulged at the village inn, the Truslow ghost might be seen crossing the Kennet at ten o'clock. Each fresh beholder adding some gruesome detail to the dimly-seen form in its flapping sun-bonnet, the ghost bit by bit took shape, and at last was fully created. Who can tell how many years longer it might have lived but for Biddy's scream and her master's flashing lantern?

The whole village felt the discovery to be mortifying; and after everyone had said that he, for one, had never given credit to the ghost, the subject was discreetly dropped. There was silence even at the inn, where for years it had been a fruitful source of much conversation and many solemn opinions.

Mr Sweet did indeed refer to it once, for meeting Mrs Shivers he ventured to say derisively: "You and yer old Truslows, indeed!" But she was immediately ready with such a pointed and personal reply about "a couple of long ears" that he retreated hastily and felt himself to be worsted.

So the Truslow ghost vanished from Wavebury, and very soon from most people's memories also, but Biddy had not forgotten it when she was quite an old woman.



STORY THREE, CHAPTER 1.

AFTER ALL!—ALBERT STREET.

"The wealth of a man is the number of things which he loves and blesses, which he is loved and blessed by."—Carlyle.

Albert Street is in a respectable neighbourhood on the outskirts of London—not quite in London, and certainly not in the country, though only a little while ago there were fields and lanes where rows of houses now stand. There are, indeed, bits of hedgerow still left where the hawthorn tries to blossom in the spring, and dingy patches and corners of field where flowers used to grow; but these have nearly all disappeared, and instead of them heaps of rubbish, old kettles, empty sardine-boxes, and broken crockery are scattered about. Only the dandelions are lowly enough to live contentedly amongst such vulgar surroundings, and still show their beaming yellow faces wherever they have a chance. It was difficult in Albert Street to feel that spring and summer meant anything else than heat and dust and discomfort. It was more bearable in the winter, Iris Graham thought; but when the warm bright weather came it was strange to remember that somewhere it was pleasant and beautiful—that there were flowers blooming, and birds singing from morning till night, and broad green fields and deep woods full of cool shadows. Iris dreamt of it all at night sometimes, and when she waked there was the cry of the milkman instead of the birds' songs, and the cup of withered dandelions she had picked yesterday instead of banks of primroses and meadows full of cowslips. But in the daytime she did not dream, for she had no time; every bit of it was quite filled up with what she had to do—her lessons, her clothes to mend, her two little sisters to take out or amuse indoors, endless matters to attend to for the two boys who were at a day-school and came home in the evening, errands for mother, and other duties too numerous to mention. From the time she got up in the morning till she went to bed there was always something to be done, for she was the eldest, and everyone in the house seemed to expect something from her. There were five children and only one maid-servant to do all the work, so no one in Number 29 Albert Street had any idle moments on their hands. The small house was always full of noise and hurry and bustle—a baby crying or a boy rushing up and down stairs, the street-door slamming, or "Iris!" shouted in shrill impatient voices. It was hard to be for ever called upon to do something for someone else, to have no time of your very own, to be everyone's servant—to be only thirteen years old, and yet to have so very few holidays. Iris had come to feel this more and more strongly lately, to long for ease and pleasure and idleness, and to leave off serving other people. These moods increased every day. She was tired of being busy, tired of the hurry and worry of Albert Street, she was tired of doing things for others; she should like to go quite away into the country a long way off and do just as she pleased all day. And because she kept these discontented fancies quite to herself they grew very strong, and at last took hold of her mind altogether. She began to feel that there never was such a hard-worked injured person as Iris Graham, or such a dull, unamusing life as hers. Even the sound of her little sisters' voices as they said the verses they were learning about "the busy bee" provoked her beyond endurance. "I hate bees and I hate being busy!" she said to herself.

One warm morning in May she sat, with these thoughts in her mind and a basket of work by her side, in a little room at the back of the house called the "Boys' Room." Her mother was lying down upstairs with a bad nervous headache, and Iris had succeeded with great difficulty in keeping the house quiet for the last hour. The only other person in the room was her brother Max, mumbling over his lessons for the next day half aloud, and presently he threw his book across the table to her.

"Just hear me this," he said.

Iris propped the book up against her basket and went on darning.

"Go on," she said.

"Now came still evening on," began Max, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling and his fingers drumming on the table, "and twilight grey had in her sober livery all things clad—all things clad—oh, bother! What's the next?"

Iris prompted him, and he halted lamely through his task with many a sigh and groan.

"Why couldn't Milton make his things rhyme?" he said impatiently as his sister returned the book. "I never knew such rotten stuff to learn as Paradise Lost."

"You don't half know it," said Iris. "Oh, mustn't it have been nice to be Adam and Eve!"

"Awfully slow," answered Max, making a fancy portrait on the margin of his Milton.

"That's just what I should like," said Iris. "I'd rather things were slow. I don't want them all to come huddling together. Fancy the whole long day in a lovely, lovely, garden with no lessons to do, no clothes to mend, and all your time to yourself."

"You'd get jolly well tired of it," said Max; "anyhow, I wish old Milton hadn't written all this stuff about it."

Abandoning the argument, he clasped his rough head with both hands and bent muttering over his task. The lines he had just repeated stayed in Iris's mind like the sound of very peaceful music, and changed the direction of her thoughts, for now they turned, as her long needle went in and out of the grey sock, to her godmother's house and garden in the country. It was called Paradise Court, and though Iris had not been there since she was eight years old, she remembered it all perfectly; a picture of it rose before her again, and in a moment she was far away from Albert Street. She saw wide stretches of green lawn, with quiet meadows beyond; snowy white blossoms in the orchard, radiant flowers in the garden, borders, a row of royal purple flags with their sword-like leaves, which had specially pleased her because their name was "Iris" as well as her own. How happy she had been for those two or three days. How the sun had shone, and the birds had sung, and what big bunches of flowers she had picked in the fields. It was paradise, indeed. And she had to live in Albert Street. With a sigh she turned her eyes from the bright picture of her fancy, and glanced round the room she sat in. It was very small, and had folding doors which could be opened into the dining-room, and it was just as shabby and untidy as Max and Clement could make it. The chief thing to be noticed about it was the number of blots and splashes of ink; they were everywhere—on the walls, on the deal table, on the mantel-piece, on the map of the world, on the dog's-eared books, and on Max's stumpy finger-ends—there was hardly an inch of space free from them. From the window you could see the narrow straight piece of walled garden, one of many such, stretching along side by side in even rows at the backs of the houses. They were all exactly alike, in shape, in size, in griminess, and in the parched and sickly look of the plants and grass. How hard Iris had tried to make that garden pretty and pleasant to look upon! With hope ever new, and always to be disappointed, she sowed seeds in it, and spent her pennies in roots for it, and raked and dug and watered it. In vain; nothing would grow but some spindly London pride and scarlet geraniums. And indeed this was not surprising, for the garden had many things against it in the shape of poor soil, scorching sun, and numerous sparrows, not to mention boys and cats. A constant warfare was going on in it, for the cats lay in wait for the sparrows, and the boys were always on the watch for the cats, with jugs of water, traps of string, and other cunning stratagems. There was not much chance for the flowers, and even the turf was worn away in mangy patches by the feet of eager and excited combatants. At the end of it, built against the wall, there was an erection of old wire and packing-cases, in which Max and Clement kept rabbits, white rats, and a squirrel. A strange mixed scent of animals and decayed cabbage-leaves was sometimes wafted into the house from this in the summer.

"Perhaps it would be better to shut the window," Mrs Graham would say to Iris. Iris thought it would be better for the boys not to keep rabbits; but to any hint of this kind her mother's answer was always the same: "They may be a little disagreeable sometimes, dear, but I couldn't deprive the poor boys of one of their few amusements."

Her words came into Iris's mind this evening as her eye rested on the unsuccessful garden, and she bent over her work again with a sigh.

Always someone else to think of, someone else to work for, never a little bit of pleasure that was quite her own. How could she be happy? And if she were not happy how could she be contented? It was hard to have nothing pretty to look at. Some people lived in the midst of pretty things; there was her godmother, for instance, who never saw anything ugly or disagreeable near her, but everything that was pleasant and beautiful. People who lived in places like Paradise Court could be patient, and kind, and gentle without any difficulty, but in Albert Street—A sharp scream from the other side of the folding doors, the sound of something thrown, and then a volley of angry sobs and cries. Iris started up and rushed into the next room; she had left her two little sisters there happily at play, but she now found a very different state of things. Dottie, a child of five, stood in the middle of the room, with clenched fists and puckered red face, screaming at the top of her voice, while Susie sat on the floor near nursing a rag doll with perfect composure and calmness.