"Phew! What a funny smell! Phew! Phew! Whatever can it be?"

"I smelt it too. Peggy, what have you been doing? It's simply awful!"

"Hair-wash, I suppose, or the soap—I noticed it myself. It will pass off," said Peggy easily; but at that moment Mrs Asplin entered the room, sniffed the air, and cried loudly—

"Bless me, what's this? A regular Apothecaries' Hall! Paregoric! It smells as if someone had been drinking quarts of paregoric! Peggy, child, your throat is not sore again?"

"Not at all, thank you. Quite well. I have taken no medicine to-day."

"But it is you, Peggy—it really is!" Mellicent declared. "There was no smell at all before you came into the room. I noticed it as soon as the door was opened, and when you came and sat down beside us—whew! simply fearful!"

"I have taken no medicine to-day," repeated Peggy firmly. Then she started, as if with a sudden thought, lifted a lock of hair, sniffed at it daintily, and dropped it again with an air of conviction. "Ah, I comprehend! There seems to have been a slight misunderstanding. I have mistaken the bottles. I imagined that I was using the mixture you gave me, but—"

"She has washed her hair in cough-mixture! Oh, oh, oh! She has mixed paregoric and treacle with the water! Oh, what will I do! what will I do! This child will be the death of me!" Mrs Asplin put her hand to her side, and laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks, while Mellicent rolled about on the floor, and Esther's quiet "He, he, he!" filled up the intervals between the bursts of merriment.

Peggy was marched off to have her hair re-washed and rinsed, and came back ten minutes later, proudly complacent, to seat herself in the most comfortable stool and eat roast apple with elegant enjoyment. She was evidently quite ready to enlarge upon her latest feat, but the sisters had exhausted the subject during her absence, and had, moreover, a piece of news to communicate which was of even greater interest.

"Oh, Peggy, what y'think?" cried Mellicent, running her words into each other in breathless fashion, as her habit was when excited; "I've got something beautiful to tell you. S'afternoon Bob got a letter from his mother to say that they were all coming down next week to stay at the Larches for the winter. They come almost every year, and have shooting-parties, and come to church and sit in the big square pew, where you can just see their heads over the side. They look so funny, sitting in a row without their bodies. Last year there was a young lady with them who wore a big grey hat—the loveliest hat you ever saw—with roses under the brim, and stick-up things all glittering with jewels, and she got married at Christmas. I saw her photograph in a magazine, and knew her again in a moment. I used to stare at her, and once she smiled back at me. She looked sweet when she smiled. Lady Darcy always comes to call on mother, and she and father go there to dinner ever so many times, and we are asked to play with Rosalind—the Honourable Rosalind. I expect they will ask you to go too. Isn't it exciting?"

"I can bear it," said Peggy coldly. "If I try very hard, I think I can support the strain."

The Larches, the country house of Lord Darcy, had already been pointed out to her notice; but the information that the family was coming down for the yearly visit was unwelcome to her, for a double reason. She feared, in the first place, lest it should mean a separation from Bob, who was her faithful companion, and fulfilled his promise of friendship in a silent, undemonstrative fashion, much to her fancy. In the second place, she was conscious of a rankling feeling of jealousy towards the young lady who was distinguished by the name of the Honourable Rosalind, and who seemed to occupy an exalted position in the estimation of the vicar's daughters. Her name was frequently introduced into conversation, and always in the most laudatory fashion. When a heroine was of a superlatively fascinating description, she was "Just like Rosalind"; when an article of dress was unusually fine and dainty, it would "do for Rosalind." Rosalind was spoken of with bated breath, as if she were a princess in a fairy tale, rather than an ordinary flesh-and-blood damsel. And Peggy did not like it; she did not like it at all, for, in her own quiet way, she was accustomed to queen it among her associates, and could ill brook the idea of a rival. She had not been happy at school, but she had been complacently conscious that of all the thirty girls she was the most discussed, the most observed, and also, among the pupils themselves, the most beloved. At the vicarage she was an easy first. When the three girls went out walking, she was always in the middle, with Esther and Mellicent hanging on an arm at either side. Robert was her sworn vassal, and Max and Oswald her respectful and, on the whole, obedient servants. Altogether, the prospect of playing second fiddle to this strange girl was by no means pleasant. Peggy tilted her chin, and spoke in a cool, cynical tone.

"What is she like, this wonderful Rosalind? Bob does not seem to think her extraordinary. I cannot imagine a 'Miss Robert' being very beautiful, and as she is his sister, I suppose they are alike."

Instantly there arose a duet of protests.

"Not in the least. Not a single bit. Rosalind is lovely! Blue eyes, golden hair—"

"Down past her waist—"

"The sweetest little hands—"

"A real diamond ring—"

"Pink cheeks—"

"Drives a pony-carriage, with long-tailed ponies—"

"Speaks French all day long with her governess—jabber, jabber, jabber, as quick as that—just like a native—"

"Plays the violin—"

"Has a lovely little sitting-room of her own, simply crammed with the most exquisite presents and books, and goes travelling abroad to France and Italy and hot places in winter. Lord and Lady Darcy simply worship her, and so does everyone, for she is as beautiful as a picture. Don't you think it would be lovely to have a lord and lady for your father and mother?"

Peggy sniffed the air in scornful superiority.

"I am very glad I've not! Titles are so ostentatious! Vulgar, I call them! The very best families will have nothing to do with them. My father's people were all at the Crusades, and the Wars of the Roses, and the Field of the Cloth of Gold. There is no older family in England, and they are called 'Fighting Savilles,' because they are always in the front of every battle, winning honours and distinctions. I expect they have been offered titles over and over again, but they would not have them. They refused them with scorn, and so would I if one were offered to me. Nothing would induce me to accept it!"

Esther rolled her eyes in a comical, sideway fashion, and gave a little chuckle of unbelief; but Mellicent looked quite depressed by this reception of her grand news, and said anxiously—

"But, Peggy, think of it! The Honourable Mariquita! It would be too lovely! Wouldn't you feel proud writing it in visitors' books, and seeing it printed in newspapers when you grow up? 'The Honourable Mariquita wore a robe of white satin, trimmed with gold!'"

"Peggy Saville is good enough for me, thank you," said that young lady, with a sudden access of humility. "I have no wish to have my clothes discussed in the public prints. But if you are invited to the Larches to play with your Rosalind, pray don't consider me! I can stay at home alone. I don't mind being dull. I can turn my time to good account. Not for the world would I interfere with your pleasure?"

"But P-P-Peggy, dar-ling Peggy, we would not leave you alone!" Mellicent's eyes were wide with horror, she stretched out entreating hands towards the unresponsive figure. To see Peggy cross and snappish like—any other ordinary mortal was an extraordinary event, and quite alarming to her placid mind. "They will ask you, too, dear! I am sure they will—we will all be asked together!" she cried; but Peggy tossed her head, refusing to be conciliated.

"I shall have a previous engagement. I am not at all sure that they are the sort of people I ought to know," she said. "My parents are so exclusive! They might not approve of the acquaintance!"



CHAPTER TEN.

AMBITIONS!

Although Fraulein had charge over the girls' education, Mr Asplin reserved to himself the right of superintending their studies and dictating their particular direction. He was so accustomed to training boys for a definite end that he had no patience with the ordinary aimless routine of a girl's school course, and in the case of his daughters had carefully provided for their different abilities and tastes. Esther was a born student, a clear-headed, hard-thinking girl, who took a delight in wrestling with Latin verbs and in solving problems in Euclid, while she had little or no artistic faculty. He put her through much the same course as his own boys, gave her half an hour's private lesson on unoccupied afternoons, and cut down the two hours' practising on the piano to a bare thirty minutes. Esther had pleaded to give up music altogether, on the ground that she had neither love nor skill for this accomplishment, but to this the vicar would not agree.

"You have already spent much time over it, and have passed the worst of the drudgery; it would be folly to lose all you have learnt," he said. "You may not wish to perform in public, but there are many other ways in which your music may be useful. In time to come you would be sorry if you could not read an accompaniment to a song, play bright airs to amuse children, or hymn tunes to help in a service. Half an hour a day will keep up what you have learned, and so much time you must manage to spare."

With Mellicent the case was almost exactly opposite. It was a waste of time trying to teach her mathematics, she had not sufficient brain power to grasp them, and if she succeeded in learning a proposition by heart like a parrot, it was only to collapse into helpless tears and protestations when the letters were altered, and, as it seemed to her, the whole argument changed thereby.

Fraulein protested that it was impossible to teach Mellicent to reason; but the vicar was loath to give up his pet theory that girls should receive the same hard mental training as their brothers. He declared that if the girl were weak in this direction, it was all the more necessary that she should be trained, and volunteered to take her in hand for half an hour daily, to see what could be done. Fraulein accepted this offer with a chuckle of satisfaction, and the vicar went on with the lessons several weeks, patiently plodding over the same ground without making the least impression on poor Mellicent's brain, until there came one happy never-to-be-forgotten morning when Algebra and Euclid went spinning up to the ceiling, and he jumped from the table with a roar of helpless laughter.

"Oh, baby! baby! this is past all bearing! We might try for a century, and never get any further. I cannot waste any more time." Then, seeing the large tears gathering, he framed the pretty face in his hands, and looked at it with a tender smile. "Never mind, darling! there are better things in this world than being clever and learned. You will be our little house-daughter; help mother with her work, and play and sing to father when he is tired in the evening. Work hard at your music, learn how to manage a house, to sew and mend and cook, and you will have nothing to regret. A woman who can make a home, has done more than many scholars."

So it came to pass that Mellicent added the violin to her accomplishments, and was despatched to her own room to practise exercises, while her elder sister wrestled with problems and equations.

When Peggy Saville arrived, here was a fresh problem, for Fraulein reported that the good child could not add five and six together without tapping them over on her finger; was as ignorant of geography as a little heathen, and had so little ear for music that she could not sing "Rule Britannia" without branching off into "God save the Queen." But when it came to poetry!—Fraulein held up her hands in admiration. It was absolutely no effort to that child to remember, her eyes seemed to flash down the page, and the lines were her own, and as she repeated them her face shone, and her voice thrilled with such passionate delight that Esther and Mellicent had been known to shed tears at the sound of words which had fallen dead and lifeless from their own lips. And at composition, how original she was! What a relief it was to find so great a contrast to other children! When it was the life of a great man which should be written, Esther and Mellicent began their essays as ninety-nine out of a hundred schoolgirls would do, with a flat and obvious statement of birth, birthplace, and parentage; but Peggy disdained such commonplace methods, and dashed headlong into the heart of her subject with a high-flown sentiment, or a stirring assertion which at once arrested the reader's interest. And it was the same with whatever she wrote; she had the power of investing the dullest subject with charm and brightness. Fraulein could not say too much of Peggy's powers in this direction, and the vicar's eye brightened as he listened. He asked eagerly to be allowed to see the girl's manuscript book, and summoned his wife from pastry-making in the kitchen to hear the three or four essays which it contained.

"What do you think of those for a girl of fourteen? There's a pupil for you! If she were only a boy! Such dash—such spirit—such a gift of words! Do you notice her adjectives? Exaggerated, no doubt, and over-abundant, but so apt, so true, so strong! That child can write: she has the gift. She ought to turn out an author of no mean rank."

"Oh, dear me! I hope not. I hope she will marry a nice, kind man who will be good to her, and have too much to do looking after her children to waste her time writing stories," cried Mrs Asplin, who adored a good novel when she could get hold of one, but harboured a prejudice against all women-authors as strong-minded creatures, who lived in lodgings, and sported short hair, inky fingers, and a pen behind the ear. Mariquita Saville was surely destined for a happier fate. "When a woman can live her own romance, why need she trouble her head about inventing others?"

Her husband looked at her with a quizzical smile.

"Even the happiest life is not all romance, dear. It sometimes seems unbearably prosaic, and then it is a relief to lose oneself in fiction. You can't deny that! I seem to have a remembrance of seeing someone I know seated in a big chair before this very fire devouring a novel and a Newton pippin together on more Saturday afternoons than I could number."

"Tuts!" said his wife, and blushed a rosy red, which made her look ridiculously young and pretty. Saturday afternoon was her holiday-time of the week, and she had not yet outgrown her schoolgirl love of eating apples as an accompaniment to an interesting book; but how aggravating to be reminded of her weakness just at this moment of all others! "What an inconvenient memory you have!" she said complainingly. "Can't a poor body indulge in a little innocent recreation without having it brought up against her in argument ever afterwards? And I thought we were talking about Peggy! What is at the bottom of this excitement? I know you have some plan in your head."

"I mean to see that she reads good books, and only books that will help, and not hinder, her progress. The rest will come in time. She must learn before she can teach, have some experience of her own before she can imagine the experiences of others; but writing is Peggy's gift, and she has been put in my charge. I must try to give her the right training."

From that time forward Mr Asplin studied Peggy with a special interest, and a few evenings later a conversation took place among the young people which confirmed him in his conclusion as to her possibilities. Lessons were over for the day, and girls and boys were amusing themselves in the drawing-room, while Mr Asplin read the Spectator, and his wife knitted stockings by the fire. Mellicent was embroidering a prospective Christmas present, an occupation which engaged her leisure hours from March to December; Esther was reading, and Peggy was supposed to be writing a letter, but was, in reality, talking incessantly, with her elbows planted on the table, and her face supported on her clasped hands. She wore a bright pink frock, which gave a tinge of colour to the pale face, her hair was unbound from the tight pigtail and tied with a ribbon on the nape of her neck, from which it fell in smooth heavy waves to her waist. It was one of the moments when her companions realised with surprise that Peggy could look astonishingly pretty upon occasion; and Oswald, from the sofa, and Max and Bob, from the opposite side of the table, listened to her words with all the more attention on that account.

She was discussing the heroine of a book which they had been reading in turns, pointing out the inconsistencies in her behaviour, and expatiating on the superior manner in which she—Mariquita—would have behaved, had positions been reversed. Then the boys had described their own imaginary conduct under the trying circumstances, drawing forth peals of derisive laughter from the feminine audience; and the question had finally drifted from "What would you do?" to "What would you be?" with the result that each one was eager to expatiate on his own pet schemes and ambitions.

"I should like to come out first in all England in the Local Examinations, get my degree of M.A., and be a teacher in a large High School," said Esther solemnly. "At Christmas and Easter I would come home and see my friends, and in summer-time I'd go abroad and travel, and rub up my languages. Of course, what I should like best would be to be headmistress of Girton, but I could not expect that to come for a good many years. I must be content to work my way up, and I shall be quite happy wherever I am, so long as I am teaching."

"Poor old Esther! and she will wear spectacles, and black alpaca dresses, and woollen mittens on her hands! Can't I see her!" cried Max, throwing back his head with one of the cheery bursts of laughter which brought his mother's eyes upon him with a flash of adoring pride. "Now there's none of that overweening ambition about me. I could bear up if I never saw an improving book again. What I would like would be for some benevolent old millionaire to take a fancy to me, and adopt me as his heir. I feel cut out to be a country gentleman, and march about in gaiters and knickerbockers, looking after the property, don't you know, and interviewing my tenants. I'd be strict with them, but kind at the same time; look into all their grievances, and put them right whenever I could. I'd make it a model place before I'd done with it, and all the people would adore me. That's my ambition, and a very good one it is too; I defy anyone to have a better."

"I should like to marry a very rich man with a big moustache, and a beautiful house in London with a fireplace in the hall," cried Mellicent fervently. "I should have carriages and horses, and a diamond necklace and three children: Valentine Roy—that should be the boy—and Hildegarde and Ermyntrude, the girls, and they should have golden hair like Rosalind, and blue eyes, and never wear anything but white, and big silk sashes. I'd have a housekeeper to look after the dinners and things, and a governess for the children, and never do anything myself except give orders and go out to parties. I'd be the happiest woman that ever lived."

Lazy Oswald smiled in complacent fashion.

"And the fattest! Dearie me, wouldn't you be a tub! I don't know that I have any special ambition. I mean to get my degree if I can, and then persuade the governor to send me a tour round the world. I like moving about, and change and excitement, and travelling is good fun if you avoid the fag, and provide yourself with introductions to the right people. I know a fellow who went off for a year, and had no end of a time; people put him up at their houses, and got up balls and dinners for his benefit, and he never had to rough it a bit. I could put in a year or two in that way uncommonly well."

Rob had been wriggling on his chair and scowling in his wild-bear fashion all the while Oswald was speaking, and at the conclusion he relieved his feelings by kicking out recklessly beneath the table, with the result that Peggy sat up suddenly with a "My foot, my friend! Curb your enthusiasm!" which made him laugh, despite his annoyance.

"But it's such bosh!" he cried scornfully. "It makes me sick to hear a fellow talk such nonsense. Balls and dinners—faugh! If that's your idea of happiness, why not settle down in London and be done with it! That's the place for you! I'd give my ears to go round the world, but I wouldn't thank you to go with a dress suit and a valet; I'd want to rough it, to get right out of the track of civilisation and taste a new life; to live with the Bedouin in their tents as some of those artist fellows have done, or make friends with a tribe of savages. Magnificent! I'd keep a notebook with an account of all I did, and all the strange plants and flowers and insects I came across, and write a book when I came home. I'd a lot rather rough it in Africa than lounge about Piccadilly in a frock coat and tall hat." Robert sighed at the hard prospect which lay before him as the son of a noble house, then looked across the table with a smile: "And what says the fair Mariquita? What role in life is she going to patronise when she comes to years of discretion?"

Peggy nibbled the end of her pen and stared into space.

"I've not quite decided," she said slowly. "I should like to be either an author or an orator, but I'm not sure which. I think, on the whole, an orator, because then you could watch the effect of your words. It is not possible, of course, but what I should like best would be to be the Archbishop of Canterbury, or some great dignitary of the Church. Oh, just imagine it! To stand up in the pulpit and see the dim cathedral before one, and the faces of the people looking up, white and solemn.— I'd stand waiting until the roll of the organ died away, and there was a great silence; then I would look at them, and say to myself—'A thousand people, two thousand people, and for half an hour they are in my power. I can make them think as I will, see as I will, feel as I will. They are mine! I am their leader.'—I cannot imagine anything in the world more splendid than that! I should choose to be the most wonderful orator that was ever known, and people would come from all over the world to hear me, and I would say beautiful things in beautiful words, and see the answer in their faces, and meet the flash in the eyes looking up into mine. Oh-h! if it could only—only be true; but it can't, you see. I am a girl, and if I try to do anything in public I am as nervous as a rabbit, and can only squeak, squeak, squeak in a tiny little voice that would not reach across the room. I had to recite at a prize-giving at school once, and, my dears, it was a lamentable failure! I was only audible to the first three rows, and when it was over I simply sat down and howled, and my knees shook. Oh dear, the very recollection unpowers me! So I think, on the whole, I shall be an authoress, and let my pen be my sceptre. From my quiet fireside," cried Peggy, with a sudden assumption of the Mariquita manner, and a swing of the arms which upset a vase of chrysanthemums, and sent a stream of water flowing over the table—"from my quiet fireside I will sway the hearts of men—"

"My plush cloth! Oh, bad girl—my new plush cloth! You dreadful Peggy, what will I do with you?" Mrs Asplin rushed forward to mop with her handkerchief and lift the dripping flowers to a place of safety, while Peggy rolled up her eyes with an expression of roguish impenitence.

"Dear Mrs Asplin, it was not I, it was that authoress. She was evolving her plots... Pity the eccentricities of the great!"



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

A SHAKESPEARE READING.

Esther was preparing for the Cambridge Local Examination at Christmas, and making a special study of The Merchant of Venice, as the play chosen for the year.

Fraulein explained the notes, and expatiated on the Venice of the past and the manners and customs of its inhabitants; but it was Mr Asplin who had the brilliant idea of holding a Shakespeare reading which should make the play live in the imagination of the young people, as no amount of study could do. The suggestion was made one day at dinner, and was received with acclamation by everyone present.

"Oh, how lovely, father! It will help me ever so much!" said Esther. "And Peggy must be Portia."

"I'd like to be that funny little man Launcelot—what do you call it?— only I know I couldn't do it," said Mellicent humbly. "I'll be the servants and people who come in and give messages. But, of course, Peggy must be Portia."

"Peggy shall be Portia, and I'll be the Jew, and snarl at her across the court," said Rob, with an assurance which was not at all appreciated by his companions.

"I've rather a fancy to try Shylock myself," Max declared. "Oswald would make a capital Bassanio, and you could manage Antonio all right if you tried, for he has not so much to do. Let me see: Peggy—Portia; Esther—Nerissa; Mellicent—Jessica (she's so like a Jewess, you see!); you and Oswald—Bassanio and Antonio; Shylock—my noble self. Father and mother to help out with the smaller characters. There you are! A capital cast, and everyone satisfied. I'm game to be Shylock, but I can't do the sentimental business. You two fellows will have to take them, and we'll divide the smaller fry among us."

"Indeed we will do nothing of the kind. I'm not going to take Bassanio; I couldn't do it, and I won't try. I'll have a shot at Shylock if you like, but I can't do anything else. The cast is all wrong, except so far as Peggy is concerned. Of course she is Portia."

"Proposed, seconded, and carried unanimously that Peggy is Portia!" said Mr Asplin, smiling across the table at that young lady, who tried to look modest and unconcerned, but was plainly aglow with satisfaction. "For Shylock, as the character seems so much in demand, we had better draw lots. I will write the names on slips of paper, and you must all agree to take what comes, and make the best of it. I will fill in the gaps, and I am sure mother will help all she can—"

"Lemonade in the intervals, and coffee for those who prefer it, with some of my very best company cake," said Mrs Asplin briskly. "It will be quite an excitement. I should rather like to be Shylock myself, and defy Peggy and her decree; but I'll give it up to the boys, and make myself generally useful. Why couldn't we begin to-night?"

"Oh, Mrs Asplin, no! It will take me days to get up my part! And the costumes—consider the costumes!" cried Peggy anxiously. And her hostess raised her hands in surprise.

"The costumes! Are you going to dress up? I never thought of that!"

"Surely that is unnecessary, Peggy! You can read the play without changing your clothes!" echoed the vicar; but, from the chorus of disclaimer which greeted his words, it appeared that the young people could do nothing of the sort.

Max wanted to know how a fellow could possibly "talk Shylock" in a white tie and an evening jacket. Oswald thought it equally ridiculous to pose as an Italian lover in English clothing; and Peggy turned up her eyes and said she could not really abandon herself to her part if her costume were inappropriate. Even Esther, the sober-minded, sided with the rest, so the vicar laughed and gave way, only too pleased to sanction anything which helped the object which he had at heart.

"Dress up by all means, if it pleases you. It will be interesting to see the result. But, of course, I must be absolved from any experiments of the kind."

"Oh, of course! And mother, too, if she likes, though I should love to see her made-up as Shylock! You must not see or ask about our dresses until the night arrives. They must be a secret. You will lend us all your fineries, mother—won't you?"

"Bless your heart, yes! But I haven't got any!" said Mrs Asplin, in her funny Irish way. "They were all worn out long, long ago." She gave a little sigh for the memory of the days when she had a wardrobe full of pretty things and a dozen shimmery silk dresses hanging on the pegs, and then flashed a loving smile at her husband, in case he might think that she regretted their loss. "If there is anything about the rooms that would do, you are welcome to use it," she added, glancing vaguely at the sideboard and dumb waiter, while the boys laughed loudly at the idea of finding any "properties" in the shabby old dining-room.

Peggy, however, returned thanks in the most gracious manner, and sat wrapt in thought for the rest of the evening, gazing darkly around from time to time, and scribbling notes on sheets of note-paper.

Short of playing Shylock, which in the end fell to Maxwell's share, it seemed as if all the responsibility of the performance fell on Peggy's shoulders. She was stage manager, selecting appropriate pieces of furniture from the different rooms and piling them together behind the screen in the study, whence they could be produced at a moment's notice, to give some idea of the different scenes. She coached Esther and Mellicent in their parts, designed and superintended the making of the costumes, and gave the finishing touches to each actor in turn when the night of the "Dramatic Reading" arrived.

"Taking one consideration with another," as Max remarked, "the costumes were really masterpieces of art."

To attire two young gentlemen as Italian cavaliers, and a third as a bearded Jew, with no materials at hand beyond the ordinary furnishings of a house, is a task which calls for no small amount of ingenuity, yet this is exactly what Peggy had done.

Antonio and Bassanio looked really uncommonly fine specimens, with cycling knickerbockers, opera cloaks slung over their shoulders, and flannel shirts pouched loosely over silk sashes, and ornamented with frills of lace at wrists and neck. Darkened eyebrows gave them a handsome and distinguished air, and old straw hats and feathers sat jauntily on their tow wigs.

The vicar sat in the arm-chair by the fire, Shakespeare in hand, waiting to fill in the odd parts with his wife's help, and simultaneous cries of astonishment and admiration greeted the appearance of the two actors at the beginning of the first scene.

"It's wonderful! Did I ever see such children? What in the world have they got on their heads? Milly's old leghorn, I declare, and my pink feathers. My old pink feathers! Deary me! I'd forgotten all about them. I've never worn them since the year that—"

"'In sooth, I know not why I am so sad,'" quoth the wearer of the feathers, scowling darkly at the frivolous prattler, who straightway hid her head behind her book, and read Salanio's first speech in a tone of meek apology.

There was a great deal of confusion about the first scene, for four people had to read the parts of six, and one of the number was so much occupied with gazing at the costumes of the actors that she invariably lost her place, and had to be called to order by significant coughs and glances. By this time it generally happened that the vicar had made up his mind to come to the rescue, and both husband and wife would begin to read at the same moment, to their own amusement, and to the disgust of the two lads, who felt uncomfortable in their borrowed plumes, and keenly sensitive about their precious dignity. Antonio mumbled his last speech in undignified haste, and followed Bassanio out of the room, prepared to echo his statement that this sort of thing was "tomfoolery," and that he wasn't going to make an idiot of himself any longer to please Peggy Saville, or any other girl in the world. But the words died on his lips, for outside, in the hall, stood Peggy herself, or rather Portia, and such a Portia as made him fairly blink with amazement! Amidst the bustle of the last few days Portia's own costume had been kept a secret, so that the details came as a surprise to the other members of the party. Nerissa stood by her side, clad in a flowing costume, the component parts of which included a dressing-gown, an antimacassar, and a flowered chintz curtain; but, despite the nature of the materials, the colouring was charming, and frizzled hair, flushed cheeks, and sparkling eyes, transformed the sober Esther into a very personable attendant on the lady of Belmont. There was nothing of the dressing-gown character about Portia's own attire, however. Its magnificence took away the breath of the beholders. The little witch had combed her hair to the top of her head, and arranged it in a coil, which gave height and dignity to her figure. A string of pearls was twisted in and out among the dark tresses; her white silk frock was mysteriously lengthened and ornamented by two large diamond-shaped pieces of satin encrusted with gold, one placed at the bottom of the skirt, and the other hanging loosely from the square-cut neck of the bodice. Long yellow silk sleeves fell over the bare arms and reached the ground; and from the shoulders hung a train of golden-hued plush, lined with a paler shade of yellow. Bassanio and Gratiano stood aghast, and Portia simpered at them sweetly in the intervals between dispensing stage directions to the boot boy, who was clad in his best suit for the occasion, and sent to and fro to change the arrangement of the scenery. He wheeled the sofa into the centre of the room, piled it up with blue cushions, and retired to make way for the two ladies, who were already edging in at the door.

A gasp of astonishment greeted their appearance, but when Peggy dragged her heavy train across the room, threw herself against the cushions in an attitude calculated to show off all the splendour of her attire, when she leant her pearl-decked head upon her hand, turned her eyes to the ceiling, and said, with a sigh as natural and easy as if they were her own words which she was using, and not those of the immortal Shakespeare himself, "'By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is a-weary of this great world!'"—then the vicar broke into a loud "Hear! hear!" of delight, and Mrs Asplin seized the poker and banged uproarious applause upon the fender. For the first few minutes amazement and admiration held her dumb; but as the girls moved to and fro, and the details of their costumes became more apparent, she began to utter spasmodic cries of recognition, somewhat trying to the composure of the actors.

Portia's description of her lovers was interrupted by a cry of, "My table centres! The Turkish squares I bought at the Exhibition, and have never used! Wherever did they find them?" while a little later came another cry, as the identity of the plush train made itself known, "My portiere from the drawing-room door! My beautiful portiere—with the nice new lining! Oh dear, dear! it's dragging about all over the dirty carpet! Don't sit on it, dear! For pity's sake, don't git on it!"

"Mother!" cried Esther, in a deep tone of remonstrance; but Portia was unconscious of interruption. The other actors held their books in their hands, and, for the most part, read their speeches; but Peggy trusted entirely to memory, and sighed and yawned over the denunciation of her lovers, with evident satisfaction to herself as well as to the beholders. Nerissa read her part "conscientiously," as the newspapers would say, punctuating her sentences in exemplary fashion, and laying the emphasis upon the right words as directed by the stage manageress; but, such is the contrariness of things, that, with all her efforts, the effect was stiff and stifled, while Peggy drawled through her sentences, or gabbled them over at break-neck speed, used no emphasis at all, or half a dozen running, at her own sweet will, and was so truly Portia that the vicar wondered dreamily if he should have to interview the Duke of Morocco in his study, and Mrs Asplin sighed unconsciously, and told herself that the child was too young to be troubled with lovers. She must not dream of accepting any one of them for years to come!

At the end of the scene, however, anxiety about her beloved portiere overpowered everything else in the mind of the vicar's wife, and she rushed after the actors to call out eager instructions. "Hang it up at once—there's good children. If you put it down on a chair, Peggy will sit on it as sure as fate! And oh! my table centres! Put them back in the drawer if you love me! Wrap them up in the tissue paper as you found them!"

"Mother, you are a terrible person! Go back, there's a dear, and do keep quiet!" cried a muffled voice from behind the dining-room door, as Shylock dodged back to escape observation; and Mrs Asplin retreated hastily, aghast at the sight of a hairy monster, in whom she failed to recognise a trace of her beloved son and heir. Shylock's make-up was, in truth, the triumph of the evening. The handsome lad had been transformed into a bent, misshapen old man, and anything more ugly, frowsy, and generally unattractive than he now appeared it would be impossible to imagine. A cushion gave a hump to his shoulders, and over this he wore an aged purple dressing-gown, which had once belonged to the vicar. The dressing-gown was an obvious refuge; but who but Peggy Saville would have thought of the trimming, which was the making of the shaggy, unkempt look so much desired? Peggy had sat with her hands clasped on her lap, and her head on one side, staring at the gown when it was held out for her approval two days before, then had suddenly risen, and rushed two steps at a time upstairs to the topmost landing, a wide, scantily furnished space which served for a playground on wet afternoons. An oilcloth covered the floor, a table stood in a corner, and before each of the six doors was an aged wool rug, maroon as to colouring, with piebald patches here and there where the skin of the lining showed through the scanty tufts. Peggy gave a whoop of triumph, tucked one after the other beneath her arm, and went flying down again, dropping a mat here and there, tripping over it, and nearly falling from top to bottom of the stairs. Hairbreadth escapes were, however, so much a part of her daily existence that she went on her way unperturbed, and carried her bundle into the study, where the girls sniffed derisively, and the boys begged to know what she intended to do with all that rubbish.

"'They that have no invention should be hanged,'" quoted Peggy, unperturbed. "Give me a packet of pins, and I'll soon show you what I am going to do. Dear, dear, dear, I don't know what you would do without me! You are singularly bereft of imagination."

She tossed her pigtail over her shoulder, armed herself with the largest pins she could find, and set to work to fasten the mats down the front of the gown, and round the hem at the bottom, so that the wool hung in shaggy ends over the feet. The skins were thick, the heads of the pins pressed painfully into her fingers, but she groaned and worked away until the border was arranged for stitching, and could be tried on to show the effect.

"Perfectly splendid!" was the verdict of the beholders. And so the matter of Shylock's gown was settled; but his beard still remained to be provided, and was by no means an easy problem to solve.

"Tow!" suggested Mellicent; but the idea was hooted by all the others. The idea of Shylock as a blonde was too ridiculous to be tolerated. False hair was not to be bought in a small village, and Maxwell's youthful face boasted as yet only the faintest shadow of a moustache.

The question was left over for consideration, and an inspiration came the same afternoon, when Robert hurled one of the roller-like cushions of the sofa at Oswald's head, and Oswald, in catching it, tore loose a portion of the covering.

"Now you've done it!" he cried. "The room will be covered with feathers, and then you will say it was my fault! We shall have to fasten the stupid thing up somehow or other!" He peered through the opening as he spoke, and his face changed. "It's not feathers—it's horsehair! Here's a find! What about that wig for Shylock?"

Esther was dubious.

"It would take a great deal of horsehair to make a wig. It would spoil the cushion if the horsehair were taken away; it would spoil the sofa if the cushion were small; it would spoil the room if the sofa—"

Peggy interrupted with a shriek of laughter. "Oh, oh, oh! It's like the 'House that Jack built'! How long do you intend to go on like that? Nonsense, my dear! It would be perfectly easy to take out what we want, and put it back afterwards. I'll promise to do it myself and sew it up tightly, though, if you desire my opinion, I think the cushion would be improved by letting in a little air. You might as well lean your head on a brick. Max, you are a made man! You shall have a beautiful, crinkly black wig, and a beard to match! We will sew them to your turban, and fasten them with black elastic. It will never show, and I'll finish off the joins after you are dressed. You'll see?"

"You can do as you like! I'm in your hands!" said Max easily; and when the night of the reading arrived, and he was attired in wig and gown, Peggy seated him in a chair and tucked a towel under his chin with an air of business. She had a number of small accessories on a table near at hand, and Max was first instructed to stick pieces of black plaster over alternate teeth, so that he might appear to possess only a few isolated fangs, and then made to lie back in his chair, while his dresser stood over him with a glue-brush in one hand and a bunch of loose horsehair in the other.

"Shut your eyes!" she cried loudly. And before he could say "Jack Robinson" a tuft of the wiry stuff covered his eyebrow. "Keep your face still!" And, to his horror, the gum was daubed from the borders of the beard, halfway up to his eyes, and little prickly ends of hair were held in Peggy's palm and pressed against his cheeks until they were firmly attached.

This, indeed, was more than he had bargained for! He jerked back his head, and began a loud-voiced protest, only to be interrupted by shrieks of excitement.

"Oh, oh, oh! It's beautiful—beautiful! What a fright! What a delicious fright! No one would know you! You look an old hairy monster who would gobble up half a dozen Christians. Do look at yourself!"

Peggy felt the pride of an artist in the result of her efforts, and Max was hardly less delighted than herself as he stood before the glass, gazing at his hairy cheeks and leering horribly, to admire his toothless gums. If the result were so hideous as to astonish even those who had watched the process of his make-up, what wonder that the effect upon Shylock's fond parents was of a stupefying nature!

Horror kept Mrs Asplin silent until the middle of the scene between Shylock and Antonio when the bond is signed, and then her agitation could no longer be controlled, and Shylock's little speeches were interrupted by entreaties to take that horrid stuff off his teeth, to use plenty of hot water in washing his face, and to be sure to anoint it plentifully with cold cream after doing so.

An ordinary lad would have lost his temper at these interruptions; but Max adored his mother, and could never take anything she did in a wrong spirit. Anger being therefore impossible, the only other resource was to laugh, which, in Peggy's opinion, was even worse than the former. A Shylock who chuckled between his speeches, and gave a good-humoured "Ha! ha!" just before uttering his bitterest invective, was a ridiculous parody of the character, with whom it would be impossible to act. It would be hard indeed if all her carefully rehearsed speeches lost their effect, and the famous trial scene were made into a farce through these untimely interruptions!

The second part of the play went more smoothly, however, as the audience settled down to a more attentive hearing, and the actors became less self-conscious and embarrassed. If four out of the six were sticks, who never for a moment approached the verge of the natural, Portia and Shylock did nobly, and, when the reading was over and the young people gathered round the fire in the drawing-room, it was unanimously agreed that they had acquired a more intimate knowledge of the play by this one evening's representation than by weeks of ordinary study.

"I feel so much more intimate with it!" said Esther. "It seems to have made it alive, instead of just something I have read in a book. It was a delightful thought, father, and I am grateful to you for proposing it. I wish I could do all my lessons in the same way."

"I've not enjoyed myself so much for ages. You just did beautifully, all of you, and the dresses were a sight to behold. As for Peggy, she's a witch, and could make up costumes on a desert island, if she were put to it! But I don't know what is going to happen to my poor, dear boy's face. Oswald, what is he doing? Isn't he coming to have some lemonade and cake?" asked Mrs Asplin anxiously. And Oswald chuckled in a heartless fashion.

"Pride must abide. He would be Shylock, whether we liked it or not, so let him take the consequences. He is fighting it out with cold cream in the bathroom, and some of the horsehair sticks like fun. I'll go up and tell him we have eaten all the cake. He was getting savage when I came down, and it will sweeten his temper!"



CHAPTER TWELVE.

PEGGY IN TROUBLE.

As Peggy sat writing in the study one afternoon, a shaggy head came peering round the door, and Robert's voice said eagerly—"Mariquita! A word in your ear! Could you come out and take a turn round the garden for half an hour before tea, or are you too busy?"

"Not at all. I am entirely at your disposal," said Peggy elegantly; and the young people made their way to the cloak-room, swung on coats and sailor hats, and sallied out into the fresh autumn air.

"Mariquita," said Robert then, using once more the name by which he chose to address Peggy in their confidential confabs, "Mariquita, I am in difficulties! There is a microscope advertised in Science this week, that is the very thing I have been pining for for the last six years. I must get it, or die; but the question is—how? You see before you a penniless man." He looked at Peggy as he spoke, and met her small, demure smile.

"My dear and honourable sir—"

"Yes, yes, I know; drop that, Mariquita! Don't take for granted, like Mellicent, that because a man has a title he must necessarily be a millionaire. Everything is comparative! My father is rich compared to the vicar, but he is really hard-up for a man in his position. He gets almost no rent for his land nowadays, and I am the third son. I haven't as much pocket-money in a month as Oswald gets through in a week. Now that microscope costs twenty pounds, and if I were to ask the governor for it, he wouldn't give it to me, but he would sigh and look wretched at being obliged to refuse. He's a kind-hearted fellow, you know, who doesn't like to say 'No,' and I hate to worry him. Still—that microscope! I must have it. By hook or by crook, I must have it. I've set my mind on that."

"I'm sure I hope you will, though for my part you must not expect me to look through it. I like things to be pretty, and when you see them through a microscope they generally look hideous. I saw my own hand once—ugh!" Peggy shuddered. "Twenty pounds! Well, I can only say that my whole worldly wealth is at your disposal. Draw on me for anything you like—up to seven-and-six! That's all the money I have till the beginning of the month."

"Thanks!—I didn't intend to borrow; I have a better idea than that. I was reading a magazine the other day, and came upon a list of prize competitions. The first prize offered was thirty pounds, and I'm going to win that prize! The microscope costs only twenty pounds, but the extra ten would come in usefully for—I'll tell you about that later on! The Piccadilly Magazine is very respectable and all that sort of thing; but the governor is one of the good, old-fashioned, conservative fellows, who would be horrified if he saw my name figuring in it. I'm bound to consider his feelings, but all the same I'm going to win that prize. It says in the rules—I've read them through carefully—that you can ask your friends to help you, so that there would be nothing unfair about going into partnership with someone else. What I was going to suggest was that you and I should collaborate. I'd rather work with you than with any of the others, and I think we could manage it rather well between us. Our contribution should be sent in in your name; that is to say, if you wouldn't object to seeing yourself in print."

"I should love it. I'm proud of my name; and it would be a new sensation." But Peggy spoke in absent-minded fashion, as if her thoughts were running on another subject. Rob had used a word which was unfamiliar in her ears, a big word, a word with a delightful intellectual roll, and she had not the remotest idea of its meaning. Collaborate! Beautiful! Not for worlds would she confess her ignorance, yet the opportunity could not be thrown away. She must secure the treasure, and add it to her mental store. She put her head on one side, and said pensively—

"I shall be most happy to er—er—In what other words can I express 'collaborate,' Rob? I object to repetition?"

"Go shags!" returned Robert briefly. "I would do the biggest part of the work, of course—that's only fair, because I want two-thirds of the money—but you could do what you liked, and have ten pounds for your share. Ten pounds would come in very usefully for Christmas."

"Rather! I'd get mother and father lovely presents, and Mrs Asplin too; and buy books for Esther, and a little gold ring for Mellicent— it's her idea of happiness to have a gold ring. I'll help you with pleasure, Rob, and I'm sure we shall get the prize. What have we to do? Compose some poetry?"

"Goodness, no! Fancy me making up poetry! It's to make up a calendar. There are subjects given for each month—sorrow, love, obedience, resignation—that sort of thing, and you have to give a quotation for each day. It will take some time, but we ought to stand a good chance. You are fond of reading, and know no end of poetry, and where I have a pull is in knowing French and German so well. I can give them some fine translations from the Latin and Greek too, for the matter of that, and put the authors' names underneath. That will impress the judges, and make 'em decide in our favour. I've been working at it only three days, and I've got over fifty quotations already. We must keep note-books in our pockets, and jot down any ideas that occur to us during the day, and go over them together at night. You will know a lot, I'm sure."

"'Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike, Therefore accomplish thy labour of love, till the heart is made godlike.'"

quoted Peggy with an air; and Rob nodded approval.

"That's it! That's the style! Something with a bit of a sermon in it to keep 'em up to the mark for the day. Bravo, Mariquita! you'll do it splendidly. That's settled, then. We shall have to work hard, for there is only a month before it must be sent off, and we must finish in good time. When you leave things to the last, something is bound to come in the way. It will take an age to write out three hundred and sixty-five extracts."

"It will indeed, for they must be very nicely done," said Peggy fastidiously. "Of course it is most important that the extracts themselves should be good, but it matters almost as much that they should look neat and attractive. Appearances go such a long way." And when Robert demurred, and stated his opinion that the judges would not trouble their heads about looks, she stuck firmly to her point.

"Oh, won't they, though! Just imagine how you would feel if you were in their position, and had to look over scores of ugly, uninteresting manuscripts. You would be bored to death, and, after plodding conscientiously through a few dozen, you would get so mixed up that you would hardly be able to distinguish one from another. Then suddenly— suddenly,"—Peggy clasped her hands with one of her favourite dramatic gestures—"you would see before you a dainty little volume, prettily written, easy to read, easy to hold, nice to look at, and do you mean to say that your heart wouldn't give a jump, and that you would not take a fancy to the writer from that very moment? Of course you would; and so, if you please, I am going to look after the decorative department, and see what can be done. I must give my mind to it—Oh! I'll tell you what would be just the thing. When I was in the library one day lately I saw some sweet little note-books with pale green leaves and gilt edges. I'll count the pages, and buy enough to make up three hundred and sixty-five, and twelve extra, so as to put one plain sheet between each month. Then we must have a cover. Two pieces of cardboard would do, with gilt edges, and a motto in Old English letters—'The months in circling-orbit fly.' Have I read that somewhere, or did I make it up? It sounds very well. Well, what next?" Peggy was growing quite excited, and the restless hands were waving about at a great rate. "Oh, the pages! We shall have to put the date at the top of each. I could do that in gold ink, and make a pretty little skriggle— er—'arabesque' I should say, underneath, to give it a finish. Then I'd hand them on to you to write the extracts in your tiny little writing. Rob, it will be splendid! Do you really think we shall get the prize?"

"I mean to get it! We have a good library here, and plenty of time, if we like to use it. I'm going to get up at six every morning. I shan't fail for want of trying, and if I miss this I'll win something else. My mind is made up! I'm going to buy that microscope!" Robert tossed his head and looked ferocious, while Peggy peered in his rugged face, and, womanlike, admired him the more for his determination.

They lingered in the garden discussing details, planning out the work, and arranging as to the different books to be overlooked until the tea hour was passed, and Mrs Asplin came to the door and called to them to come in.

"And nothing on your feet but your thin slippers? Oh, you Peggy!" she exclaimed in despair. "Now you will have a cold, and ten to one it will fly to your throat. I shall have to line you a penny every time you cross the doorstep without changing your shoes. Summer is over, remember. You can't be too careful in these raw, damp days. Run upstairs this minute and change your stockings."

Peggy looked meek, and went to her room at once to obey orders; but the mischief was done—she shivered, and could not get warm, her head ached, and her eyes felt heavy. Mrs Asplin looked anxiously at her in the drawing-room after dinner, and finally called her to her side.

"Peggy, come here! Aren't you well? Let me feel your hand. Child, it's like a coal! You are in a fever. Why didn't you tell me at once?"

"Because I—really, it's nothing, Mrs Asplin! Don't be worried. I don't know why I feel so hot. I was shivering only a minute ago."

"Go straight upstairs and take a dose of ammoniated quinine. Turn on the fire in your room. Max! Robert! Oswald! Esther! Mellicent! will everyone please look after Peggy in the future, and see that she does not run out in her slippers!" cried Mrs Asplin in a despairing voice; and Peggy bolted out of the door, in haste to escape before more reproaches could be hurled at her head.

But an alarm of a more serious nature than a threatened cold was to take place before the evening was over. The young people answered briefly, Mrs Asplin turned back to her book, and silence settled down upon the occupants of the drawing-room. It was half-past eight, the servants had carried away the dinner things, and were enjoying their evening's rest in the kitchen. The vicar was nodding in his easy-chair, the house was so quiet that the tick of the old grandfather clock in the hall could be heard through the half-opened door. Then suddenly came the sound of flying footsteps, the door burst open, and in rushed Peggy once more,— but such a Peggy, such an apparition of fear, suffering, and terror as brought a cry of consternation from every lip. Her eyes were starting from her head, her face was contorted in spasmodic gaspings for breath, her arms sawed the air like the sails of a windmill, and she flew round and round the room in a wild, unheeding rush.

"Peggy, my child! my child! what is the matter? Oh, Austin—oh! What shall we do?" cried Mrs Asplin, trying to catch hold of the flying arms, only to be waved off with frenzied energy. Mellicent dissolved into tears and retreated behind the sofa, under the impression that Peggy had suddenly taken leave of her senses, and practical Esther rushed upstairs to search for a clue to the mystery among the medicine bellies on Peggy's table. She was absent only for a few minutes; but it seemed like an hour to the watchers, for Peggy's face grew more and more agonised, she seemed on the verge of suffocation, and could neither speak nor endure anyone to approach within yards of her mad career. Presently, however, she began to falter, to draw her breath in longer gasps, and as she did so there emerged from her lips a series of loud whooping sounds, like the crowing of a cock, or the noise made by a child in the convulsions of whooping-cough. The air was making its way to the lungs after the temporary stoppage, and the result would have been comical if any of the hearers had been in a mood for jesting, which, in good truth, they were not.

"Thank Heaven! She will be better now. Open the window and leave her alone. Don't try to make her speak. What in the world has the child been doing?" cried the vicar wonderingly; and at that moment Esther entered, bearing in her hand the explanation of the mystery—a bottle labelled "Spirits of Ammonia," and a tumbler about an eighth full of a white milky-looking fluid.

"They were in the front of the table. The other things had not been moved. I believe she has never looked at the labels, but seized the first bottle that came to her hand—this dreadfully strong ammonia which you gave her for the gnat bites when she first came."

A groan of assent came from the sofa on which Peggy lay, choking no longer, but ghastly white, and drawing her breath in painful gasps. Mrs Asplin sniffed at the contents of the tumbler, only to jerk back her head with watery eyes and reddened lips.

"No wonder that the child was nearly choked! The marvel is that she had ever regained her breath after such a mistake. Her throat must be raw!" She hurried out of the room to concoct a soothing draught, at which Peggy supped at intervals during the evening, croaking out a hoarse, "Better, thank you!" in reply to inquiries, and looking so small and pathetic in her nest of cushions that the hearts of the beholders softened at the sight. Before bedtime, however, she revived considerably, and, her elastic spirits coming to her aid, entertained the listeners with a husky but dramatic account of her proceedings. How she had not troubled to turn the gas full up, and had just seized the bottle, tilted some of the contents into a tumbler in which there was a small portion of water, without troubling to measure it out, and gulped it down without delay. Her description of the feelings which ensued was a really clever piece of word-painting, but behind the pretence of horror at her own carelessness there rang a hardly concealed note of pride, as though, in thus risking her life, she had done something quite clever and distinguished.

Mrs Asplin exhausted herself in "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" of sympathy, and had nothing harsher to say than—

"Well now, dearie, you'll be more careful another time, won't you?" But the vicar's long face grew longer than ever as he listened, and the lines deepened in his forehead. Peggy was inexperienced in danger-signals, but Esther and Mellicent recognised the well-known signs, and were at no loss to understand the meaning of that quiet, "A word with you in the study, Mariquita, if you please!" with which he rose from the breakfast-table next morning.

Peggy's throat was still sore, and she fondly imagined that anxiety on its behalf was the cause of the summons, but she was speedily undeceived, for the vicar motioned towards a chair, and said, in short grave sentences, as his manner was when annoyed—

"I wish to speak to you about the event of last night; I am afraid that you hardly realise the matter in its true light. I was not at all pleased with the manner in which you gave your explanation. You appeared to imagine that you had done something clever and amusing. I take a very different view. You showed a reprehensible carelessness in trifling with medicines in the dark; it might have caused you your life, or, at best, a serious injury. As it was, you brought pain upon yourself, and gave us all a serious alarm. I see nothing amusing in such behaviour, but consider it stupid, and careless to an almost criminal extent."

Peggy stood motionless, eyes cast down, hands clasped before her—a picture of injured innocence. She did not say a word in self-defence, but her feelings were so plainly written on her face that the vicar's eyes flashed with impatience.

"Well, what have you to say?"

Peggy sighed in dolorous fashion.

"I am sorry; I know it was careless. I am always doing things like that. So is Arthur. So was father when he was a boy. It's in the family. It's unfortunate, but—"

"Mariquita," said the vicar sternly, "you are not sorry! If I had seen that you were penitent, I should not have spoken, for you would have been sufficiently punished by your own sufferings, but you are not sorry; you are, on the whole, rather proud of the escapade! Look into your own heart and see if it is not so?"

He paused, looking at her with grave, expectant eyes, but there was no sign of conviction upon the set face. The eyes were still lowered, the lips drooped with an expression of patient endurance. There was silence in the room while Peggy studied the carpet, and the vicar gazed at her downcast face. A moment before he had been on the verge of anger, but the sternness melted away in that silence, and gave place to an anxious tenderness. Here was a little human soul committed to his care—how could he help? how best guide and train? The long, grave face grew beautiful in that moment with the expression which it wore every Sunday as he gazed around the church at the beginning of the sermon, noting this one and that, having a swift realisation of their needs and failings, and breathing a prayer to God that He would give to his lips the right word, to his heart the right thought, to meet the needs of his people. Evidently, sternness and outspoken blame was not the best way to touch the girl before him. He must try another mode.

"Peggy," he said quietly, "do you think you realise what a heavy responsibility we laid upon ourselves when we undertook the care of you for these three years? If any accident happened to you beneath our roof, have you ever imagined what would be our misery and remorse at sending the news to your parents? About their feelings I do not speak; you can realise them for yourself. We safeguard you with every precaution in our power; we pray morning and night that you may be preserved in safety; is it too much to ask that you will do your part by showing more forethought, and by exercising some little care in the daily duties of life? I ask it for our sakes as well as your own."

A pink flush spread over Peggy's cheeks; she gulped nervously and raised her eyes to the vicar's face. Twice her lips opened as if to speak, but the natural reserve, which made it agony to her to express her deepest feelings, closed them again before a word had been spoken. The question was not answered, but a little hand shot out and nestled in Mr Asplin's with a spasmodic grip which was full of eloquence.

"Yes, dear, I know you will! I know you will!" he said, answering the unspoken promise, and looking down at her with one of his sweet, kindly smiles. "It will be a comfort to my wife as well as myself. She is very nervous about you. She was upstairs three times in the night, to satisfy herself that you were well after your fright, and is too tired herself to come downstairs this morning. She is always bright and cheery, but she is not very strong. You would be sorry to make her ill."

No answer, only another grip of the hand, and a sudden straightening of the lips, as if they were pressed together to avoid an involuntary trembling. There is something especially touching in the sight of restrained emotion; and as the vicar thought of his own two daughters, his heart was very tender over the girl whose parents were separated from her by six thousand miles of land and sea.

"Well now, dear, I have said my say, and that is an end of it. I don't like finding fault, but my dear wife has thrown that duty on my shoulders by being too tender-hearted to say a word of blame even when it is needed. Her method works very well, as a rule, but there are occasions when it would be criminal to withhold a just reprimand." The vicar stopped short, and a spasm of laughter crossed his face. Peggy's fingers had twitched within his own as he spoke those last two words, and her eyes had dilated with interest. He knew as well as if he had been told that she was gloating over the new expression, and mentally noting it for future use. Nothing, however, could have been sweeter or more natural than the manner in which she sidled against him, and murmured—

"Thank you so much. I am sorry! I will truly try;" and he watched her out of the room with a smile of tender amusement.

"A nice child—a good child—feels deeply. I can rely upon her to do her best."

Robert was hanging about in the passage, ready, as usual, to fulfil his vows of support, and Peggy slid her hand through his arm and sauntered slowly with him towards the schoolroom. Like the two girls, he had been at no loss to understand the reason of the call to the study, and would fain have expressed his sympathy, but Peggy stopped him with uplifted finger.

"No, no—he was perfectly right. You must not blame him. I have been guilty of reprehensible carelessness, and merited a reprimand!"



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

JEALOUS THOUGHTS.

Peggy felt weak and shaken for some days after her fright, and was thankful to stay quietly indoors and busy herself with her new task. The gas-fire could be turned on in her room whenever she desired, and at every spare moment she ran upstairs, locked her door behind her, and began to write. Robert insisted that the work should be kept secret, and that not a word should be said about the competition downstairs, for he was sensitive about the remarks of his companions, and anxious to keep a possible failure to himself. All the work had to be done upstairs, therefore, and the frequent absence of the partners from the schoolroom, though much regretted, did not seem at all inexplicable to the others. It was understood that Peggy and Robert had some interest in common; but as winter advanced this was no unusual occurrence in a house where Christmas was a carnival, and surprises of an elaborate nature were planned by every member of the household. It was taken for granted that the work had some connection with Christmas, and inquiries were discreetly avoided.

With an old calendar before her as a model for the lettering, Peggy did her work neatly and well, and the gilt "arabesques" had an artistic flourish which was quite professional. When Robert was shown the first half-dozen sheets he whistled with surprise, and exclaimed, "Good old Mariquita!" a burst of approval before which Peggy glowed with delight. It had been agreed that, after printing the first ten days of January, Peggy should go on to the first ten of February, and so on throughout the year, so that Rob should be able to use what quotations had already been found under each heading, and should not be detained until the whole thirty or thirty-one had been chosen.

The partners were most fastidious in their selection at the beginning of their work; but when half the time had passed, and not one-third of the necessary number of quotations had been found, alarm seized upon the camp, and it was realised that a little more latitude must be shown.

"We shall have to use up all the old ones which we struck off the list," said Rob disconsolately. "I'm sorry; but I never realised before that three hundred and sixty-five was such an outrageously large number. And we shall have to get books of extracts, and read them through from beginning to end. Nearly two hundred more to find; a hundred and fifty, say, when we have used up those old ones! It will take us all our time!"

"I'll get up at six every morning and read by my fire," said Peggy firmly. "If it's necessary, I'll get up at five, and if I can't find bits to suit all the stupid old things, I'll—I'll write some myself! There! Why shouldn't I? I often make up things in my head, and you wouldn't believe how fine they are. I think of them days afterwards, and ask myself, 'Now where did I read that?' and then it comes back to me. 'Dear me; I made it up myself!' If we get very short, Rob, there wouldn't be any harm in writing a few sentences and signing them 'Saville,' would there?"

"Not if they were good enough," said Rob, trying to suppress the laugh which would have hurt Peggy's feelings, and looking with twinkling eyes at the little figure by his side, so comically unprofessional, with her lace collar, dainty little feet, and pigtail of dark brown hair.

"You mustn't get up too early in the morning and overtire yourself. I can't allow that!" he added firmly. "You have looked like a little white ghost the last few days, and your face is about the size of my hand. You must get some colour into your cheeks before the holidays, or that beloved Arthur will think we have been ill-treating you when he comes down."

Peggy gave a sharp sigh, and relapsed into silence. It was the rarest thing in the world to hear her allude to any of her own people. When a letter arrived, and Mrs Asplin asked questions concerning father, mother, or brother, she answered readily enough, but she never offered information, or voluntarily carried on the conversation. Friends less sympathetic might have imagined that she was so happy in her new home that she had no care beyond it, but no one in the vicarage made that mistake. When the Indian letter was handed to her across the breakfast-table, the flush of delight on the pale cheeks brought a reflected smile to every face, and more than one pair of eyes watched her tenderly as she sat hugging the precious letter, waiting until the moment should come when she could rush upstairs and devour its contents in her own room. Once it had happened that mail day had arrived and brought no letter, and that had been a melancholy occasion. Mrs Asplin had looked at one envelope after another, had read the addresses twice, thrice, even four times over, before she summoned courage to tell of its absence.

"There is no letter for you to-day, Peggy!" Her voice was full of commiseration as she spoke, but Peggy sat in silence, her face stiffened, her head thrown back with an assumption of calm indifference. "There must have been some delay in the mail. You will have two letters next week, dearie, instead of one."

"Probably," said Peggy. Mellicent was staring at her with big, round eyes; the vicar peered over the rim of his spectacles; Esther passed the marmalade with eager solicitude; her friends were all full of sympathy, but there was a "Touch-me-if-you-dare!" atmosphere about Peggy that day which silenced the words on their lips. It was evident that she preferred to be left alone, and though her eyes were red when she came down to lunch, she held her chin so high, and joined in the conversation with such an elegant flow of language, that no one dare comment on the fact. Two days later the letter arrived, and all was sunshine again; but, in spite of her cheery spirits, her friends realised that Peggy's heart was not in the vicarage, and that there were moments when the loneliness of her position pressed on her, and when she longed intensely for someone of her very own, whose place could not be taken by even the kindest of friends.

Like most undemonstrative people, Peggy dearly loved to be appreciated, and to receive marks of favour from those around. Half the zest with which she entered into her new labour was owing to the fact that Robert had chosen her from all the rest to be his partner. She was aglow with satisfaction in this fact, and with pleasure in the work itself, and the only cloud which darkened her horizon at the present moment was caused by those incidental references to the fair Rosalind which fell so often from her companions' lips.

"Everything," said Peggy impatiently to herself, "everything ends in Rosalind! Whatever we are talking about, that stupid girl's name is bound to be introduced! I asked Mellicent if she would have a scone at tea this afternoon, and she said something about Rosalind in reply— Rosalind liked scones, or she didn't like scones, or some ridiculous nonsense of the sort! Who wants to know what Rosalind likes? I don't! I'm sick of the name! And Mrs Asplin is as silly as the rest! The girls must have new dresses because Rosalind is coming, and they will be asked to tea at the Larches! If their green dresses are good enough for us, why won't they do for Rosalind, I should like to know? Rob is the only sensible one. I asked him if she were really such a marvellous creature, and he said she was an affected goose! He ought to know better than anyone else! Curls indeed! One would think it was something extraordinary to have curls! My hair would curl too, if I chose to make it, but I don't; I prefer to have it straight! If she is the 'Honourable Rosalind,' I am Mariquita Saville, and I'm not going to be patronised by anybody—so there!" and Peggy tossed her head, and glared at the reflection in the glass in a lofty and scornful manner, as though it were the offending party who had had the audacity to assume superiority.

Robert was one with Peggy in hoping that his people would not leave town until such time as the calendar should be despatched on its travels, for when they were installed at the Larches he was expected to be at home each week from Saturday until Monday, and the loss of that long holiday afternoon would interfere seriously with the work on hand. He had seen so little of his people for the last few years, that he would be expected to be sociable during the short time that he was with them, and could hardly shut himself up in his room for hours at a time. Despair then settled down upon both partners, when a letter arrived to say that the Darcy family were coming down even earlier than had been expected, and summoning Robert to join them at the earliest possible moment.

"This is awful!" cried the lad, ruffling his hair with a big, restless hand. "I know what it means—not only Saturdays off, but two or three nights during the week into the bargain! Between you and me, Mariquita, the governor is coming down here to economise, and intends to stay much longer than usual. Hector has been getting into debt again; he's the eldest, you know—the one in the Life Guards. It's a lot too bad, for he has had it all his own way so far, and when he runs up bills like this, everyone has to suffer for it. Mother hates the country for more than a few weeks at a time, and will be wretched if she is kept here all through the winter. I know how it will be: she will keep asking people down, and getting up all sorts of entertainments to relieve the dulness. It's all very well in its way, but just now when I need every minute—"

"Shall you give up trying for the prize?" asked Peggy faintly, and Rob threw back his head with emphatic disclaimer.

"I never give up a thing when I have made up my mind to do it! There are ten days still, and a great deal can be done in ten days. I'll take a couple of books upstairs with me every night, and see if I can find something fresh. There is one good thing about it, I shall have a fresh stock of books to choose from at the Larches. It is the last step that costs in this case. It was easy enough to fix off the first hundred, but the last is a teaser!"

On Saturday morning a dogcart came over to convey Robert to the Larches, and the atmosphere of the vicarage seemed charged with expectation and excitement. The Darcys had arrived; to-morrow they would appear at church; on Monday they would probably drive over with Rob and pay a call. These were all important facts in a quiet country life, and seemed to afford unlimited satisfaction to every member of the household. Peggy grew so tired of the name of Darcy that she retired to her room at eight o'clock, and was busy at work over the September batch of cards, when a knock came to the door, and she had to cover them over with the blotting-paper to admit Mellicent in her dressing-gown, with her hair arranged for the night in an extraordinary number of little plaited pigtails.

"Will you fasten the ends for me, Peggy, please?" she requested. "When I do it, the threads fall off, and the ends come loose. I want it to be specially nice for to-morrow!"

"But it will look simply awful, Mellicent, if you leave it like this. It will be frizzed out almost on a level with your head. Let me do it up in just two tight plaits; it will be far, far nicer," urged Peggy, lifting one little tail after another, and counting their number in dismay. But no, Mellicent would not be persuaded. The extra plaits were a tribute to Rosalind, a mark of attention to her on her arrival with which she would suffer no interference; and as a consequence of her stubbornness she marched to church next morning disfigured by a mop of untidy, tangled hair, instead of the usual glossy locks.

Peggy preserved a demeanour of stately calm, as she waited for the arrival of the Darcy family, but even she felt a tremor of excitement when the verger hobbled up to the square pew and stood holding the door open in his hand. The heads of the villagers turned with one consent to the doorway; only one person in the church disdained to move her position, but she heard the clatter of horses' hoofs from without, and presently the little procession passed the vicarage pew, and she could indulge her curiosity without sacrifice to pride. First of all came Lord Darcy, a thin, oldish man, with a face that looked tired and kind, and faintly amused by the amount of attention which his entrance had attracted. Then his wife, a tall, fair woman, with a beautiful profile, and an air of languid discontent, who floated past with rustling silken skirts, leaving an impression of elegance and luxury, which made Mrs Asplin sigh and Mellicent draw in her breath with a gasp of rapture. Then followed Robert with his shaggy head, scowling more fiercely than ever in his disgust at finding himself an object of attention, and last of all a girlish figure in a grey dress, with a collar of soft, fluffy chinchilla, and a velvet hat with drooping brim, beneath which could be seen a glimpse of a face pink and white as the blossoms of spring, and a mass of shining, golden hair. Peggy shut her lips with a snap, and the iron entered into her soul. It was no use pretending any longer! This was Rosalind, and she was fairer, sweeter, a hundred times more beautiful than she had ever imagined!



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

ROSALIND'S VISIT.

Robert did not make his appearance next morning, and his absence seemed to give fresh ground for the expectation that Lady Darcy would drive over with him in the afternoon and pay a call at the vicarage.

Mrs Asplin gathered what branches of russet leaves still remained in the garden and placed them in bowls in the drawing-room, with a few precious chrysanthemums peeping out here and there; laid out her very best tea-cloth and d'oyleys, and sent the girls upstairs to change their well-worn school dresses for something fresher and smarter.

"And you, Peggy dear—you will put on your pretty red, of course!" she said, standing still, with a bundle of branches in her arms, and looking with a kindly glance at the pale face, which had somehow lost its sunny expression during the last two days.

Peggy hesitated and pursed up her lips.

"Why 'of course,' Mrs Asplin? I never change my dress until evening. Why need I do it to-day, just because some strangers may call whom I have never seen before?"

It was the first time that the girl had objected to do what she was told, and Mrs Asplin was both surprised and hurt by the tone in which she spoke—a good deal puzzled too, for Peggy was by no means indifferent to pretty frocks, and as a rule fond of inventing excuses to wear her best clothes. Why, then, should she choose this afternoon of all others to refuse so simple a request? Just for a moment she felt tempted to make a sharp reply, and then tenderness for the girl whose mother was so far-away took the place of the passing irritation, and she determined to try a gentler method.

"There is not the slightest necessity, dear," she said quietly. "I asked only because the red dress suits you so well, and it would have been a pleasure to me to see you looking your best. But you are very nice and neat as you are. You need not change unless you like."

She turned to leave the room as she finished speaking; but before she had reached the door Peggy was by her side, holding out her hands to take possession of twigs and branches.

"Let me take them to the kitchen, please! Let me help you!" she said quickly, and just for a moment a little hand rested on her arm with a spasmodic pressure. That was all; but it was enough. There was no need of a formal apology. Mrs Asplin understood all the unspoken love and penitence which was expressed in that simple action, and beamed with her brightest smile.

"Thank you, my lassie, please do! I'm glad to avoid going near the kitchen again, for when cook once gets hold of me I can never get away. She tells me the family history of all her relatives, and indeed it's very depressing, it is," (with a relapse into her merry Irish accent), "for they are subject to the most terrible afflictions! I've had one dose of it to-day, and I don't want another!"

Peggy laughed, and carried off her bundle, lingered in the kitchen just long enough to remind the cook that "apple charlotte served with cream" was a seasonable pudding at the fall of the year, and then went upstairs to put on the red dress, and relieve her feelings by making grimaces at herself in the glass as she fastened the buttons.

At four o'clock the patter of horses' feet came from below, doors opened and shut, and there was a sound of voices in the hall. The visitors had arrived!

Peggy pressed her lips together, and bent doggedly over her writing. She had not progressed with her work as well as she had hoped during Rob's absence, for her thoughts had been running on other subjects, and she had made mistake after mistake. She must try to finish one batch at least, to show him on his return. Unless she was especially sent for, she would not go downstairs; but before ten minutes had passed, Mellicent was tapping at the door and whispering eager sentences through the keyhole.

"Peggy, quick! They've come! Rosalind's here! You're to come down! Quick! Hurry up!"

"All right, my dear, keep calm! You will have a fit if you excite yourself like this!" said Peggy coolly.

The summons had come, and could not be disregarded, and on the whole she was not sorry. The meeting was bound to take place sooner or later, and, in spite of her affectation of indifference, she was really consumed with curiosity to know what Rosalind was like. She had no intention of hurrying, however, but lingered over the arrangement of her papers until Mellicent had trotted downstairs again, and the coast was clear. Then she sauntered after her with leisurely dignity, opened the drawing-room door, and gave a swift glance round.

Lady Darcy sat talking to Mrs Asplin a few yards away, in such a position that she faced the doorway. She looked up as Peggy entered, and swept her eyes curiously over the girl's figure. She looked older than she had done from across the church the day before, and her face had a bored expression, but, if possible, she was even more elegant in her attire. It seemed quite extraordinary to see such a fine lady sitting on that well-worn sofa, instead of the sober figure of the vicar's wife.

Peggy flashed a look from one to the other—from the silk dress to the serge, from the beautiful weary face to the cheery loving smile—and came to the conclusion that, for some mysterious reason, Mrs Asplin was a happier woman than the wife of the great Lord Darcy.

The two ladies stopped talking and looked expectantly towards her.

"Come in, dear! This is our new pupil, Lady Darcy, for whom you were asking. You have heard of her—"

"From Robert. Oh yes, frequently! I was especially anxious to see Robert's little friend. How do you do, dear? Let me see! What is your funny little name? Molly—Dolly—something like that, I think—I forget for the moment?"

"Mariquita Saville!" quoth Peggy grandiloquently. She was consumed with regret that she had no second name to add to the number of syllables, but she did her best with those she possessed, rolling them out in her very best manner and with a stately condescension which made Lady Darcy smile for the first time since she entered the room.

"Oh-h!" The lips parted to show a gleam of regular white teeth. "That's it, is it? Well, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mariquita. I hope we shall see a great deal of you while we are here. You must go and make friends with Rosalind—my daughter. She is longing to know you."

"Yes, go and make friends with Rosalind, Peggy dear! She was asking for you," said Mrs Asplin kindly; and as the girl walked away the two ladies exchanged smiling glances.

"Amusing! Such grand little manners! Evidently a character."

"Oh, quite! Peggy is nothing if not original. She is a dear, good girl, but quite too funny in her ways. She is really the incarnation of mischief, and keeps me on tenter-hooks from morning until night, but from her manner you would think she was a model of propriety. Nothing delights her so much as to get hold of a new word or a high-sounding phrase."

"But what a relief to have someone out of the ordinary run! There are so many bores in the world, it is quite refreshing to meet with a little originality. Dear Mrs Asplin, you really must tell me how you manage to look so happy and cheerful in this dead-alive place? I am desolate at the idea of staying here all winter. What in the world do you find to do?"

Mrs Asplin laughed.

"Indeed, that's not the trouble at all; the question is how to find time to get through the day's duties! It's a rush from morning till night, and when evening comes I am delighted to settle down in an easy-chair with a nice book to read. One has no chance of feeling dull in a house full of young people."

"Ah, you are so good and clever, you get through so much. I want to ask your help in half a dozen ways. If we are to settle down here for some months, there are so many arrangements to make. Now tell me, what would you do in this case?" The two ladies settled down to a discussion on domestic matters, while Peggy crossed the room to the corner where Rosalind Darcy sat in state, holding her court with Esther and Mellicent as attendant slaves. She wore the same grey dress in which she had appeared in church the day before, but the jacket was thrown open, and displayed a distractingly dainty blouse, all pink chiffon, and frills, and ruffles of lace. Her gloves lay in her lap, and the celebrated diamond ring flashed in the firelight as she held out her hand to meet Peggy's.

"How do you do? So glad to see you! I've heard of you often. You are the little girl who is my bwothar's fwiend." She pronounced the letter "r" as if it had been "w," and the "er" in brother as if it had been "ah," and spoke with a languid society drawl more befitting a woman of thirty than a schoolgirl of fifteen.

Peggy stood motionless and looked her over, from the crown of her hat to the tip of the little trim shoe, with an expression of icy displeasure.

"Oh dear me, no," she said quietly, "you mistake the situation. You put it the wrong way about. Your brother is the big boy whom I have allowed to become a friend of mine!"

Esther and Mellicent gasped with amazement, while Rosalind gave a trill of laughter, and threw up her pretty white hands.

"She's wexed!" she cried. "She's wexed, because I called her little! I'm wewwy sowwy, but I weally can't help it, don't you know. It's the twuth! You are a whole head smaller than I am." She threw back her chin, and looked over Peggy's head with a smile of triumph. "There, look at that, and I'm not a year older. I call you wewwy small indeed for your age."

"I'm thankful to hear it! I admire small women," said Peggy promptly, seating herself on a corner of the window-seat, and staring critically at the tall figure of the visitor. She would have been delighted if she could have persuaded herself that her height was awkward and ungainly, but such an effort was beyond imagination. Rosalind was startlingly and wonderfully pretty; she had never seen anyone in real life who was in the least like her. Her eyes were a deep, dark blue, with curling dark lashes, her face was a delicate oval, and the pink and white colouring, and flowing golden locks, gave her the appearance of a princess in a fairy tale rather than an ordinary flesh-and-blood maiden. Peggy looked from her to Mellicent, who was considered quite a beauty among her companions, and, oh dear me! how plain, and fat, and prosaic she appeared when viewed side by side with this radiant vision! Esther stood the comparison better, for, though her long face had no pretensions to beauty, it was thoughtful and interesting in expression. There was no question which was most charming to look at; but if it had come to choice of a companion, an intelligent observer would certainly have decided in favour of the vicar's daughter. Esther's face was particularly grave at this moment, and her eyes met Peggy's with a reproachful glance. What was the matter with the girl this afternoon? Why did she take up everything that Rosalind said in that hasty, cantankerous manner? Here was an annoying thing—to have just given an enthusiastic account of the brightness and amicability of a new companion, and then to have that companion come into the room only to make snappish remarks, and look as cross and ill-natured as a bear! She turned in an apologetic fashion to Rosalind, and tried to resume the conversation at the point where it had been interrupted by Peggy's entrance.

"And I was saying, we have ever so many new things to show you— presents, you know, and things of that kind. The last is the nicest of all: a really good big camera with which we can take proper photographs. Mrs Saville—Peggy's mother—gave it to us before she left. It was a present to the schoolroom, so it belongs equally to us all, and we have such fun with it. We are beginning to do some good things now, but at first they were too funny for anything. There is one of father where his boots are twice as large as his head, and another of mother where her face has run, and is about a yard long, and yet it is so like her! We laughed till we cried over it, and father has locked it away in his desk. He says he will keep it to look at when he is low-spirited."

Rosalind gave a shrug to her shapely shoulders.

"It would not cheer me up to see a cawicature of myself! I don't think I shall sit to you for my portrait, if that is the sort of thing you do, but you shall show me all your failures. It will amuse me. You will have to come up and see me vewwy often this winter, for I shall be so dull. We have been abroad for the last four years, and England seems so dark and dweawy. Last winter we were at Cairo. We lived in a big hotel, and there was something going on almost every night. I was not out, of course, but I was allowed to go into the room for an hour after dinner, and to dance with the gentlemen in mother's set. And we went up the Nile in a steamer, and dwove about every afternoon, paying calls, and shopping in the bazaars. It never rains in Cairo, and the sun is always shining. It seems so wonderful! Just like a place in a fairy tale." She looked at Peggy as she spoke, and that young person smiled with an air of elegant condescension.

"It would do so to you. Naturally it would. When one has been born in the East, and lived there the greater part of one's life, it seems natural enough, but the trippers from England who just come out for a few months' visit are always astonished. It used to amuse us so much to hear their remarks!"

Rosalind stared, and flushed with displeasure. She was accustomed to have her remarks treated with respect, and the tone of superiority was a new and unpleasing experience.

"You were born in the East?"

"Certainly I was!"

"Where, may I ask?"

"In India—in Calcutta, where my father's regiment was stationed."

"You lived there till you were quite big? You can remember all about it?"

"All I want to remember. There was a great deal that I choose to forget. I don't care for India. England is more congenial to my feelings."

"And can you speak the language? Did you learn Hindostanee while you were there?"

"Naturally. Of course I did."

A gasp of amazement came from the two girls in the window, for a knowledge of Hindostanee had never been included in the list of Peggy's accomplishments, and she was not accustomed to hide her light under a bushel. They gazed at her with widened eyes, and Rosalind scented scepticism in the air, and cried quickly—

"Say something, then. If you can speak, say something now, and let us hear you."

"Pardon me!" said Peggy, simpering. "As a matter of fact, I was sent home because I was learning to speak too well. The language of the natives is not considered suitable for English children of tender age. I must ask you to be so kind as to excuse me. I should be sorry to shock your sensibilities."

Rosalind drew her brows together and stared steadily in the speaker's face. Like many beautiful people, she was not over-gifted with a sense of humour, and therefore Peggy's grandiose manner and high-sounding words failed to amuse her as they did most strangers. She felt only annoyed and puzzled, dimly conscious that she was being laughed at, and that this girl with the small face and the peaked eyebrows was trying to patronise her—Rosalind Darcy—instead of following the vicar's daughters in adoring her from a respectful distance, as of course it was her duty to do. She had been anxious to meet the Peggy Saville of whom her brother had spoken so enthusiastically, for it was a new thing to hear Rob praise a girl, but it was evident that Peggy on her side was by no means eager to make her acquaintance. It was an extraordinary discovery, and most disconcerting to the feelings of one who was accustomed to be treated as a person of supreme importance. Rosalind could hardly speak for mortification, and it was an immense relief when the door opened, and Max and Oswald hurried forward to greet her. Then indeed she was in her element, beaming with smiles, and indulging a dozen pretty little tricks of manner for the benefit of their admiring eyes. Max took possession of the chair by her side, his face lighted up with pleasure and admiration. He was too thoroughly natural and healthy a lad to be much troubled with sentiment, but ever since one winter morning five years before, when Rosalind had first appeared in the little country church, she had been his ideal of all that was womanly and beautiful. At every meeting he discovered fresh charms, and to-day was no exception to the rule. She was taller, fairer, more elegant. In some mysterious manner she seemed to have grown older than he, so that, though he was in reality three years her senior, he was still a boy, while she was almost a young lady.

Mrs Asplin looked across the room, and a little anxious furrow showed in her forehead. Maxwell's admiration for Rosalind was already an old story, and as she saw his eager face and sparkling eyes, a pang of fear came into his mother's heart. If the Darcys were constantly coming down to the Larches, it was only natural to suppose that this admiration would increase, and it would never do for Max to fall in love with Rosalind! The vicar's son would be no match for Lord Darcy's daughter; it would only mean a heartache for the poor lad, a clouded horizon just when life should be the brightest. For a moment a prevision of trouble filled her heart, then she waved it away in her cheery, hopeful fashion—

"Why, what a goose I am! They are only children. Time enough to worry my head about love affairs in half a dozen years to come. The lad would be a Stoic if he didn't admire her. I don't see how he could help it!"

"Rosalind is lovelier than ever, Lady Darcy, if that is possible!" she said aloud, and her companion's face brightened with pleasure.

"Oh, do you think so?" she cried eagerly. "I am so glad to hear it, for this growing stage is so trying. I was afraid she might outgrow her strength and lose her complexion, but so far I don't think it has suffered. I am very careful of her diet, and my maid understands all the new skin treatments. So much depends on a girl's complexion. I notice your youngest daughter has a very good colour. May I ask what you use?"

"Soap and water, fresh air, good plain food,—those are the only cosmetics we use in this house," said Mrs Asplin, laughing outright at the idea of Mellicent's healthy bloom being the result of "skin treatment." "I am afraid I have too much to do looking after the necessities of life for my girls, Lady Darcy, to worry myself about their complexions."