"Oh yes. Well, I'm sure they both look charming; but Rosalind will go much into society, and of course,"—She checked herself before the sentence was finished; but Mrs Asplin was quick enough to understand the imputation that the complexions of a vicar's daughters were but of small account, but that it was a very different matter when the Honourable Rosalind Darcy was concerned. She understood, but she was neither hurt nor annoyed by the inferences, only a little sad and very, very pitiful. She knew the story of the speaker's life, and the reason why she looked forward to Rosalind's entrance into society with such ambition. Lady Darcy had been the daughter of poor but well-born parents, and had married the widower, Lord Darcy, not because she loved him or had any motherly feeling for his two orphan boys, but simply and solely for a title and establishment, and a purse full of money. Given these, she had fondly imagined that she was going to be perfectly happy. No more screwing and scraping to keep up appearances; no more living in dulness and obscurity; she would be Lady Darcy, the beautiful young wife of a famous man. So, with no thought in her heart but for her own worldly advancement, Beatrice Fairfax stood before God's altar and vowed to love, honour, and obey a man for whom she had no scrap of affection, and whom she would have laughed to scorn if he had been poor and friendless. She married him, but the life which followed was not by any means all that she had expected. Lord Darcy had heavy money losses, which obliged him to curtail expenses almost immediately after his wedding; her own health broke down, and it was a knife in her heart to know that her boy was only the third son, and that the two big, handsome lads at Eton would inherit the lion's share of their father's property. Hector, the Lifeguardsman, and Oscar, the Dragoon, were for ever running into debt and making fresh demands on her husband's purse. She and her children had to suffer for their extravagances; while Robert, her only son, was growing up a shy, awkward lad, who hated society, and asked nothing better than to be left in the country alone with his frogs and his beetles. Ambition after ambition had failed her, until now all her hopes were centred in Rosalind, the beautiful daughter, in whom she saw a reproduction of herself in the days of her girlhood. She had had a dull and obscure youth; Rosalind should be the belle of society. Her own marriage had been a disappointment; Rosalind should make a brilliant alliance. She had failed to gain the prize for which she had worked; she would live again in Rosalind's triumphs, and in them find fullest satisfaction.

So Lady Darcy gloated over every detail of her daughter's beauty, and thought day and night of her hair, her complexion, her figure, striving still to satisfy her poor tired soul with promises of future success, and never dreaming for a moment that the prize which seemed to elude her grasp had been gained long ago by the vicar's wife, with her old-fashioned dress and work-worn hands. But Mrs Asplin knew, and thanked God in her heart for the sweetness and peace of her dear, shabby home; for the husband who loved her, and the children whom they were training to be good servants for Him in the world Yes, and for that other child too, who had been taken away at the very dawn of his manhood, and who, they believed, was doing still better work in the unseen world.

Until Lady Darcy discovered that the only true happiness rose from something deeper than worldly success, there was nothing in store for her but fresh disappointments and heart-hunger; while as for Rosalind, the unfortunate child of such a mother—Mrs Asplin looked at the girl as she sat leaning back in her chair, craning her throat, and showing off all her little airs and graces for the benefit of the two admiring schoolboys, gratified vanity and self-love showing on every line of her face.

"It seems almost cruel to say so," she sighed to herself, "but it would be the best thing that could happen to the child if she were to lose some of her beauty before she grew up. Such a face as that is a terrible temptation to vanity." But Mrs Asplin did not guess how soon these unspoken words would come back to her memory, or what bitter cause she would have to regret their fulfilment.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A PINK LUNCHEON.

For the next week conversation was more strictly centred on Rosalind than ever, and the gloomy expression deepened on Peggy's face. She was, in truth, working too hard for her strength, for, as each day passed, the necessity of hurrying on with the calendar became more apparent; and as Robert was no longer master of his own time, she was obliged to come to his aid in writing out the selected quotations.

At every spare moment of the day she was locked in her room, scribbling away for dear life or searching for appropriate extracts, and, as a consequence, her brain refused to rest when she wished it to do so. She tossed wakefully on her pillow, and was often most inclined for sleep when six o'clock struck, and she dragged herself up, a white-cheeked, weary little mortal, to sit blinking over the fire, wishing feebly that it was time to go to bed again, instead of getting up to face the long, long day.

Robert was not more observant than most boys of his age, and Peggy would have worked herself to death before she had complained to him. She was proud to feel that he depended on her more than ever, that without her help he could not possibly have finished his task, while his words of gratitude helped to comfort a heart which was feeling sore and empty.

In truth, these last few weeks had been harder for Peggy than those immediately following her mother's departure. Then each one in the house had vied with the other in trying to comfort her, whereas now, without any intention of unkindness, her companions often appeared to be neglectful.

When Rosalind was present Esther hung on one arm and Mellicent on the other, without so much as a glance over the shoulder to see if Peggy were following. Instead of a constant "Peggy, what would you like?"

"What does Peggy say?" her opinion was never even asked, while Rosalind's lightest word was treated as law.

It would have been hard for any girl under the circumstances, but it was doubly hard when that girl was so dependent on her friends, and so sensitive and reserved in disposition as Peggy Saville. She would not deign to complain or to ask for signs of affection which were not voluntarily given, but her merry ways disappeared, and she became so silent and subdued that she was hardly recognisable as the audacious Peggy of a few weeks earlier.

"Peggy's so grumpy," Mellicent complained to her mother. "She never laughs now, nor makes jokes, nor flies about as she used to do! She's just as glum and mum as can be, and she never sits with us! She is always in her bedroom with the door locked, so that we can't get in! She's there now! I think she might stay with us sometimes! It's mean, always running away!"

Mrs Asplin drew her brows together and looked worried. She had not been satisfied about Peggy lately, and this news did not tend to reassure her. Her kind heart could not endure that anyone beneath her roof should be ill or unhappy, and the girl had looked both during the last few days. She went upstairs at once and tapped at the door, when Peggy's voice was raised in impatient answer.

"I can't come! Go away! I'm engaged!"

"But I want to speak to you, dear! Please let me in!" she replied in her clear, pleasant tones; whereupon there was a hasty scamper inside, and the door was thrown open.

"Oh-h! I didn't know it was you; I thought it was one of the girls. I'm sorry I kept you waiting."

Mrs Asplin gave a glance around. The gas-fire was lit, but the chair beside it stood stiffly in the corner, and the cushion was uncrushed. Evidently, the girl had not been sitting there. The work-basket was in its accustomed place, and there were no cottons or silks lying about— Peggy had not been sewing at Christmas presents, as she had half hoped to find her. A towel was thrown over the writing-table, and a piece of blotting-paper lay on the floor. A chair was pushed to one side, as if it had been lately used. That looked as if she had been writing letters.

"Peggy dear, what are you doing all by yourself in this chilly room?"

"I'm busy, Mrs Asplin. I lit the fire as soon as I came in."

"But a room does not get warm in five minutes. I don't want you to catch cold and be laid up with a sore throat. Can't you bring your writing downstairs and do it beside the others?"

"I would rather not. I can get on so much better by myself."

"Are you writing to India—to your mother?"

"N-no, not just now."

"Then really, dear, you must come downstairs! This won't do! Your mother wished you to have a fire in your room, so that you might be able to sit here when you wanted to be alone, but she never meant you to make it a habit, or to spend all your spare time alone. It isn't healthy to use a room night and day, and to burn so much gas, and it isn't sociable, Peggy dear. Mellicent has just been complaining that you are hardly ever with them nowadays. Come along, like a good girl; put the writing away and amuse yourself downstairs. You have done enough work for one day. You don't do me credit with those white cheeks."

Peggy stood with her eyes fixed on the carpet without uttering a word. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to say, "Oh, do let me stay upstairs as much as I like for a day or two longer. I have a piece of work on hand which I am anxious to finish. It is a secret, but I hope to tell you all about it soon, and I am sure you will be pleased." If she had done so, she knew perfectly well how hearty and pleasant would have been Mrs Asplin's consent; but there are some states of mind in which it is a positive pleasure to be a martyr, and to feel oneself misunderstood, and this was just the mood in which Peggy found herself at present. She heard Mrs Asplin sigh, as if with anxiety and disappointment, as she left the room, and shrugged her shoulders in wilful indifference.

"She thinks I like sitting shivering here! I slave, and slave, from morning till night, and then people think I am sulky! I am not working for myself. I don't want the wretched old ten pounds; I could have ten pounds to-morrow if I needed it. Mother said I could. I am working to help Rob, and now I shall have to sit up later, and get up earlier than ever, as I mayn't work during the day. Mellicent said I was never with them, did she! I don't see that it matters whether I am there or not! They don't want me; nobody wants me, now that Rosalind has come! I hate Rosalind—nasty, smirking, conceited thing!" and Peggy jerked the towel off the writing-table and flicked it violently to and fro in the air, just as a little relief to her overcharged feelings.

She was crossing the hall with unwilling steps when the postman's knock sounded at the door, and three letters in long, narrow envelopes fell to the ground. Each envelope was of a pale pink tint, with a crest and monogram in white relief; one was addressed to the Misses Asplin, another to Oswald Elliston, and a third to Miss Mariquita Saville.

"Invitations!" cried Peggy, with a caper of delight. "Invitations! How scrumptious!" Her face clouded for a moment as the sight of the letters "R.D." suggested the sender of the letters; but the natural girlish delight in an unexpected festivity was stronger even than her prejudices, and it was the old, bright Peggy who bounced into the schoolroom holding up the three letters, and crying gleefully, "Quis, Quis, something nice for somebody! An invitation!"

"Ego, Ego!" came the eager replies, and the envelopes were seized and torn open in breathless haste.

"From Rosalind! Oh, how funny! 'Requests the pleasure—company—to a pink luncheon.' What in the world is a 'pink luncheon'?—'on Tuesday next, the 20th inst.'"

"A p-p-pink luncheon? How wewwy stwange!" echoed Mellicent, who had been suddenly affected with an incapacity to pronounce the letter "r" since the arrival of Rosalind Darcy on the scene—a peculiarity which happened regularly every autumn, and passed off again with the advent of spring. "How can a luncheon possibly be pink?"

"That's more than I can tell you, my dear! Ask Rob. What does it mean, Rob?" asked Peggy curiously; and Robert scowled, and shook back his shock of hair.

"Some American fad, I believe. The idea is to have everything of one colour—flowers, drapery, and food, china—everything that is on the table. It's a fag and an awful handicap, for you can't have half the things you want. But let us be modern or die—that's the motto nowadays. Mother is always trying to get hold of new-fangled notions."

"'Peggy Saville requests the pleasure of Jane Smith's company to a magenta supper.'—'Peggy Saville requests the pleasure of Mr Jones's company to a purple tea.' It's a splendid idea! I like it immensely," said Peggy, pursing her lips, and staring in the fire in meditative fashion. "Pink—pink—what can we eat that is pink? P-prawns, p-pickles, p-p-pomegranates, P-aysandu tongues (you would call those pink, wouldn't you—pinky red?) Humph! I don't think it sounds very nice. Perhaps they dye the things with cochineal. I think I shall have a sensible brown and green meal before I go, and then I can nibble elegantly at the pinkies. Would it be considered a delicate mark of attention if I wore a pink frock?"

"Certainly it would. Wear that nice one that you put on in the evenings. Rosalind will be in pink from head to foot, you may depend on it," said Robert confidently; whereupon Mellicent rushed headlong from the room to find her mother, and plead eagerly that summer crepon dresses of the desired tint should be brought forth from their hiding-place and freshened up for the occasion. To accede to this request meant an extra call upon time already fully occupied, but mothers have a way of not grudging trouble where their children are concerned. Mrs Asplin said, "Yes, darling, of course I will!" and set to work with such goodwill that all three girls sported pink dresses beneath their ulsters when they set off to partake of the mysterious luncheon, a few days later.

Rosalind came to the bedroom to receive them, and looked on from an arm-chair, while Lady Darcy's maid helped the visitors to take off their wraps. She herself looked like a rose in her dainty pink draperies, and Peggy had an impression that she was not altogether pleased to see that her guests were as appropriately dressed as herself. She eyed them up and down, and made remarks to the maid in that fluent French of hers which was so unintelligible to the schoolgirls' ears. The maid smirked and pursed up her lips, and then, meeting Peggy's steady gaze, dropped her eyes in confusion. Peggy knew, as well as if she had understood every word, that the remarks exchanged between mistress and maid had been of a depreciatory nature, not as concerned her own attire—that was as perfect in its way as Rosalind's own—but with reference to the home-made dresses of the vicar's daughters, which seemed to have suddenly become clumsy and shapeless when viewed in the mirrors of this elegant bedroom. She was in arms at once on her friends' behalf, and when Peggy's dignity was hurt she was a formidable person to tackle. In this instance she fixed her eyes first on the maid, and then on Rosalind herself with a steady, disapproving stare which was not a little disconcerting.

"I am sorry," she said, "but we really don't know French well enough to follow your conversation! You were talking about us, I think. Perhaps you would be kind enough to repeat your remarks in English?"

"Oh-h, it doesn't matter! It was nothing at all important!" Rosalind flushed, and had the grace to look a trifle ashamed of her own ill-breeding, but she did not by any means appreciate the reproof. The girls had not been ten minutes in the house, and already that aggravating Peggy Saville had succeeded in making her feel humiliated and uncomfortable. The same thing happened whenever they met. The respect and awe and adoring admiration which she was accustomed to receive from other girls of her own age seemed altogether wanting in Peggy's case; and yet, strange to say, the very fact that she refused to fall down and worship invested Peggy with a peculiar importance in Rosalind's eyes. She longed to overcome her prejudices and add her name to the list of her adorers, and to this end she considered her tastes in a way which would never have occurred to her in connection with Mrs Asplin's daughters. In planning the pink luncheon Peggy had been continually in her mind, and it is doubtful whether she would have taken the trouble to arrange so difficult an entertainment had not the party from the vicarage included that important personage, Miss Mariquita Saville.

From the bedroom the girls adjourned to the morning-room, where Lady Darcy sat waiting; but almost as soon as they had exchanged greetings, the gong sounded to announce luncheon, and they walked across the hall aglow with expectation.

The table looked exquisite, and the guests stood still in the doorway and gasped with admiration. The weather outside was grey and murky, but tall standard lamps were placed here and there, and the light which streamed from beneath the pink silk shades gave an air of warmth and comfort to the room. Down the centre of the table lay a slip of looking-glass, on which graceful long-necked swans seemed to float to and fro, while troughs filled with soft pink blossoms formed a bordering. Garlands of pink flowers fell from the chandelier and were attached to the silver candelabra, in which pink candles burned with clear and steady flare. Glass, china, ornaments, were all of the same dainty colour, and beside each plate was a dainty little buttonhole nosegay, with a coral-headed pin, all ready to be attached to the dress or coat of the owner.

"It's—it's beautiful!" cried Mellicent ecstatically; while Peggy's beauty-loving eye turned from one detail to another with delighted approbation. "Really," she said to herself in astonishment, "I couldn't have done it better myself! It's quite admirable!" and as Rosalind's face peered inquiringly at her beneath the canopy of flowers, she nodded her head, and smiled generous approval.

"Beautiful! Charming! I congratulate you! Did you design it and arrange everything yourself?"

"Mother and I made it up between us. We didn't do the actual work, but we told the servants what to do, and saw that it was all right. The flowers and bonbons are easy enough to manage; it's the things to eat that are the greatest trouble."

"It seems to be too horribly prosaic to eat anything at such a table, except crumpled rose-leaves, like the princess in the fairy tale," said Peggy gushingly; but at this Mellicent gave an exclamation of dismay, and the three big lads turned their eyes simultaneously towards the soup tureen, as if anxious to assure themselves that they were not to be put off with such ethereal rations.

The soup was pink. "Tomato!" murmured Peggy to herself, as she raised the first creamy spoonful to her lips. The fish was covered with thick pink sauce; tiny little cutlets lurked behind ruffles of pink paper; pink baskets held chicken souffles; moulds of pink cream and whipped-up syllabubs were handed round in turns, and looked so tempting that Mellicent helped herself at once, and nearly shed tears of mortification on finding that they were followed by distracting pink ices, which were carried away again before she could possibly finish what was on her plate. Then came dessert-plates and finger-glasses, in which crystallised rose-leaves floated in the scented water, as if in fulfilment of Peggy's suggestion of an hour before, and the young people sat in great contentment, eating rosy apples, bananas pared and dipped in pink sugar, or helping themselves to the delicious bonbons which were strewed about the table.

While they were thus occupied the door opened, and Lord Darcy came into the room. He had not appeared before, and he shook hands with the visitors in turn, and then stood at the head of the table looking about him with a slow, kindly smile. Peggy watched him from her seat, and thought what a nice face he had, and wondered at the indifferent manner in which he was received by his wife and daughter. Lady Darcy leant back in her chair and played with her fruit, the sleeves of her pink silk tea-gown falling back from her white arms. Rosalind whispered to Max, and neither of them troubled to cast so much as a glance of welcome at the new-comer. Peggy thought of her own father, the gallant soldier out in India, of the joy and pride with which his comings and goings were watched; of Mr Asplin in the vicarage, with his wife running to meet him, and Mellicent resting her curly bead on his shoulder; and the figure of the old lord standing unnoticed at the head of his own table assumed a pathetic interest. It seemed, however, as if Lord Darcy were accustomed to be overlooked, for he showed no signs of annoyance; on the contrary, his face brightened, and he looked at the pretty scene with sparkling eyes. The room was full of a soft rosy glow, the shimmer of silver and crystal was reflected in the sheet of mirror, and beneath the garlands of flowers the young faces of the guests glowed with pleasure and excitement. He looked from one to the other—handsome Max, dandy Oswald, Robert with his look of strength and decision; then to the girls—Esther, gravely smiling; wide-eyed Mellicent; Peggy, with her eloquent, sparkling eyes; Rosalind, a queen of beauty among them all; finally to the head of the table, where sat his wife.

"I must congratulate you, dear," he said heartily. "It is the prettiest sight I have seen for a long time. You have arranged admirably, but that's no new thing; you always do. I don't know where you get your ideas. These wreaths—eh? I've never seen anything like them before. What made you think of fastening them up there?"

"I have had them like that several times before, but you never notice a thing until its novelty is over, and I am tired to death of seeing it," said his wife, with a frown and an impatient curve of the lip, as if she had received a rebuke instead of a compliment.

Peggy stared at her plate, felt Robert shuffle on his chair by her side, and realised that he was as embarrassed and unhappy as herself. The beautiful room with its luxurious appointments seemed to have suddenly become oppressive and cheerless, for in it was the spirit of discontent and discord between those who should have been most in harmony. Esther was shocked, Mellicent frightened, the boys looked awkward and uncomfortable. No one ventured to break the silence, and there was quite a long pause before Lady Darcy spoke again in quick, irritable tones.

"Have you arranged to get away with me on Thursday, as I asked you?"

"My dear, I cannot. I explained before. I am extremely sorry, but I have made appointments which I cannot break. I could take you next week if you would wait."

"I can't wait. I told you I had to go to the dentist's. Do you wish me to linger on in agony for another week? And I have written to Mrs Bouverie that I will be at her 'At Home' on Saturday. My appointments are, at least, as binding as yours. It isn't often that I ask you to take me anywhere, but when it is a matter of health I do think you might show a little consideration."

Lord Darcy drew his brows together and bit his moustache. Peggy recalled Robert's description of the "governor looking wretched" when he found himself compelled to refuse a favour, and did not wonder that the lad was ready to deny himself a pleasure rather than see that expression on his father's face. The twinkling light had died out of his eyes, and he looked old and sad and haggard, far more in need of physical remedies than his wife, whose "agony" had been so well concealed during the last two hours as to give her the appearance of a person in very comfortable health. Rosalind alone looked absolutely unruffled, and lay back in her chair nibbling at her bonbon, as though such scenes were of too frequent occurrence between her parents to be deserving of attention.

"If you have made up your mind to go to-morrow, and cannot go alone, you must take Robert with you, Beatrice, for I cannot leave. It is only for four days, and Mr Asplin will no doubt excuse him, if you write and explain the circumstances."

Lord Darcy left the room, and Robert and Peggy exchanged agonised glances. Go away for nearly a week, when before two days were over the calendar must be sent to London, and there still remained real hard work before it was finished! Peggy sat dazed and miserable, seeing the painful effort of the last month brought to naught, Robert's ambition defeated, and her own help of no avail. That one glance had shown the lad's face flushed with emotion; but when his mother spoke to him in fretful tones, bidding him be ready next morning when she should call in the carriage on her way to the station, he answered at once with polite acquiescence—

"Very well, mater, I won't keep you waiting. I shall be ready by half-past ten if you want me."



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.

Lady Darcy left the young people by themselves after luncheon, and, as was only natural, conversation at once turned on the proposed visit to London. Peggy was too much perturbed to speak, but Mellicent put the very inquiry which she most wished answered, being never troubled with bashfulness in asking questions.

"Has your mother's tooth been hurting her very much, Rosalind?"

"Tooth! what tooth? Oh, I think she did have a little twinge one night; but it's not the dentist whom she is really going to see. That's only an excuse. She really wants to go to some parties," said Rosalind lightly; whereat her brother scowled at her under heavy brows.

"What business have you to say that? What can you know about it, pray? If mother says she is in pain, it is not for you to contradict, and make up your own explanations. Leave her to manage her own affairs—"

He spoke rapidly, but Rosalind only shrugged her shoulders, and whispered something in Max's ear, at which he smiled and nodded his head, evidently taking her part against her brother, to Peggy's intense indignation.

No words were exchanged between the partners on the subject of the calendar until they were once more at home; when Robert took advantage of the first quiet opportunity, and came up to Peggy with a face of set determination.

"Mariquita!" he said, "I—am—not—going—to give in! If you stick to me, we can still manage to get the calendar off in time. There are twenty more quotations to be found. I'll sit up to-night and fix them off, and go on writing as long as I can keep awake, but I can't take a dozen books up to town with me, so I must leave it to you to finish up. I'll mark the passages I choose, write the full address on a piece of paper, and leave everything ready for you to make up the parcel. All you will have to do will be to write the remaining cards, and to see that it is sent off on Friday. Five o'clock will be time enough, but if you can get it off in the morning, so much the better. You think you can manage as much as that?"

"Oh yes! I'd do anything rather than give up now. It would be too grudging. I am not afraid of a little more work."

"You have done more than your share already. I am mad about it, but it can't be helped. I couldn't refuse to go with the mater, and I wouldn't if I could. She is really not at all strong, and does not like the life down here. It will do her good to have a few days' change."

Peggy looked at him steadily. She did not speak, but her eyes grew soft and shining, and there was something at once so sweet, so kindly, and so gentle in her expression that Rob exclaimed in surprise—

"I say, Peggy, you—you do look pretty! I never saw you look like that before—what have you been doing to yourself?"

"Doing!" Peggy straightened herself at that, in offended dignity. "Doing, indeed! What do you mean? Don't you think I am pretty as a rule?"

"Never thought about it," returned Robert carelessly. "You are Peggy— that's enough for me. A nice state I should be in to-day if it were not for you! You are the jolliest little brick I ever met, and if I get this prize it will be far more your doing than my own."

Well, that was good hearing! Peggy held her head high for the rest of that evening, and felt as if nothing would have power to depress her for the future. But, alas, when the pendulum is at its highest it begins to swing downwards. Peggy's heart sank as she watched Robert drive away from the door the next morning, and it went on sinking more and more during the next twenty-four hours, as she realised the responsibility which weighed upon her shoulders. When she came down to breakfast on Friday morning the calendar was finished and ready to be made up for the post, but her head was splitting with pain as the result of the long hours' work stolen from sleep, and a dead weight of depression had settled on her spirits. It seemed of a sudden that all this work and effort was waste of time; that the chances of being successful were infinitesimally small; that even if it were gained, the prize was of little value; that if Robert's absence for four days made such a difference in the life at the vicarage, it would become altogether unbearable when he said good-bye at the beginning of the year and went up to Oxford; that she was a desperately unfortunate little unit, thrust into the midst of a family which was complete in itself, and had only a kindly toleration to offer to a stranger; that, in all probability, there would shortly be a war in India, when her father would be killed, her mother die of a broken heart, and Arthur be called out to join the ranks of the recruits. She conjured up a touching picture of herself, swathed in crape, bidding good-bye to her brother at the railway station, and watching the scarlet coat disappear in the distance, as the train steamed away. It was all most miserable and picturesque, and outside the fog gathered, and the rain poured down in a fine, persistent drizzle. It was one of those typical November days when it seems as if the earth itself is in the blues, and that it becomes everyone living on its surface to follow its example.

When afternoon came Peggy curled herself in an arm-chair in the corner of the study, and stared gloomily at the fire. It was four o'clock. In another hour the postman would call for the letters, and she would deliver the precious packet into his hands. She had made it up in the dinner-hour, with some faint idea of carrying it to the village; but she was tired, the rain poured, and Rob had said that the afternoon post would do. She had given up the idea of going out, and taken a nap instead on the top of her bed. And now it was four o'clock. Mellicent called out that she was dying for tea-time to come; it had seemed such a long, long day; they really ought to have tea earlier on these dreary, murky afternoons. "I want my tea!" she chanted, in shrill, penetrating tones, and instantly the refrain was taken up by the other voices, and repeated over and over again with ever-increasing volume, until the mistress of the house rushed in to discover the reason of the clamour.

"Bless your hearts, you shall have it at once!" she cried. "I'll ring and have it brought in, and ransack my cupboards to see what treats I can give you. Poor dears, it is dull for you sitting indoors all day long. We must think of some bright, exciting games for this evening." No sooner said than done; she did not wait until Mary appeared, but bustled off to meet her, to enlist the cook's sympathy, and put out the promised delicacies, and when the table was set she returned to the room and seated herself, smilingly, in Esther's place.

"I am going to stay with you this afternoon," she said brightly. "Draw up your chairs, dears, and let us be jovial. There is no credit in being happy when the sun is shining, as dear old Mark Tapley would have said; but it will really be praiseworthy if we succeed in being festive this afternoon. Come, Peggy, dearie!"

Peggy turned her dreary little face and stared at the table. From outside came the sound of the opening and shutting of the door, of footsteps in the hall. She glanced at the clock, wondering if it could possibly be the postman already, found it was only ten minutes past four, and dismissed the supposition with a sigh. "I don't—think—I want—" she was beginning slowly, when, of a sudden, there came a tremendous rat-tat-tat on the schoolroom door; the handle was not turned, but burst open; a blast of chilly air blew into the room, and in the doorway stood a tall, handsome youth, with square shoulders, a gracefully poised head, and Peggy Saville's eave-like brows above his dancing eyes.

"Oh, what a surprise!" came the cry in loud laughing tones. "How do you do, everybody? Just thought I would step in as I was passing, and have a cup of tea, don't you know."

"My boy! My boy! Oh, how good to see you!" cried Mrs Asplin rapturously. Mellicent gurgled with surprise, and Peggy stood up by her chair and stretched out both arms like a child to its mother.

"Arthur!—oh—Arthur!" she gasped, and there was a pathos, a longing, an almost incredulous rapture in her voice which made the tears start in Mrs Asplin's eyes, and brought a cloud of anxiety over the new-comer's face.

"Why, Peg!" he cried. "My little Peg! Is something wrong, dear? You look as melancholy as—"

"Peggy has not been like herself for the last few weeks. I think she has had an attack of homesickness and longing for her own people. I'm so glad you've come. You will do her more good than a dozen tonics. Bless the boy; how big he is! And how did you manage to get away, dear, and how long can you stay? Tell me all about it. I am consumed with curiosity—"

"I can stay till Monday or Tuesday, if you can put me up; and I came away because I—I suppose I am not quite up to the mark. My head bothers me. It aches, and I see black specks floating before my eyes. The doctor advised me to knock off for a few days, and I thought I would rather come here than anywhere."

"I should think so, indeed. Of course we can put you up—proud and pleased to do so. Well, this is a pleasant surprise for a dull November day! You couldn't have had a better one if you had had a hundred wishes, could you, Peggy? You won't feel melancholy any longer?"

"I'm just enraptured! Saturday, Sunday, Monday—three whole days and two halves, as good as four days—almost a week! It's too delicious— too utterly delicious to realise!"

Peggy drew deep sighs of happiness, and hung on to Arthur's arm in an abandonment of tenderness which showed her in a new light to her companions. She would not loosen her grasp for a moment, and even when seated at the table kept her fingers tightly locked round his arm, as though afraid that he might escape.

As for Arthur himself, he was in the wildest spirits. He was as handsome a young soldier as one could wish to see, and his likeness to Peggy seemed only to make him more attractive in the eyes of the beholders.

"Hurrah!" he cried cheerily. "Hurrah, for a good old vicarage tea! Scones? that's the style! Mary made them, I hope, and put in lots of currants. Raspberry jam! I say, mater, do you remember that solemn waitress you had, who told you that the jam was done again, and when you exclaimed in horror, said, 'Yes, 'um, it's not a bit of good buying raspberry jam. They like it!' Ha, ha, ha! I've often thought of that! That looks uncommonly good cake you have over there. Thank you, I think I will! Begin with cake, and work steadily back to bread and butter—that's the style, isn't it, Peggums? Esther, I looks towards you! Mellicent, you are as thin as ever, I see. You should really do something for it. There are regular hollows in your cheeks."

"Nasty, horrid thing! You are always teasing! How would you like it if you were struck fat yourself?" cried Mellicent, aggrieved. But, in spite of herself, her chubby cheeks dimpled with smiles as Arthur rolled his eyes at her across the table, for there was something irresistibly fascinating about this young fellow, and it was like old times to see him seated at the tea-table and to listen to his merry rattling voice.

"The dominie must grant a general holiday to-morrow," he declared, "and we will do something fine to celebrate the occasion. We'll have out this wonderful camera in the morning and take some groups. You and I must be taken together, Peggy, to send out to the parents. You promised to send me copies of all the things you took, but you are as false in that respect as the whole race of amateur photographers. They are grand hands at promising, but they never, by any chance—Hallo! What's that? My cup over? Awfully sorry, mater, really! I'll put a penny in the missionary-box. Was it a clean cloth?"

"Oh, my dear boy, don't apologise! I should not have felt that it was really you if you had not knocked your cup over! To see the table-cloth swimming with tea all round convinces me that it is Arthur himself, and nobody else! Tut, tut! What does a table-cloth matter?" And Mrs Asplin beamed upon her favourite as if she were really rather delighted than otherwise at his exploit.

It was a merry, not to say noisy, meal which followed. Peggy's lost spirits had come back with the first glimpse of Arthur's face; and her quips and cranks were so irresistibly droll that three separate times over Mellicent choked over her tea, and had to be relieved with vigorous pounding on the back, while even Esther shook with laughter, and the boys became positively uproarious.

Then Mr Asplin came in, and Arthur was carefully concealed behind the window-curtains, while he was asked whom he would most like to see if the choice were given him. In provoking manner he mentioned at once a brother in Australia, and, when informed that relatives were not on the list, recollected an old college chum who was out in the Mauritius.

"Oh dear, what a stupid man!" cried his wife in despair. "We don't mean the friends of your youth, dear! Think of the last few years and of your young friends! Now, if you could choose, whom would you—"

"Arthur Saville!" said the vicar promptly, upon which Arthur made a loophole between the curtains and thrust his mischievous face through the gap, to the vicar's amazement and the uproarious delight of the onlookers. A dozen questions had to be asked and answered about studies, examinations, and health, while Peggy sat listening, beaming with happiness and pride.

It came as quite a shock to all when the vicar announced that it was time to dress for dinner, and Mrs Asplin looked at Peggy with an apologetic smile.

"We were all so charmed to see Arthur that I'm afraid we have been selfish and engrossed too much of his attention. You two will be longing for a cosy little chat to yourselves. If you run upstairs now, Peggy, and hurry through your dressing, there will be a little time before dinner, and you could have this room to yourselves."

"Yes, run along, Peg! It won't take me ten minutes to get into my clothes, and I'll be here waiting for you!" cried Arthur eagerly. And Peggy went flying two steps at a time upstairs to her own room.

The gas was lit; the can of hot water stood in the basin, the towel neatly folded over the top; the hands of the little red clock pointed to six o'clock, and the faint chime met her ear as she entered.

Peggy stood still in the doorway, an icy chill crept through her veins, her hands grasped the lintel, and her eyes grew wide and blank with horror. There, on the writing-table lay a brown paper parcel—the precious parcel which contained the calendar which had been the object of such painful work and anxiety!



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

PEGGY IS LOST.

Arthur Saville waited in vain by the schoolroom fire, for his sister did not join him. And when he entered the dining-room in response to the summons of the gong, she had not yet made her appearance.

Mrs Asplin looked at him with uplifted brows.

"Where is Peggy?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen her since she went upstairs. The little wretch can't have hurried very much."

"She hasn't been with you, then! Never mind, there is plenty of time to come. She must be making a special toilet for your benefit."

But when the first course was nearly over and the girl had not yet appeared, Mrs Asplin grew impatient, and despatched the servant to hasten her movements.

"Just tell her that we have been at table for nearly ten minutes. Ask if she will be long."

Mary left the room, was absent a short time, and came back with an extraordinary statement.

"Miss Peggy is not in her room, ma'am."

"Not in her room! Then she must have come downstairs. Perhaps she didn't hear the gong. Just look in the schoolroom, Mary, and in the other rooms too, and tell her to come at once."

Another few minutes passed, and back again came Mary, looking flushed and mysterious.

"I can't see Miss Peggy anywhere, ma'am. She has not come downstairs."

"You have looked in the drawing-room—Mr Asplin's study?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Did you go upstairs again?"

"No, ma'am. I had looked there before."

"Esther dear, you go!" cried Mrs Asplin quickly. "Bring her down at once! What in the world is the child doing? It's most extraordinary!"

"She's not given to playing games of hide-and-seek just at dinner-time, is she?" asked Arthur, laughing. "I am never surprised at anything Peggy does. She has some little prank on hand, depend upon it, and will turn up in good time. It's her own fault if she misses her dinner."

"But it's so extraordinary! To-night of all nights, when you have just arrived! I wish the child would come!" replied Mrs Asplin, craning her neck forward to listen to the cries of "Peggy! Peggy!" which came from the upper storey.

The door stood open, and everyone ceased talking to follow Esther's footsteps to and fro, to count the opening and shutting of doors—one, two, three, four, five—to look apprehensively at each other as the messenger returned—alone!

"Mother, she is not there! I've looked everywhere—in every corner—and she has not changed her dress, nor washed, nor anything. The room looks exactly as if she had never gone in; but she did, for we all followed her upstairs. I looked over the wardrobe, and all her dresses are there, and the can of hot water is untouched, and the gas left full up."

"Oh dear, what can have happened?" Mrs Asplin pushed back her chair and stood up, looking anxious and puzzled. "I cannot rest until she is found! I must look myself! Go on with dinner, all of you; I won't be long. Where can the child be hiding herself?"

"Don't worry, mater!" said Arthur kindly. "It's very tiresome of Peggy to disappear at such an inopportune moment, but no harm can have happened to her, you know. It's impossible! As I said before, she has probably some wild prank in her head of which this is a part. I'll give her a lecture when I catch her for spoiling dinner like this, and such an uncommonly good dinner too!" And Arthur smiled in cheery fashion, and tried his best to keep up the failing spirits of the company by chatting away while his hostess was out of the room, as if nothing had happened which was the least unusual or alarming.

When Mrs Asplin returned, however, after a lengthened absence, there was a simultaneous rising from the table to listen to her report.

"She is not in the house! Jane began at the top and I began at the bottom, and we searched every hole and corner. I have looked in the very cupboards and wardrobes! I even searched the cistern-room, but she is not to be found. I don't know what to do next. It seems impossible that she can have disappeared—yet where can she be?"

"Have you looked in the cloak-room to see if any of her outdoor things are missing?"

"I went in, but I never thought of looking at her clothes. Outdoor? What on earth should take the child out at this hour in the dark and rain?"

"I can't tell you that, dear, but we must think of every possibility. Esther, you know best what Peggy had in the cloak-room—see if anything is missing. Mellicent, run upstairs and find if any hats or jackets have been taken from their places. If she is not in the house, she must have gone out. It was most thoughtless and foolish to go without asking permission, and at such an hour; but, as Arthur says, there is not much chance of any harm befalling her. Try not to work yourself up into a state of anxiety, dear; we shall soon find your truant for you. Well, Esther, what is it?"

"Her mackintosh has gone, father, and her red tam-o'-shanter, and her snow-shoes. Her peg is next to mine, and there is nothing on it but her check golf cape."

"She has gone out, then! What can it mean?—to-night of all nights, when she was so happy, when Arthur had just arrived, when she promised to be downstairs in ten minutes—"

"It is most extraordinary! It must have been something of great importance, one would say. Does anyone know if Peggy had any special interest on hand at present? Was there any gift which she wished to buy? It does not happen to be anyone's birthday to-morrow, does it? Yours, Arthur, for instance? No? The birthday of a school-friend, then? She might suddenly have remembered such an occasion, and rushed out to post a letter—"

"But there is no post until to-morrow morning, so she would gain no time by doing that. The postman called at five o'clock, and the letters were on the hall-table waiting for him as usual. I do not know of any work that she had on hand, but the girls have complained that she has spent all her spare time in her room lately, and when I spoke to her about it she said she was writing—"

"Perhaps she is writing a book," suggested Mellicent thoughtfully. "She says she is going to be an authoress when she grows up. I think Robert knew what she was doing. They were always talking together and looking over books, and I heard him say to her, 'Bring me all you have finished, to look over.' I said something to her about printing some photographs for Christmas cards, and she said she could do nothing until after the nineteenth."

"The nineteenth!" echoed the vicar sharply. "That is to-day. We gather from that, then, that Peggy had been busy with work, either by herself or in conjunction with Robert, which had to be completed by to-day. Nobody has the least idea of what nature it was? No? Then I shall go to Robert's room and see if there is anything lying about which can give me a clue."

"I'll go with you, sir," said Arthur, who was beginning to look a little anxious and uneasy, as the moments passed by and brought no sign of his sister; but, alas, the scattered papers on Rob's table gave no clue to the mystery!

When one is endeavouring to find a reason why a girl should mysteriously disappear from her home, it does not help very much to find a few slips of paper on which are written such items as "Tennyson's Poems, page 26," "Selections from British Authors, 203", "Macaulay's Essays, 97," etcetera.

Arthur and Mr Asplin looked at one another, puzzled and disappointed, and had no alternative but to return to the dining-room and confess their failure.

"Would not it be a good thing to go up to the Larches, and hear what Robert has to say on the subject?" Arthur asked; and when he was told that Robert was in London he still held to his suggestion.

"For someone else in the house may know about it," he declared. "Rob may have confided in his mother or sister. At the worst we can get his address, and telegraph to him for information, if she has not returned before we get back. She might even have gone to the Larches herself to—to see Rosalind!"

"Peggy doesn't like Rosalind. She never goes to see her if she can help it. I'm quite sure she has not gone there," said Mellicent shrewdly. "It is more likely she has gone to Fraulein's lodgings to tell her about Arthur. She is fond of Fraulein."

The suggestion was not very brilliant, but it was hailed with eagerness by the listeners as the most probable explanation yet offered.

"Then I'll tell you what we will do. I'll go off to the Larches," cried Arthur, "and one of you fellows can see Fraulein, and find out if Peggy has been there. We must try every place, likely and unlikely. It is better than sitting here doing nothing."

Max frowned and hesitated. "Or—er—or you might go to Fraulein, and I'll take the Larches! It is a long walk for you after your journey," he suggested, with a sudden access of politeness, "and there seems more probability that Fraulein may be able to help us. You could go there and back in a short time."

"Just as you like, of course. It is all the same to me," returned Arthur, in a tone which plainly intimated that it was nothing of the sort. Mrs Asplin looked from one to the other of the flushed faces, realising that even in the midst of anxiety the image of beautiful, golden-haired Rosalind had a Will-o'-the-wisp attraction for the two big lads; but her husband saw nothing of what lay behind the commonplace words, and said calmly—

"Very well, then, Max, be off with you as fast as you can go. Find out if Robert has said anything about the work which he has had on hand; find out his address in town, and, if possible, where a telegram would reach him this evening. Arthur will call at Fraulein's lodgings; and, Oswald, you might go with him so far, and walk through the village. Ask at old Mrs Gilpin's shop if Miss Saville has been there, but don't talk about it too much; we don't want to make more fuss than we can help. Keep your eyes open!"

The three lads departed without further delay; the vicar put on his coat and hat preparatory to searching the garden and the lanes in the immediate neighbourhood, and the womenkind of the household settled down to an hour of painful waiting.

Mrs Asplin lay back in her chair, with her hand to her head, now silent, now breaking out into impetuous lamentations. The fear lest any accident had happened to Peggy paralysed her with dread. Her thoughts went out to far-away India; she imagined the arrival of the ominous cablegram; pictured it carried into the house by a native servant; saw the light die out of two happy faces at the reading of the fatal words. "Oh, Peggy, Peggy!" she groaned. "Oh, the poor father—the poor mother! What will I do? What will I do? Oh, Peggy, dearie, come back I come back!"

Esther busied herself looking after a dozen little domestic arrangements, to which no one else seemed capable of attendance, and Mellicent laid her head on her mother's lap, and never ceased crying, except for one brief interval, when she darted upstairs to peep inside the old oak chest, prompted thereto by a sudden reminiscence of the bride of the "Mistletoe Bough." There was no Peggy inside the chest, however; only a few blankets, and a very strong smell of camphor; so Mellicent crept back to her footstool, and cried with redoubled energy. In the kitchen the fat old cook sat with a hand planted on either knee, and thrilled the other servants with an account of how "a cousin of me own brother-in-law, him that married our Annie, had a child as went a-missing, as fine a girl as you could wish to see from June to January. Beautiful kerly 'air, for all the world like Miss Mellicent's, and such nice ways with her! Everybody loved that child, gentle and simple. 'Beller,' 'er name was, after her mother. She went out unbeknownst, just as it might be Miss Peggy, and they searched and better searched,"—cook's hands waved up and down, and the heads of the listeners wagged in sympathy—"and never a trace could they find. 'Er father—he's a stone-mason by trade, and getting good money—he knocked off work, and his friends they knocked off too, and they searched the country far and wide. Day and night I tell you they searched, a week on end, and poor Isabeller nearly off her head with grief. I've heard my sister say as she never tasted bite nor sup the whole time, and was wasted to a shadow. Eh, poor soul, it's hard to rare up a child, and have it go out smiling and bonnie, and never see nothink of it again but its bones—for she had fallen into a lime pit, had Beller, and it was nothing but her skeleton as they brought 'ome. There was building going on around there, and she was playing near the pit—childlike—just as it might be Miss Peggy..." Soon and on. The horrors accumulated with every moment. The housemaid had heard tell of a beautiful little girl, the heiress to a big estate, who had been carried off by strolling gipsies, and never been seen again by her sorrowing relatives; while the waitress hinted darkly that the time might come when it would be a comfort to know force had been employed, for sharper than a serpent's tooth was an ungrateful child, and she always had said that there was something uncanny about that little Miss Saville!

The clock was striking nine o'clock when the first of the messengers came back to report his failure; he was closely followed by a second; and last of all came Max, bringing word that nothing had been seen or heard of Peggy at the Larches; that neither Lord Darcy nor Rosalind had the faintest idea of the nature of the work which had just been completed; and, further, that on this evening Robert was escorting his mother to some entertainment, so that even if sent off at once a telegram could not reach him until a late hour. Mrs Asplin turned her white face from one speaker to the other, and, when the last word was spoken, broke into a paroxysm of helpless weeping.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THE SECRET CONFESSED.

"Something has happened! Something terrible has happened to the child! And she was left in our charge. We are responsible. Oh, if any harm has happened to Peggy, however, ever, ever, can I bear to live and send the news to her parents—"

"My dearest, you have done your best; you could not have been kinder or more thoughtful. No blame can attach to you. Remember that Peggy is in higher hands than yours. However far from us she may be, she can never stray out of God's keeping. It all seems very dark and mysterious, but—"

At this moment a loud rat-tat-tat sounded on the knocker, and with one accord the hearers darted into the hall, and stood panting and gasping, while Arthur threw open the door.

"Telegram, sir!" said a sharp, young voice, and the brown envelope which causes so much agitation in quiet households was thrust forward in a small cold hand. Arthur looked at the address and handed it to the vicar.

"It is for you, sir, but it cannot possibly be anything about—"

Mr Asplin tore open the envelope, glanced over the words, and broke into an exclamation of amazement. "It is! It is from Peggy herself!—'Euston Station. Returning by 10.30 train. Please meet me at twelve o'clock.—Peggy.' What in the world does it mean?" He looked round the group of anxious faces, only to see his own expression of bewilderment repeated on each in turn.

"Euston! Returning! She is in London. She is coming back from town!"

"She ran away to London, to-night when she was so happy, when Arthur had just arrived! Why? Why? Why?"

"She must have caught the seven o'clock train."

"She must have left the house almost immediately after going upstairs to dress for dinner."

"Oh, father, why should she go to London?"

"I am quite unable to tell you, my dear," replied the vicar drily. He looked at his wife's white, exhausted face, and his eyes flashed with the "A-word-with-you-in-my-study" expression, which argued ill for Miss Peggy's reception. Mrs Asplin, however, was too thankful to know of the girl's safety to have any thought for herself. She began to smile, with the tears still running down her face, and to draw long breaths of relief and satisfaction.

"It's no use trying to guess at that, Millie dear. It is enough for me to know that she is alive and well. We shall just have to try and compose ourselves in patience until we hear Peggy's own explanation. Let me see! There is nearly an hour before you need set out. What can we do to pass the time as quickly as possible?"

"Have some coffee, I should say! None of us have had too much dinner, and a little refreshment would be very welcome after all this strain," said Arthur promptly, and Mrs Asplin eagerly welcomed the suggestion.

"That's what I call a really practical proposal! Ring the bell, dear, and I will order it at once. I am sure we shall all have thankful hearts while we drink it." She looked appealingly at Mr Asplin as she spoke; but there was no answering smile on his face, and the lines down his cheeks looked deeper and grimmer than ever.

"Oh, goody, goody, goodness, aren't I glad I am not Peggy!" sighed Mellicent to herself; while Arthur Saville pursed his lips together, and thought, "Poor little Peg! She'll catch it. I've never seen the dominie look so savage. This is a nice sort of treat for a fellow who has been ordered away for rest and refreshment! I wish the next two hours were safely over."

Wishing, unfortunately, however, can never carry us over the painful crises of our lives. We have to face them as best we may, and Arthur needed all his cheery confidence to sustain him during the damp walk which followed, when the vicar tramped silently by his side, his shovel hat pulled over his eyes, his mackintosh coat flapping to and fro in the wind.

They reached the station in good time, and punctually to the minute the lights of the London express were seen in the distance. The train drew up, and among the few passengers who alighted the figure of Peggy, in her scarlet-trimmed hat, was easily distinguished. She was assisted out of the carriage by an elderly gentleman, in a big travelling coat, who stood by her side as she looked about for her friends. As Mr Asplin and Arthur approached, they only heard his hearty, "Now you are all right!" and Peggy's elegant rejoinder, "Exceedingly indebted to you for all your kindness!" Then he stepped back into the carriage, and she came forward to meet them, half shy, half smiling, "I—I am afraid that you—"

"We will defer explanations, Mariquita, if you please, until we reach home. A fly is waiting. We will return as quickly as possible," said the vicar frigidly; and the brother and sister lagged behind as he led the way out of the station, gesticulating and whispering together in furtive fashion.

"Oh, you Peggy! Now you have done it! No end of a row!"

"Couldn't help it! Had to go. Stick to me, Arthur, whatever you do!"

"Like a leech! We'll worry through somehow. Never say die!" Then the fly was reached, and they jolted home in silence.

Mrs Asplin and the four young folks were sitting waiting in the drawing-room, and each one turned an eager, excited face towards the doorway as Peggy entered, her cheeks white, but with shining eyes, and hair ruffled into little curls beneath the scarlet cap. Mrs Asplin would have rushed forward in welcome, but a look in her husband's face restrained her, and there was a deathlike silence in the room as he took up his position by the mantelpiece.

"Mariquita," he said slowly, "you have caused us to-night some hours of the most acute and painful anxiety which we have ever experienced. You disappeared suddenly from among us, and until ten o'clock, when your telegram arrived, we had not the faintest notion as to where you could be. The most tragic suspicions came to our minds. We have spent the evening in rushing to and fro, searching and inquiring in all directions. Mrs Asplin has had a shock from which, I fear, she will be some time in recovering. Your brother's pleasure in his visit has been spoiled. We await your explanation. I am at a loss to imagine any reason sufficiently good to excuse such behaviour; but I will say no more until I have heard what you have to say."

Peggy stood like a prisoner at the bar, with hanging head and hands clasped together. As the vicar spoke of his wife, she darted a look at Mrs Asplin, and a quiver of emotion passed over her face. When he had finished she drew a deep breath, raised her head and looked him full in the face with her bright, earnest eyes.

"I am sorry," she said slowly. "I can't tell you in words how sorry I am. I know it will be difficult, but I hope you will forgive me. I was thinking what I had better do while I was coming back in the train, and I decided that I ought to tell you everything, even though it is supposed to be a secret. Robert will forgive me, and it is Robert's secret as much as mine. I'll begin at the beginning. About five weeks ago Robert saw an advertisement of a prize that was offered by a magazine. You had to make up a calendar with quotations for every day in the year, and the person who sent in the best selection would get thirty pounds. Rob wanted the money very badly to buy a microscope, and he asked me to help him. I was to have ten pounds for myself if we won, but I didn't care about that. I just wanted to help Rob. I said I would take the money, because I knew if I didn't he would not let me work so hard, and I thought I would spend it in buying p-p-presents for you all at Christmas."—Peggy's voice faltered at this point, and she gulped nervously several times before she could go on with her story.—"We had to work very hard, because the time was so short. Robert had not seen the advertisement until it had been out some time. I printed the headings on the cards; that is why I sat so much in my own room. The last fortnight I have been writing every morning before six o'clock. Oh, you can't think how difficult it was to get it finished, but Robert was determined to go on; he thought our chance was very good, because he had found some beautiful extracts, and translated others, and the pages really looked pretty and dainty. The manuscript had to be in London this morning; if it missed the post last night, all our work would have been wasted, and at the last moment Lady Darcy took Rob away with her, and I was left with everything to finish. I may have slept a little bit the last two nights; I did lie down for an hour or two, and I may have had a doze, but I don't think so! I wrote the last word this morning after the breakfast-bell had rung, and I made up the parcel at twelve o'clock. I thought of going out and posting it then; of course, that is what I should have done, but,"—her voice trembled once more—"I was so tired! I thought I would give it to the postman myself, and that would do just as well. I didn't put it with the letters because I was afraid someone would see the address and ask questions, and Rob had said that I was to keep it a secret until we knew whether we had won. I left the parcel on my table. Then Arthur came! I was so happy—there was so much to talk about—we had tea—it seemed like five minutes. Everyone was amazed when we found it was time to dress, but even then I forgot all about the calendar. I only remembered that Arthur was here, and was going to stay for four days, and all the way upstairs I was saying to myself, 'I'm happy, I'm happy; oh I am happy!' because, you know, though you are so kind, you have many relatives belonging to you whom you love better than me, and my own people are all far-away, and sometimes I've been very lonely! I thought of nothing but Arthur, and then I opened the door of my room, and there, before my eyes, was the parcel—Rob's parcel that he had trusted to me— that I had solemnly promised to post in time—"

She stopped short, and there was a gasp of interest and commiseration among the listeners. Peggy caught it; she glanced sharply at the vicar's face, saw its sternness replaced by a momentary softness, and was quick to make the most of her opportunity. Out flew the dramatic little hand, her eyes flashed, her voice thrilled with suppressed excitement.

"It lay there before my eyes, and I stood and looked at it.—I thought of nothing, but just stood and stared. I heard you all come upstairs, and the doors shut, and Arthur's voice laughing and talking; but there was only one thing I could remember—I had forgotten Rob's parcel, and he would come back, and I should have to tell him, and see his face! I felt as if I were paralysed, and then suddenly I seized the parcel in my hands, and flew downstairs. I put on my cap and cloak and went out into the garden. I didn't know what I was going to do, but I was going to do something! I ran on and on, through the village, down towards the station. I knew it was too late for the post-office, but I had a sort of feeling that if I were at the station something might be done. Just as I got there a train came in, and I heard the porter call out, 'London express.' I thought—No! I did not think at all—I just ran up to a carriage and took a seat, and the door banged, and away we went. The porter came and asked for my ticket, and I had a great deal of trouble to convince him that I had only come from here, and not all the way. There was an old lady in the carriage, and she told him that it was quite true, for she had seen me come in. When we went off again, she looked at me very hard, and said, 'Are you in trouble, dear?' and I said, 'Yes, I am; but oh, please don't talk to me! Do please leave me alone!' for I had begun to realise what I had done, and that I couldn't be back for hours and hours, and that you would all be anxious and unhappy. I think I was as miserable as you were when I sent off that telegram. I posted the parcel in London, and went and sat in the waiting-room. I had an hour and a half to wait, and I was wretched and nervous and horribly hungry. I had no money left except a few coppers, and I was afraid to spend them and have nothing left. It seemed like a whole day, but at last the train came in, and I saw an old gentleman with white hair standing on the platform. I took a fancy to his appearance, so I walked up to him, and bowed, and said, 'Excuse me, sir—I find myself in a dilemma! Will you allow me to travel in the same carriage as yourself?' He was most agreeable. He had travelled all over the world, and talked in the most interesting fashion, but I could not listen to his conversation. I was too unhappy. Then we arrived, and Mr Asplin called me 'M-M-Mariquita!' and w-wouldn't let you kiss me—"

Her voice broke helplessly this time, and she stood silent, with quivering lip, while sighs and sobs of sympathy echoed from every side. Mrs Asplin cast a glance at her husband, half defiant, half appealing, met a smile of assent, and rushed impetuously to Peggy's side.

"My darling! I'll kiss you now. You see we knew nothing of your trouble, dear, and we were so very, very anxious. Mr Asplin is not angry with you any longer, are you, Austin? You know now that she had no intention of grieving us, and that she is truly sorry—"

"I never thought—I never thought,"—sobbed Peggy; and the vicar gave a slow, kindly smile.

"Ah, Peggy, that is just what I complain about. You don't think, dear, and that causes all the trouble. No, I am not angry any longer. I realise that the circumstances were peculiar, and that your distress was naturally very great. At the same time, it was a most mad thing for a girl of your age to rush off by rail, alone, and at night-time, to a place like London. You say that you had only a few coppers left in your purse. Now suppose there had been no train back to-night, what would you have done? It does not bear thinking of, my dear; or that you should have waited alone in the station for so long, or thrown yourself on strangers for protection. What would your parents have said to such an escapade?"

Peggy sighed, and cast down her eyes. "I think they would have been cross too. I am sure they would have been anxious, but I know they would forgive me when I was sorry, and promised that I really and truly would try to be better and more thoughtful! They would say, 'Peggy dear, you have been sufficiently punished! Consider yourself absolved!'"

The vicar's lips twitched, and a twinkle came into his eye. "Well then, I will say the same! I am sure you have regretted your hastiness by this time, and it will be a lesson to you in the future. For Arthur's sake, as well as your own, we will say no more on the subject. It would be a pity if his visit were spoiled. Just one thing, Peggy, to show you that, after all, grown-up people are wiser than young ones, and that it is just as well to refer to them now and then, in matters of difficulty. Has it ever occurred to you that the mail went up to London by the very train in which you yourself travelled, and that by giving your parcel to the guard it could still have been put in the bag? Did that thought never occur to your wise little brain?"

Peggy made a gesture as of one heaping dust and ashes on her head. "I never did," she said, "not for a single moment! And I thought I was so clever! I am prostrate with confusion!"



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

ROSALIND'S BALL.

In consideration of Arthur's presence and of the late hours and excitement of the night before, the next day was observed as a holiday in the vicarage. Mrs Asplin stayed in bed until lunch-time, the boys went for a bicycle ride, and Peggy and her brother had a delightful chat together by the schoolroom fire, when he told her more details about his own plans than he had been able to touch upon in a dozen letters.

"The preliminary examination for Sandhurst begins on the 26th this year," he explained, "and so far as I can make out I shall romp through it. I am going to take all the subjects in Class One—mathematics, Latin, French, geometrical drawing, and English composition; I'll astonish them in the last subject! Plenty of dash and go, eh, Peggy,— that's the style to fetch 'em! In Class Two you can only take two subjects, so I'm going in for chemistry and physics. I rather fancy myself in physics, and if I don't come out at the head of the list, or precious near the head, it won't be for want of trying. I have worked like a nigger these last six months; between ourselves, I thought I had worked too hard a few days ago; I felt so stupid and dizzy, and my head ached until I could hardly open my eyes. If I had not come away, I believe I should have broken down, but I'm better already, and by Tuesday I shall be as fit as a fiddle. I hope I do well, it would be so jolly to cable out the news to the old pater; and I say, Peg, I don't mean to leave Sandhurst without bringing home something to keep as a souvenir. At the end of each Christmas term a sword is presented to the cadet who passes out first in the final exam.—'The Anson Memorial Sword.' Mariquita!"—Arthur smote his breast, and struck a fierce and warlike attitude,—"that sword is mine! In the days to come, when you are old and grey-headed, you will see that rusty blade hanging over my ancestral hearth, and tell in faltering tones the story of the gallant youth who wrested it from his opponents."

"Ha, ha!" responded Peggy deeply. There was no particular meaning in the exclamation, but it seemed right and fitting in the connection, and had a smack of melodrama which was quite to her taste. "Of course you will be first, Arthur!" she added; "and, oh dear! how proud I shall be when I see you in all your uniform! I am thankful all my men relatives are soldiers, they are so much more interesting than civilians. It would break my heart to think of you as a civilian! Of course wars are somewhat disconcerting, but then one always hopes there won't be wars."

"I don't!" cried Arthur loudly. "No, no—active service for me, and plenty of it!

"'Come one, come all, this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I!'

"That's my motto, and my ambition is the Victoria Cross, and I'll get that too before I'm done; you see if I don't! It's the ambition of my life, Peg. I lie awake and think of that little iron cross; I go to sleep and dream of it, and see the two words dancing before my eyes in letters of fire, 'For Valour,' 'For Valour,' 'For Valour.' Ah!"—he drew a deep breath of excitement—"I don't think there is anything in the world I should envy, if I could only gain that."

Peggy gazed at him with kindling eyes. "You are a soldier's son," she said, "and the grandson of a soldier, and the great-grandson of a soldier; it's in your blood; you can't help it—it's in my blood too, Arthur! I give you my solemn word of honour that if the French or Germans came over to invade this land, I'd—" Peggy seized the ruler and waved it in the air with a gesture of fiercest determination—"I'd fight them! There! I'd shoot at them; I'd go out and spike the guns; I'd— I'd climb on the house-tops and throw stones at them. You needn't laugh, I tell you I should be terrible! I feel as if I could face a whole regiment myself. The spirit—the spirit of my ancestors is in my breast, Arthur Reginald, and woe betide that enemy who tries to wrest from me my native land!" Peggy went off into a shriek of laughter, in which Arthur joined, until the sound of the merry peals reached Mrs Asplin's ears as she lay wearily on her pillow, and brought a smile to her pale face. "Bless the dears! How happy they are!" she murmured to herself; nor even suspected that it was a wholesale massacre of foreign nations which had been the cause of this gleeful outburst.

Arthur left the vicarage on Tuesday evening, seemingly much refreshed by the few days' change, though he still complained of his head, and pressed his hand over his eyes from time to time as though in pain. The parting from Peggy was more cheerful than might have been expected, for in a few more weeks Christmas would be at hand, when, as he himself expressed it, he hoped to return with blushing honours thick upon him. Peggy mentally expended her whole ten pounds in a present for the dear handsome fellow, and held her head high in the consciousness of owning a brother who was destined to be Commander-in-Chief of the British forces in the years to come.

The same evening Robert returned from his visit to London. He had heard of Peggy's escapade from his father and sister, and was by no means so grateful as that young lady had expected.

"What in all the world possessed you to play such a mad trick?" he queried bluntly. "It makes me ill to think of it. Rushing off to London on a wet, foggy night, never even waiting to inquire if there was a return train, or to count if you had enough money to see you through! Goodness only knows what might have happened! You are careless enough in an ordinary way, but I must say I gave you credit for more sense than that."

"Well, but, Rob," pleaded Peggy, aggrieved, "I don't think you need scold! I did it for you, and I thought you would be pleased."

"Did you indeed? Well, you are mightily mistaken; I wouldn't have let you do a thing like that for all the microscopes in the world. I don't care a rap for the wretched old microscope."

"Oh! oh!"

"In comparison, I mean. Of course I should have been glad to get it if it had come to me in an ordinary way, but I was not so wrapped up in the idea that I would not have been reasonable, if you had come to me quietly and explained that you had missed the post."

Peggy shook her head sagely. "You think so now, because the danger is over, and you are sure it can't happen. But I know better. I can tell you exactly what would have happened. You wouldn't have stormed or raged, it would have been better if you had, and sooner over; you would just have stood still, and—glared at me! When I'd finished speaking, you would have swallowed two or three times over, as if you were gulping down something which you dared not say, and then turned on your heel and marched out of the room. That's what you would have done, my dear and honourable sir, and you know it!"

Robert hung his head and looked self-conscious.

"Well, if I had! A fellow can't hide all he feels in the first moment of disappointment. But I should have got over it, and you know very well that I should never have brought it up against you. 'Glared!' What if I did glare? There is nothing very terrible in that, is there?"

"Yes, there is. I could not have borne it, when I had been trying so hard to help you. And it would not have been only the first few minutes. Every time when you were quiet and depressed, when you looked at your specimens through your little old glass and sighed, and pitched it away, as I've seen you do scores and scores of times, I should have felt that it was my fault, and been in the depths of misery. No, no, I'm sorry to the depths of my heart that I scared dear Mrs Asplin and the rest, but it is a matter of acute satisfaction to me to know that your chance has in no way been hindered by your confidence in me!" and Peggy put her head on one side, and coughed in a faint and ladylike manner, which brought the twinkle back into Robert's eyes.

"Good old Mariquita!" he cried, laughing. "'Acute satisfaction' is good, Mariquita—decidedly good! You will make your name yet in the world of letters. Well, as I said before, you are a jolly little brick, and the best partner a fellow ever had! Mind you, I tell you straight that I think you behaved badly in cutting off like that; but I'll stand by you to the others, and not let them sit upon you while I am there."

"Thanks!" said Peggy meekly. "But, oh, I beseech of you, don't bring up the subject if you can help it! I'm tired to death of it all! The kindest thing you can do is to talk hard about something else, and give them a fresh excitement to think about. Talk about—about—about Rosalind if you will; anything will do—only, for pity's sake, leave me alone, and pretend there is not such a thing in the world as a calendar!"

"Right you are!" said Robert, laughing. "I'll steer clear of the rocks! And as it happens, I have got a piece of news that will put your doings into the background at one fell swoop. Rosalind is going to give a party! The Earl and Countess of Berkhampton are coming down to the Larches the week after next, and are going to bring their two girls with them. They are great lanky things, with about as much 'go' in the pair as in one of your little fingers; but this party is to be given in their honour. The mater has asked everyone of a right age within a dozen miles around, and the house will be crammed with visitors. Your card is coming to-morrow, and I hope you will give me the honour of the first round, and as many as possible after that."

"The first, with pleasure; I won't promise any more until I see how we get on. It doesn't seem appropriate to think of your dancing, Rob; there is something too heavy and serious in your demeanour. Oswald is different; he would make a charming dancing master. Oh, it will be an excitement! Mellicent will not be able to eat or sleep for thinking of it; and poor Mrs Asplin will be running up seams on the sewing-machine, and making up ribbon bows from this day to that. I'm glad I have a dress all ready, and shan't be bothered with any trying on! You don't know what it is to stand first on one leg and then on the other, to be turned and pulled about as if you were a dummy, and have pins stuck into you as if you were a pin-cushion! I adore pretty clothes, but every time I go to the dressmaker's I vow and declare that I shall take to sacks. Tell them at dinner, do, and they will talk about it for the rest of the evening!"

Peggy's prophecy came true, for the subject of Rosalind's party became a topic of such absorbing interest as left room for little else during the next few weeks. New dresses had to be bought and made for the girls, and Peggy superintended the operations of the village dressmaker with equal satisfaction to herself and her friends.

Rosalind appeared engrossed in preparations, and two or three times a week, as the girls trudged along the muddy roads, with Fraulein lagging in the rear, the jingle of bells would come to their ears, and Rosalind's two white long-tailed ponies would come dashing past, drawing the little open carriage in which their mistress sat, half-hidden among a pile of baskets and parcels. She was always beautiful and radiant, and as she passed she would turn her head over her shoulders and look at the three mud-bespattered pedestrians with a smile of pitying condescension, which made Peggy set her teeth and draw her eyebrows together in an ominous frown.

One day she condescended to stop and speak a few words from her throne among the cushions.

"How de do? So sowwy not to have been to see you! Fwightfully busy, don't you know. We are decowating the wooms, and don't know how to finish in time. It's going to be quite charming!"

"We know! We know! Rob told us. I'm dying to see it. You should ask Peggy to help you, if you are in a hurry. She's s-imply splendid at decorations! Mother says she never knew anyone so good at it as Peggy!" cried Mellicent, with an outburst of gushing praise, in acknowledgment of which she received a thunderous frown and such a sharp pinch on the arm as penetrated through all her thick winter wrappings.

Rosalind, however, only ejaculated, "Oh, weally!" in an uninterested manner, and whipped up her ponies without taking any further notice of the suggestion; but it had taken root in her mind all the same, and she did not forget to question her brother on the first opportunity.

Mellicent Asplin had said that Peggy Saville was clever at decoration. Was it true, and would it be the least use asking her to come and help in the decorations?

Robert laughed, and wagged his head with an air of proud assurance.

Clever! Peggy? She was a witch! She could work wonders! If you set her down in an empty room, and gave her two-and-sixpence to transform it into an Alhambra, he verily believed she could do it. The way in which she had rigged up the various characters for the Shakespeare reading was nothing short of miraculous. Yes, indeed, Peggy would be worth a dozen ordinary helpers. The question was, Would she come?

"Certainly she will come. I'll send down for her at once," said Rosalind promptly, and forthwith sat down and wrote a dainty little note, not to Peggy herself, but to Mrs Asplin, stating that she had heard great accounts of Peggy Saville's skill in the art of decoration, and begging that she might be allowed to come up to the Larches to help with the final arrangements, arriving as early as possible on the day of the party, and bringing her box with her, so as to be saved the fatigue of returning home to dress. It was a prettily worded letter, and Mrs Asplin was dismayed at the manner of its reception.

"No, Peggy Saville won't!" said that young person, pursing her lips and tossing her head in her most high and mighty manner. "She won't do anything of the sort! Why should I go? Let her ask some of her own friends! I'm not her friend! I should simply loathe to go!"

"My dear Peggy! When you are asked to help! When this entertainment is given for your pleasure, and you can be of real use—"

"I never asked her to give the party! I don't care whether I go or not! She is simply making use of me for her own convenience!"

"It is not the first or only time that you have been asked, as you know well, Peggy. And sometimes you have enjoyed yourself very much. You said you would never forget the pink luncheon. In spite of all you say, you owe Rosalind thanks for some pleasant times; and now you can be of some service to her. Well, I'm not going to force you, dear. I hate unwilling workers, and if it's not in your heart to go, stay at home, and settle with your conscience as best you can."

Peggy groaned with sepulchral misery.

"Wish I hadn't got no conscience! Tiresome, presuming thing—always poking itself forward and making remarks when it isn't wanted. I suppose I shall have to go, and run about from morning till night, holding a pair of scissors, and nasty little balls of string, for Rosalind's use! Genius indeed! What's the use of talking about genius? I know very well I shall not be allowed to do anything but run about and wait upon her. It's no use staring at me, Mrs Asplin. I mean it all—every single word."

"No, you don't, Peggy! No, you don't, my little kind, warm-hearted Peggy! I know better than that! It's just that foolish tongue that is running away with you, dearie. In your heart you are pleased to do a service for a friend, and are going to put your whole strength into doing it as well and tastefully as it can be done."

"I'm not! I'm not! I'm not! I'm savage, and it's no use pretending—"

"Yes, you are! I know it! What is the good of having a special gift if one doesn't put it to good use? Ah, that's the face I like to see! I didn't recognise my Peggy with that ugly frown. I'll write and say you'll come with pleasure."

"It's to please you, then, not Rosalind!" said Peggy obstinately. But Mrs Asplin only laughed, dropped a kiss upon her cheek, and walked away to answer the invitation forthwith.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

AT THE LARCHES.

The next morning, immediately after breakfast, Peggy went up to her own room to pack for her visit to the Larches. The long dress-box, which had been stored away ever since its arrival, was brought out, and its contents displayed to an admiring audience, consisting of Mrs Asplin, Esther, Mellicent, and Mary the housemaid.

Everything was there that the heart of girl could desire, and a mother's forethought provide for her darling's use when she was far-away. A dress of cobweb Indian muslin embroidered in silk, a fan of curling feathers, a dear little satin pocket in which to keep the lace handkerchief, rolls of ribbons, dainty white shoes, with straggly silk stockings rolled into the toes.

Peggy displayed one article after another, while Mellicent groaned and gurgled with delight; Mary exclaimed, "My, Miss Peggy, but you will be smart!" and Mrs Asplin stifled a sigh at the thought of her own inferior preparations.

Punctually at ten o'clock the carriage drove up to the door, and off Peggy drove, not altogether unwillingly, now that it had come to the pinch, for after all it is pleasant to be appreciated, and, when a great excitement is taking place in the neighbourhood, it is only human to wish to be in the thick of the fray.

Lady Darcy welcomed her guest with gracious kindness, and, as soon as she had taken off her hat and jacket in the dressing-room which was allotted to her use, she was taken straight away to the chief room, where the work of decoration was being carried briskly forward. The village joiner was fitting mirrors into the corners and hammering with deafening persistence, a couple of gardeners were arranging banks of flowers and palms, and Rosalind stood in the midst of a bower of greenery, covered from head to foot in a smock of blue linen, and with a pair of gardening gloves drawn over her hands.

She gave a little cry of relief and satisfaction as Peggy entered.

"Oh, Mawiquita, so glad you have come! Mother is so busy that she can't be with me at all, and these wretched bwanches pwick my fingers! Do look wound, and say how it looks! This is weally the servants' hall, you know, as we have not a pwoper ballroom, and it is so square and high that it is perfectly dweadful to decowate! A long, narrow woom is so much better!"

Peggy thought the arrangements tasteful and pretty; but she could not gush over the effect, which, in truth, was in no way original or striking. There seemed little to be done in the room itself, so she suggested an adjournment into the outer hall, which seemed to offer unique opportunities.