"That space underneath the staircase!" she cried eagerly. "Oh, Rosalind, we could make it look perfectly sweet with all the beautiful Eastern things that you have brought home from your travels! Let us make a little harem, with cushions to sit on, and hanging lamps, and Oriental curtains for drapery. We could do it while the men are finishing this room, and be ready to come back to it after lunch."

"Oh, what a sweet idea! Mawiquita, you are quite too clever!" cried Rosalind, aglow with pleasure. "Let us begin at once. It will be ever so much more intewesting than hanging about here."

She thrust her hand through Peggy's arm as she spoke, and the two girls went off on a tour through the house to select the most suitable articles for their decoration of the "harem." There was no lack of choice, for the long suite of reception-rooms was full of treasures, and Peggy stopped every few minutes to point with a small forefinger and say, "That screen, please! That table! That stool!" to the servants who had been summoned in attendance. The smaller things, such as ornaments, table-cloths, and lamps she carried herself, while Rosalind murmured sweetly, "Oh, don't twouble! You mustn't, weally! Let me help you!" and stood with her arms hanging by her side, without showing the faintest sign of giving the offered help.

As the morning passed away, Peggy found indeed that the Honourable Miss Darcy was a broken reed to lean upon in the way of assistance. She sat on a stool and looked on while the other workers hammered and pinned and stitched—so that Peggy's prophecy as to her own subordinate position was exactly reversed, and the work of supervision was given entirely into her hands.

It took nearly two hours to complete the decorations of the "harem," but when all was finished the big ugly space beneath the staircase was transformed into as charming a nook as it is possible to imagine. Pieces of brilliant flag embroidery from Cairo draped the farther wall, a screen of carved work shut out the end of the passage, gauzy curtains of gold and blue depended in festoons from the ascending staircase, and stopped just in time to leave a safe place for a hanging lamp of wrought iron and richly coloured glass. On the floor were spread valuable rugs and piles of bright silken cushions, while on an inlaid table stood a real Turkish hookah and a brass tray with the little egg-shaped cups out of which travellers in the East are accustomed to sip the strong black coffee of the natives.

Peggy lifted the ends of her apron in her hands and executed a dance of triumph on her own account when all was finished, and Rosalind said, "Weally, we have been clever! I think we may be proud of ourselves!" in amiable effusion.

The two girls went off to luncheon in a state of halcyon amiability which was new indeed in the history of their acquaintance, and Lady Darcy listened with an amused smile to their rhapsodies on the subject of the morning's work, promising faithfully not to look at anything until the right moment should arrive, and she should be summoned to gaze and admire.

By the time that the workers were ready to return to the room, the men had finished the arrangements at which they had been at work before lunch, and were beginning to tack festoons of evergreens along the walls, the dull paper of which had been covered with fluting of soft pink muslin. The effect was heavy and clumsy in the extreme, and Rosalind stamped her foot with an outburst of fretful anger.

"Stop putting up those wreaths! Stop at once! They are simply hideous! It weminds me of a penny weading in the village schoolwoom! You might as well put up 'God save the Queen' and 'A Mewwy Chwistmas' at once! Take them down this minute, Jackson! I won't have them!"

The man touched his forehead, and began pulling out the nails in half-hearted fashion.

"Very well, miss, as you wish. Seems a pity, though, not to use 'em, for it took me all yesterday to put 'em together. It's a sin to throw 'em away."

"I won't have them in the house, if they took you a week!" Rosalind replied sharply, and she turned on her heel and looked appealingly in Peggy's face. "It's a howwid failure! The woom looks so stiff and stwaight—like a pink box with nothing in it! Mother won't like it a bit. What can we do to make it better?"

Peggy scowled, pursed up her lips, pressed her hand to her forehead, and strode up and down the room, rolling her eyes from side to side, and going through all the grimaces of one in search of inspiration. Rosalind was right: unless some device were found by which the shape of the room could be disguised, the decorations must be pronounced more or less a failure. She craned her head to the ceiling, and suddenly beamed in triumph.

"I have it! The very thing! We will fasten the garlands to that middle beam, and loop up the ends at intervals all round the walls. That will break the squareness, and make the room look like a tent, with a ceiling of flowers."

"Ah-h!" cried Rosalind; and clasped her hands with a gesture of relief. "Of course! The vewy thing! We ought to have thought of it at the beginning. Get the ladder at once, Jackson, and put in a hook or wing, or something to hold the ends; and be sure that it is strong enough. What a good thing that the weaths are weady! You see, your work will not be wasted after all."

She was quite gracious in her satisfaction, and for the next two hours she and Peggy were busily occupied superintending the hanging of the evergreen wreaths and in arranging bunches of flowers to be placed at each point where the wreaths were fastened to the wall. At the end of this time, Rosalind was summoned to welcome the distinguished visitors who had arrived by the afternoon train. She invited Peggy to accompany her to the drawing-room, but in a hesitating fashion, and with a glance round the disordered room, which said, as plainly as words could do, that she would be disappointed if the invitation were accepted; and Peggy, transformed in a moment into a poker of pride and dignity, declared that she would prefer to remain where she was until all was finished.

"Well, it weally would be better, wouldn't it? I will have a tway sent in to you here, and do, Mawiquita, see that evewything is swept up and made tidy at once, for I shall bring them in to look wound diwectly after tea, and we must have the wooms tidy!"

Rosalind tripped away, and Peggy was left to herself for a lonely and troublesome hour. The tea-tray was brought in, and she was just seating herself before an impromptu table, when up came a gardener to say that one of "these 'ere wreaths seemed to hang uncommon near the gas-bracket. It didn't seem safe like." And off she went in a panic of consternation to see what could be done. There was nothing for it but to move the wreath some inches farther away, which involved moving the next also, and the next, and the next, so as to equalise the distances as much as possible; and by the time that they were settled to Peggy's satisfaction, lo, table and tray had been whisked out of sight by some busy pair of hands, and only a bare space met her eyes. This was blow number one, for, after working hard all afternoon, tea and cake come as a refreshment which one would not readily miss. She cheered herself, however, by putting dainty finishing touches here and there, seeing that the lamp was lighted in the "harem" outside, and was busy placing fairy lamps among the shrubs which were to screen the band, when a babel of voices from outside warned her that the visitors were approaching. Footsteps came nearer and nearer, and a chorus of exclamations greeted the sight of the "harem." The door stood open, Peggy waited for Rosalind's voice to call and bid her share the honours, but no summons came. She heard Lady Darcy's exclamation, and the quick, strong tones of the strange countess.

"Charming, charming; quite a stroke of genius! I never saw a more artistic little nook. What made you think of it, my dear?"

"Ha!" said Peggy to herself, and took a step forward, only to draw back in dismay, as a light laugh reached her ear, followed by Rosalind's careless—

"Oh, I don't know; I wanted to make it pwetty, don't you know; it was so dweadfully bare, and there seemed no other way."

Then there was a rustle of silk skirts, and the two ladies entered the room, followed by their respective daughters, Rosalind beautiful and radiant, and the Ladies Berkhampton with their chins poked forward, and their elbows thrust out in ungainly fashion. They paused on the threshold, and every eye travelled up to the wreath-decked ceiling. A flush of pleasure came into Lady Darcy's pale cheeks, and she listened to the countess's compliments with sparkling eyes.

"It is all the work of this clever child," she said, laying her hand fondly on Rosalind's shoulder. "I have had practically nothing to do with the decorations. This is the first time I have been in the room to-day, and I had no idea that the garlands were to be used in this way. I thought they were for the walls."

"I congratulate you, Rosalind! You are certainly very happy in your arrangements," said the countess cordially. Then she put up her eyeglass and stared inquiringly at Peggy, who stood by with her hair fastened back in its usual pigtail, and a big white apron pinned over her dress.

"She thinks I am the kitchen-maid!" said Peggy savagely to herself; but there was little fear of such a mistake, and, the moment that Lady Darcy noticed the girl's presence, she introduced her kindly enough, if with somewhat of a condescending air.

"This is a little friend of Rosalind's who has come up to help. She is fond of this sort of work," she said; then, before any of the strangers had time to acknowledge the introduction, she added hastily, "And now I am sure you must all be tired after your journey, and will be glad to go to your rooms and rest. It is quite wicked of me to keep you standing. Let me take you upstairs at once!"

They sailed away with the same rustle of garments, the same babel of high-toned voices, and Peggy stood alone in the middle of the deserted room. No one had asked her to rest, or suggested that she might be tired; she had been overlooked and forgotten in the presence of the distinguished visitor. She was only a little girl who was "fond" of this sort of work, and, it might be supposed, was only too thankful to be allowed to help! The house sank into silence. She waited for half an hour longer, in the hope that someone would remember her presence, and then, tired, hungry, and burning with repressed anger, crept upstairs to her own little room and fell asleep upon the couch.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

ANOTHER ACCIDENT!

Dinner was served unusually early that evening, and was an embarrassing ordeal from which Peggy was thankful to escape.

On her way upstairs, however, Rosalind called her back with an eager petition.

"Oh, Peggy! would you mind awwanging some flowers? A big hamper has just awwived from town, and the servants are all so dweadfully busy. I must get dwessed in time to help mother to weceive, but it wouldn't matter if you were a few minutes late. Thanks so much! Awfully obliged."

She gave her thanks before an assent had been spoken, and tripped smilingly away, while Peggy went back to the big room to find a great tray full of hothouse treasures waiting to be arranged, and no availing vases in which to place them. The flowers, however, were so beautiful, and the fronds of maidenhair so green and graceful, that the work was a pleasure; she enjoyed discovering unlikely places in which to group them, and lingered so long over her arrangements that the sudden striking of the clock sent her flying upstairs in a panic of consternation. Another quarter of an hour and the vicarage party would arrive, for they had been bidden a little in advance of the rest, so that Robert might help his mother and sister in receiving their guests. Peggy tore off dress and apron, and made all the speed she could, but she was still standing in dressing-jacket and frilled white petticoat, brushing out her long waves of hair when the door opened and Esther and Mellicent entered. They had begged to be shown to Miss Saville's room, and came rustling in, smiling and beaming, with woollen caps over their heads, snow-shoes on their feet, and fleecy shawls swathed round and round their figures, and fastened with a hairpin on the left shoulder, in secure and elegant fashion. Peggy stood, brush in hand, staring at them and shaking with laughter.

"He! he! he! I hope you are warm enough! Esther looks like a sausage, and Mellicent looks like a dumpling. Come here, and I'll unwind you. You look as if you could not move an inch, hand or foot."

"It was mother," Mellicent explained. "She was so afraid we would catch cold. Oh, Peggy, you are not half dressed. You will be late! Whatever have you been doing? Have you had a nice day? Did you enjoy it? What did you have for dinner?"

Peggy waved her brush towards the door in dramatic warning.

"Rosalind's room!" she whispered. "Don't yell, my love, unless you wish every word to be overheard. This is her dressing-room, which she lent to me for the occasion, so there's only a door between us.—There, now, you are free. Oh, dear me, how you have squashed your sash! You really must remember to lift it up when you sit down. You had better stand with your back to the fire, to take out the creases."

Mellicent's face clouded for a moment, but brightened again as she caught sight of her reflection in the swing glass. Crumples or no crumples, there was no denying that blue was a becoming colour. The plump, rosy cheeks dimpled with satisfaction, and the flaxen head was twisted to and fro to survey herself in every possible position.

"Is my hair right at the back? How does the bow look? I haven't burst, have I? I thought I heard something crack in the cab. Do you think I will do?"

"Put on your slippers, and I'll tell you. Anyone would look a fright in evening dress and snow-shoes."

Peggy's answer was given with a severity which sent Mellicent waddling across the room to turn out the contents of the bag which lay on the couch, but the next moment came a squeal of consternation, and there she stood in the attitude of a tragedy queen, with staring eyes, parted lips, and two shabby black slippers grasped in either hand.

"M-m-m-my old ones!" she gasped in horror-stricken accents. "B-b-b-brought them by mistake!" It was some moments before her companions fully grasped the situation, for the new slippers had been black too, and of much the same make as those now exhibited. Mrs Asplin had had many yearnings over white shoes and stockings, all silk and satin, and tinkling diamond buckles like those which had been displayed in Peggy's dress-box. Why should not her darlings have dainty possessions like other girls? It went to her heart to think what an improvement these two articles would make in the simple costumes; then she remembered her husband's delicate health, his exhaustion at the end of the day, and the painful effort with which he nerved himself to fresh exertions, and felt a bigger pang at the thought of wasting money so hardly earned. As her custom was on such occasions, she put the whole matter before the girls, talking to them as friends, and asking their help in her decision.

"You see, darlings," she said, "I want to do my very best for you, and if it would be a real disappointment not to have these things, I'll manage it somehow, for once in a way. But it's a question whether you would have another chance of wearing them, and it seems a great deal of money to spend for just one evening, when poor dear father—"

"Oh, mother, no, don't think of it! Black ones will do perfectly well. What can it matter what sort of shoes and stockings we wear? It won't make the least difference in our enjoyment," said Esther the sensible; but Mellicent was by no means of this opinion.

"I don't know about that! I love white legs!" she sighed dolefully. "All my life long it has been my ambition to have white legs. Silk ones with little bits of lace let in down the front, like Peggy's. They're so beautiful! It doesn't seem a bit like a party to wear black stockings; only of course I know I must, for I'd hate to waste father's money. When I grow up I shall marry a rich man, and have everything I want. It's disgusting to be poor... Will they be nice black slippers, mother, with buckles on them?"

"Yes, dearie. Beauties! Great big buckles!" said Mrs Asplin lovingly; and a few days later a box had come down from London, and the slippers had been chosen out of a selection of "leading novelties"; worn with care and reverence the previous evening, "to take off the stiffness," and then after all—oh, the awfulness of it!—had been replaced by an old pair, in the bustle of departure.

The three girls stared at one another in consternation. Here was a catastrophe to happen just at the last moment, when everyone was so happy and well satisfied! The dismay on the chubby face was so pitiful that neither of Mellicent's companions could find it in her heart to speak a word of reproof. They rather set to work to propose different ways out of the difficulty.

"Get hold of Max, and coax him to go back for them!"

"He wouldn't; it's no use. It's raining like anything, and it would take him an hour to go there and come back."

"Ask Lady Darcy to send one of the servants—"

"No use, my dear. They are scampering up and down like mice, and haven't a moment to spare from their own work."

"See if Rosalind would lend me a pair!"

"Silly goose! Look at your foot. It is three times the size of hers. You will just have to wear them, I'm afraid. Give them to me, and let me see what can be done." Peggy took the slippers in her hands and studied them critically. They were certainly not new, but then they were by no means old; just respectable, middle-aged creatures, slightly rubbed on the heel and white at the toes, but with many a day of good hard wear still before them.

"Oh, come," she said reassuringly, "they are not so bad, Mellicent! With a little polish they would look quite presentable. I'll tap at the door and ask Rosalind if she has some that she can lend us. She is sure to have it. There are about fifty thousand bottles on her table."

Peggy crossed the room as she spoke, tapped on the panel, and received an immediate answer in a high complacent treble.

"Coming! Coming! I'm weady;" then the door flew open; a tiny pink silk shoe stepped daintily over the mat, and Rosalind stood before them in all the glory of a new Parisian dress. Three separate gasps of admiration greeted her appearance, and she stood smiling and dimpling while the girls took in the fascinating details—the satin frock of palest imaginable pink, the white chiffon over-dress which fell from shoulder to hem in graceful freedom, sprinkled over with exquisite rose—leaves—it was all wonderful—fantastic—as far removed from Peggy's muslin as from the homely crepon of the vicar's daughters.

"Rosalind! what a perfect angel you look!" gasped Mellicent, her own dilemma forgotten in her wholehearted admiration; but the next moment memory came back, and her expression changed to one of pitiful appeal. "But, oh, have you got any boot-polish? The most awful thing has happened. I've brought my old shoes by mistake! Look! I don't know what on earth I shall do, if you can't give me something to black the toes." She held out the shoes as she spoke, and Rosalind gave a shrill scream of laughter.

"Oh! oh! Those things! How fwightfully funny! what a fwightful joke! You will look like Cinderwella, when she wan away, and the glass slippers changed back to her dweadful old clogs. It is too scweamingly funny, I do declare!"

"Oh, never mind what you declare! Can you lend us some boot-polish— that's the question!" cried Peggy sharply. She knew Mellicent's horror of ridicule, and felt indignant with the girl who could stand by, secure in her own beauty and elegance, and have no sympathy for the misfortune of a friend. "If you have a bottle of peerless gloss, or any of those shiny things with a sponge fastened on the cork, I can make them look quite respectable, and no one will have any cause to laugh."

"Ha, ha, ha!" trilled Rosalind once more, "Peggy is cwoss! I never knew such a girl for flying into tantwums at a moment's notice! Yes, of course I'll lend you the polish. There is some in this little cupboard—there! I won't touch it, in case it soils my gloves. Shall I call Marie to put it on for you?"

"Thank you, there's no need—I can do it! I would rather do it myself!"

"Oh—oh, isn't she cwoss! You will bweak the cork if you scwew it about like that, and then you'll never be able to get it out. Why don't you pull it pwoperly?"

"I know how to pull out a cork, thank you; I've done it before!"

Peggy shot an angry glance at her hostess, and set to work again with doubled energy. Now that Rosalind had laughed at her inability, it would be misery to fail; but the bottle had evidently lain aside for some time, and a stiff black crust had formed round the cork which made it difficult to move. Peggy pulled and tugged, while Rosalind stood watching, laughing her aggravating, patronising little laugh, and dropping a word of instruction from time to time. And then, quite suddenly, a dreadful thing happened. In the flash of an eye—so quickly and unexpectedly, that, looking back upon it, it seemed like a nightmare which could not possibly have taken place in real life—the cork jerked out in Peggy's hand, in response to a savage tug, and with it out flew an inky jet, which rose straight up in the air, separated into a multitude of tiny drops, and descended in a flood—oh, the horror of that moment!—over Rosalind's face, neck, and dress.

One moment a fairy princess, a goddess of summer, the next a figure of fun with black spots scattered thickly over cheeks and nose, a big splash on the white shoulder, and inky daubs dotted here and there between the rose-leaves. What a transformation! What a spectacle of horror! Peggy stood transfixed; Mellicent screamed in terror; and Esther ran forward, handkerchief in hand, only to be waved aside with angry vehemence. Rosalind's face was convulsed with anger; she stamped her foot and spoke at the pitch of her voice, as if she had no control over her feelings.

"Oh, oh, oh! You wicked girl! you hateful, detestable girl! You did it on purpose, because you were in a temper! You have been in a temper all the afternoon! You have spoiled my dress! I was weady to go downstairs. It is eight o'clock. In a few minutes everyone will be here, and oh, what shall I do—what shall I do! Whatever will mother say when she sees me?"

As if to give a practical answer to this inquiry, there came a sound of hasty footsteps in the corridor, the door flew open, and Lady Darcy rushed in, followed by the French maid.

"My darling, what is it? I heard your voice. Has something happened? Oh-h!" She stopped short, paralysed with consternation, while the maid wrung her hands in despair. "Rosalind, what have you done to yourself?"

"Nothing, nothing! It was Peggy Saville; she splashed me with her horrid boot-polish—I gave it to her for her shoes. It is on my face, my neck, in my mouth—"

"I was pulling the cork. It came out with a jerk. I didn't know; I didn't see!—"

Lady Darcy's face stiffened with an expression of icy displeasure.

"It is too annoying! Your dress spoiled at the last moment! Inexcusable carelessness! What is to be done, Marie? I am in despair!"

The Frenchwoman shrugged her shoulders with an indignant glance in Peggy's direction.

"There is nothing to do. Put on another dress—that is all. Mademoiselle must change as quick as she can. If I sponge the spots, I spoil the whole thing at once."

"But you could cut them out, couldn't you?" cried Peggy, the picture of woe, yet miserably eager to make what amends she could. "You could cut out the spots with sharp scissors, and the holes would not show, for the chiffon is so full and loose. I—I think I could do it, if you would let me try!"

Mistress and maid exchanged a sharp, mutual glance, and the Frenchwoman nodded slowly.

"Yes, it is true; I could rearrange the folds. It will take some time, but still it can be done. It is the best plan."

"Go then, Rosalind, go with Marie; there is not a moment to spare, and for pity's sake don't cry! Your eyes will be red, and at any moment now the people may begin to arrive. I wanted you to be with me to receive your guests. It will be most awkward being without you, but there is no help for it, I suppose. The whole thing is too annoying for words!"

Lady Darcy swept out of the room, and the three girls were once more left alone; but how changed were their feelings in those few short moments! There was not the shadow of a smile between them; they looked more as if they were about to attend a funeral than a scene of festivity, and for several moments no one had the heart to speak. Peggy still held the fatal cork in her hand, and went through the work of polishing Mellicent's slippers with an air of the profoundest dejection. When they were finished she handed them over in dreary silence, and was recommencing the brushing of her hair, when something in the expression of the chubby face arrested her attention. Her eyes flashed; she faced round with a frown and a quick, "Well, what is it? What are you thinking now?"

"I—I wondered," whispered Mellicent breathlessly, "if you did do it on purpose! Did you mean to spoil her dress, and make her change it?"

Peggy's hands dropped to her side, her back straightened until she stood stiff and straight as a poker. Every atom of expression seemed to die out of her face. Her voice had a deadly quiet in its intonation.

"What do you think about it yourself?"

"I—I thought perhaps you did! She teased you, and you were so cross. You seemed to be standing so very near her, and you are jealous of her— and she looked so lovely! I thought perhaps you did..."

"Mellicent Asplin," said Peggy quietly, and her voice was like the east wind that blows from an icy-covered mountain,—"Mellicent Asplin, my name is Saville, and in my family we don't condescend to mean and dishonourable tricks. I may not like Rosalind, but I would have given all I have in the world sooner than this should have happened. I was trying to do you a service, but you forget that. You forget many things! I have been jealous of Rosalind, because when she arrived you and your sister forgot that I was alone and far-away from everyone belonging to me, and were so much engrossed with her that you left me alone to amuse myself as best I might. You were pleased enough to have me when no one else was there, but you left me the moment someone appeared who was richer and grander than I. I wouldn't have treated you like that, if our positions had been reversed. If I dislike Rosalind, it is your fault as much as hers; more than hers, for it was you who made me dread her coming!"

Peggy stopped, trembling and breathless. There was a moment's silence in the room, and then Esther spoke in a slow, meditative fashion.

"It is quite true!" she said. "We have left you alone, Peggy; but it is not quite so bad as you think. Really and truly we like you far the best, but—but Rosalind is such a change to us! Everything about her is so beautiful and so different, that she has always seemed the great excitement of our lives. I don't know that I'm exactly fond of her, but I want to see her, and talk to her, and hear her speak, and she is only here for a short time in the year. It was because we looked upon you as really one of ourselves that we seemed to neglect you; but it was wrong, all the same. As for your spoiling her dress on purpose, it's ridiculous to think of it. How could you say such a thing, Mellicent, when Peggy was trying to help you, too? How could you be so mean and horrid?"

"Oh, well, I'm sure I wish I were dead!" wailed Mellicent promptly. "Nothing but fusses and bothers, and just when I thought I was going to be so happy! If I'd had white shoes, this would never have happened. Always the same thing! When you look forward to a treat, everything is as piggy and nasty as it can be! Wish I'd never come! Wish I'd stayed at home, and let the horrid old party go to Jericho! Rosalind's crying, Peggy's cross, you are preaching! This is a nice way to enjoy yourself, I must say!"

Nothing is more hopeless than to reason with a placid person who has lapsed into a fit of ill-temper. The two elder girls realised this, and remained perfectly silent while Mellicent continued to wish for death, to lament the general misery of life, and the bad fortune which attended the wearers of black slippers. So incessant was the stream of her repinings, that it seemed as if it might have gone on for ever, had not a servant entered at last, with the information that the guests were beginning to arrive, and that Lady Darcy would be glad to see the young ladies without delay. Esther was anxious to wait and help Peggy with her toilet, but that young lady was still on her dignity, and by no means anxious to descend to a scene of gaiety for which she had little heart. She refused the offer, therefore, in Mariquita fashion, and the sisters walked dejectedly along the brightly-lit corridors, Mellicent still continuing her melancholy wail, and Esther reflecting sadly that all was vanity, and devoutly wishing herself back in the peaceful atmosphere of the vicarage.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

FIRE!

It was fully half an hour later when Peggy crept along the passage, and took advantage of a quiet moment to slip into the room and seat herself in a sheltered corner. Quick as she was, however, somebody's eyes were even quicker, for a tall figure stepped before her, and an aggrieved voice cried loudly—

"Well, I hope you are smart enough to satisfy yourself, now that you are ready! You have taken long enough, I must say. What about that first waltz that you promised to have with me?"

Peggy drew in her breath with a gasp of dismay.

"Oh, Rob, I am sorry! I forgot all about it. I've been so perturbed. Something awful has occurred. You heard about it, of course—"

"No, I didn't? What on earth," began the boy anxiously; but so soon as he heard the two words "Rosalind's dress!" he shrugged his shoulders in contemptuous indifference. "Oh, that! I heard something about it, but I didn't take much notice. Spilt some ink, didn't you? What's the odds if you did? Accidents will happen, and she has a dozen others to choose from. I don't see anything wrong with the dress. It looks decent enough."

Peggy followed the direction of his eyes, and caught a glimpse of Rosalind floating past on the arm of a tall soldierly youth. She was sparkling with smiles, and looking as fresh and spotless as on the moment when she had stepped across the threshold of her own room. Neither face nor dress bore any trace of the misfortune of an hour before, and Peggy heaved a sigh of relief as she watched her to and fro.

"Jolly enough, isn't she? There's nothing for you to fret about, you see," said Rob consolingly. "She has forgotten all about it, and the best thing you can do is to follow her example. What would you think of some light refreshment? Let's go to the dining-room and drown our sorrows in strawberry ice. Then we can have a waltz, and try a vanilla—and a polka, and some lemonade! That's, my idea of enjoying myself. Come along, while you get the chance!—"

"Oh, Rob, you are greedy!" protested Peggy; nevertheless she rose blithely enough, and her eyes began to sparkle with some of their wonted vivacity. There was something strong and reassuring about Robert's presence; he looked upon things in such an eminently sensible, matter-of-fact way, that one was ashamed to give way to moods and tenses in his company.

Peggy began to feel that there was still some possibility of happiness in life, and on her way to the door she came face to face with Lady Darcy, who reassured her still further by smiling as amiably as if nothing had happened.

"Well, dear, enjoying yourself? Got plenty of partners?" Then in a whispered aside, "The dress looks all right! Such a clever suggestion of yours. Dear, dear, what a fright we had!" and she swept away, leaving an impression of beauty, grace, and affability which the girl was powerless to resist. When Lady Darcy chose to show herself at her best, there was a charm about her which subjugated all hearts, and, from the moment that the sweet tired eyes smiled into hers, Peggy Saville forgot her troubles and tripped away to eat strawberry ices, and dance over the polished floor with a heart as light as her heels.

One party is very much like another. The room may be larger or smaller, the supper more or less substantial, but the programme is the same in both cases, and there is little to be told about even the grandest of its kind. Somebody wore pink; somebody wore blue; somebody fell down on the floor in the middle of the lancers, which are no longer the stately and dignified dance of yore, but an ungainly romp more befitting a kitchen than a ballroom; somebody went in to supper twice over, and somebody never went at all, but blushed unseen in a corner, thinking longingly of turkey, trifle, and crackers; and then the carriages began to roll up to the door, brothers and sisters paired demurely together, stammered out a bashful "Enjoyed myself so much! Thanks for a pleasant evening," and raced upstairs for coats and shawls.

By half-past twelve all the guests had departed except the vicarage party, and the sons and daughters of the old squire who lived close by, who had been pressed to stay behind for that last half-hour which is often the most enjoyable of the whole evening.

Lord and Lady Darcy and the grown-up visitors retired into the drawing-room to regale themselves with sandwiches and ices, and the young people stormed the supper-room, interrupted the servants in their work of clearing away the good things, seated themselves indiscriminately on floor, chair, or table, and despatched a second supper with undiminished appetite. Then Esther mounted the platform where the band had been seated, and played a last waltz, and a very last waltz, and "really the last waltz of all." The squire's son played a polka with two fingers, and a great deal of loud pedal, and the fun grew faster and more uproarious with every moment. Even Rosalind threw aside young ladylike affectations and pranced about without thinking of appearances, and when at last the others left the room to prepare for the drive home she seized Peggy's arm in eager excitement.

"Peggy! Peggy! Such a joke! I told them to come back to say good-bye, and I am going to play a twick! I'm going to be a ghost, and glide out from behind the shwubs, and fwighten them. I can do it beautifully. See!" She turned down the gas as she spoke, threw her light gauze skirt over her head, and came creeping across the room with stealthy tread, and arms outstretched, while Peggy clapped her hands in delight.

"Lovely! Lovely! It looks exactly like wings. It makes me quite creepy. Don't come out if Mellicent is alone, whatever you do. She would be scared out of her seven senses. Just float gently along toward them, and keep your hands forward so as to hide your face. They will recognise you if you don't."

"Oh, if you can see my face, we must have less light. There are too many candles, I'll put out the ones on the mantelpiece. Stay where you are, and tell me when it is wight," Rosalind cried gaily, and ran across the room on her tiny pink silk slippers.

So long as she lived Peggy Saville remembered the next minutes; to the last day of her life she had only to shut her eyes and the scene rose up before her, clear and vivid as in a picture. The stretch of empty room, with its fragrant banks of flowers; the graceful figure flitting across the floor, its outline swathed in folds of misty white; the glimpse of a lovely, laughing face as Rosalind stretched out her arm to reach the silver candelabra, the sudden flare of light which caught the robe of gauze, and swept it into flame. It all happened within the space of a minute, but it was one of those minutes the memory of which no years can destroy. She had hardly time to realise the terror of the situation before Rosalind was rushing towards her with outstretched hands, calling aloud in accents of frenzied appeal—

"Peggy! Peggy! Oh, save me, Peggy! I'm burning! Save me! Save me!"



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

A NIGHT OF TERROR.

While the young folks had been enjoying themselves in the ballroom, their elders had found the time hang somewhat heavily on their hands. The evening had not been so interesting to them as to their juniors. Lady Darcy was tired with the preparations of the day, and the countess with her journey from town. Both were fain to yawn behind their fans from time to time, and were longing for the moment to come when they could retire to bed. If only those indefatigable children would say good-night and take themselves off! But the echo of the piano still sounded from the room, and seemed to go on and on, in endless repetition.

Everything comes to those who wait, however—even the conclusion of a ball to the weary chaperon. At long past midnight the strains died away, and in the hope of an early release the ladies roused themselves to fresh conversational effort. What they said was unimportant, and could never be remembered; but at one moment, as it seemed, they were smiling and exchanging their little commonplace amenities, two languid, fine ladies whose aim in life might have been to disguise their own feelings and hide the hearts that God had given them; the next the artificial smiles were wiped away, and they were clinging together, two terrified, cowering women, with a mother's soul in their faces—a mother's love and fear and dread! A piercing cry had sounded through the stillness, and another, and another, and, while they sat paralysed with fear, footsteps came tearing along the passage, the door was burst open, and a wild, dishevelled-looking figure rushed into the room. A curtain was wound round face and figure, but beneath its folds a long white arm gripped convulsively at the air, and two little feet staggered about in pink silk slippers.

Lady Darcy gave a cry of anguish; but her terror seemed to hold her rooted to the spot, and it was her husband who darted forward and caught the swaying figure in his arms. The heavy wrappings came loose in his grasp, and as they did so an unmistakable smell pervaded the room—the smell of singed and burning clothing. A cloud of blackened rags fluttered to the ground as the last fold of the curtain was unloosed, and among them—most pitiful sight of all—were stray gleams of gold where a severed lock of hair lay on the carpet, its end still turned in glistening curl.

"Rosalind! Rosalind!" gasped the poor mother, clutching the arms of her chair, and looking as if she were about to faint herself, as she gazed upon the pitiful figure of her child. The lower portion of Rosalind's dress was practically uninjured, but the gauze skirt and all the frills and puffing round the neck hung in tatters, her hair was singed and roughened, and as the air touched her skin she screamed with pain, and held her hands up to her neck and face.

"Oh! Oh! Oh! I am burning! Cover me up! Cover me up! I shall die! Oh, mother, mother! The pain—the pain!"

She reeled as if about to faint, yet if anyone attempted to approach she beat them off with frantic hands, as if in terror of being touched.

One of the ladies ran forward with a shawl, and wrapped it forcibly round the poor scarred shoulders, while the gentlemen hurried out of the room to send for a doctor and make necessary arrangements. One of the number came back almost immediately, with the news that he had failed to discover the cause of the accident. There was no sign of fire upstairs, the ballroom was dark and deserted, the servants engaged in setting the entertaining rooms in order. For the present, at least, the cause of the accident remained a mystery, and the distracted father and mother occupied themselves in trying to pacify their child.

"I'll carry you upstairs, my darling. We will put something on your skin which will take away the pain. Try to be quiet, and tell us how it happened. What were you doing to set yourself on fire?"

"Peggy! Peggy!" gasped Rosalind faintly. Her strength was failing by this time, and she could hardly speak; but Lady Darcy's face stiffened into an awful anger at the sound of that name. She turned like a tigress to her husband, her face quivering with anger.

"That girl again! That wicked girl! It is the second time to-night! She has killed the child; but she shall be punished! I'll have her punished! She shall not kill my child, and go free! I'll—I'll—"

"Hush, hush, Beatrice! Take care! You frighten Rosalind. We must get her to bed. There is not a moment to lose."

Lord Darcy beckoned to one of the servants, who by this time were crowding in at the door, and between them they lifted poor, groaning Rosalind in their arms, and carried her up the staircase, down which she had tripped so gaily a few hours before. Tenderly as they held her, she moaned with every movement, and, when she was laid on her bed, it seemed for a moment as if consciousness were about to forsake her. Then suddenly a light sprung into her eyes. She lifted her hand and gasped out one word—just one word—repeated over and over again in a tone of agonised entreaty.

"Peggy! Peggy! Peggy!"

"Yes, darling, yes! I'll go to her. Be quiet—only be quiet!"

Lady Darcy turned away with a shudder as the maid and an old family servant began the task of removing the clothes from Rosalind's writhing limbs, and, seizing her husband by the arm, drew him out on the landing. Her face was white, but her eyes gleamed, and the words hissed as they fell from her lips.

"Find that girl, and turn her out of this house! I will not have her here another hour! Do you hear—not a minute! Send her away at once before I see her! Don't let me see her! I can't be responsible for what I would do!"

"Yes, yes, dear, I'll send her away! Try to calm yourself. Remember you have work to do Rosalind will need you."

The poor old lord went stooping away, his tired face looking aged and haggard with anxiety. His beautiful young daughter was scarcely less dear to him than to her mother, and the sound of her cries cut to his heart; yet in the midst of his anguish he had a pang of compassion for the poor child who, as he believed, was the thoughtless cause of the accident. What agony of remorse must be hers! What torture she would now be suffering!

The guests and servants were standing huddled together on the landing upstairs, or running to and fro to procure what was needed. Every thought was concentrated on Rosalind, and Rosalind alone, and the part of the house where the dance had been held was absolutely deserted.

He took his way along the gaily decorated hall, noted with absent eye the disordered condition of the "harem," which had been pointed out so proudly at the beginning of the evening, and entered the empty room. The lights were out, except for a few candles scattered here and there among the flowers. He walked slowly forward, saw the silver candlestick on the floor before the fireplace, and stood gazing at it with a quick appreciation of what had happened. For some reason or other Rosalind had tried to reach the candle, and the light had caught her gauzy skirt, which had burst into flames. It was easy—terribly easy to imagine; but in what way had Peggy Saville been responsible for the accident, so that her name should sound so persistently on Rosalind's lips,—and who had been the Good Samaritan who had come to the rescue with that thick curtain which had killed the flames before they had time to finish the work of destruction?

Lord Darcy peered curiously round. The oak floor stretched before him dark and still, save where its polished surface reflected the light overhead; but surely in the corner opposite to where he stood there was a darker mass—a shadow deeper than the rest?

He walked towards it, bending forward with straining eyes. Another curtain of the same pattern as that which had enveloped Rosalind—a curtain of rich Oriental hues with an unaccountable patch of white in the centre. What was it? It must be part of the fabric itself. Lord Darcy told himself that he had no doubt on the subject, yet the way across the room seemed unaccountably long, and his heart beat fast with apprehension. In another moment he stood in the corner, and knew too well the meaning of that patch of white, for Peggy Saville lay stretched upon the curtain, motionless, unconscious—to all appearance, dead!



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.

It was one o'clock in the morning when a carriage drove up to the door of the Larches, and Mrs Asplin alighted, all pale, tear-stained, and tremulous. She had been nodding over the fire in her bedroom when the young people had returned with the news of the tragic ending to the night's festivity, and no persuasion or argument could induce her to wait until the next day before flying to Peggy's side.

"No, no!" she cried. "You must not hinder me. If I can't drive, I will walk! I would go to the child to-night, if I had to crawl on my hands and knees! I promised her mother to look after her. How could I stay at home and think of her lying there? Oh, children, children, pray for Peggy! Pray that she may be spared, and that her poor parents may be spared this awful—awful news!"

Then she kissed her own girls, clasped them to her in a passionate embrace, and drove off to the Larches in the carriage which had brought the young people home.

Lady Darcy came out to meet her, and gripped her hand in welcome.

"You have come! I knew you would. I am so thankful to see you. The doctor has come, and will stay all night. He has sent for a nurse—"

"And—my Peggy?"

Lady Darcy's lips quivered.

"Very, very ill—much worse than Rosalind! Her poor little arms! I was so wicked, I thought it was her fault, and I had no pity, and now it seems that she has saved my darling's life. They can't tell us about it yet, but it was she who wrapped the curtain round Rosalind, and burned herself in pressing out the flames. Rosalind kept crying, 'Peggy! Peggy!' and we thought she meant that it was Peggy's fault. We had heard so much of her mischievous tricks. My husband found her lying on the floor. She was unconscious; but she came round when they were dressing her arms. I think she will know you—"

"Take me to her, please!" Mrs Asplin said quickly. She had to wait several moments before she could control her voice sufficiently to add, "And Rosalind, how is she?"

"There is no danger. Her neck is scarred, and her hair singed and burned. She is suffering from the shock, but the doctor says it is not serious. Peggy—"

She paused, and the other walked on resolutely, not daring to ask for the termination of that sentence. She crept into the little room, bent over the bed, and looked down on Peggy's face through a mist of tears. It was drawn and haggard with pain, and the eyes met hers without a ray of light in their hollow depths. That she recognised was evident, but the pain which she was suffering was too intense to leave room for any other feeling. She lay motionless, with her bandaged arms stretched before her, and her face looked so small and white against the pillow that Mrs Asplin trembled to think how little strength was there to fight against the terrible shock and strain. Only once in all that long night did Peggy show any consciousness of her surroundings, but then her eyes lit up with a gleam of remembrance, her lips moved, and Mrs Asplin bent down to catch the faintly whispered words—

"The twenty-sixth—next Monday! Don't tell Arthur!"

"'The twenty-sixth!' What is that, darling? Ah, I remember—Arthur's examination! You mean if he knew you were ill, it would upset him for his work?"

An infinitesimal movement of the head answered "Yes," and she gave the promise in trembling tones—

"No, my precious, we won't tell him. He could not help, and it would only distress you to feel that he was upset. Don't trouble about it, darling. It will be all right."

Then Peggy shut her eyes and wandered away into a strange world, in which accustomed things disappeared, and time was not, and nothing remained but pain and weariness and mystery. Those of us who have come near to death have visited this world too, and know the blackness of it, and the weary waking.

Peggy lay in her little white bed, and heard voices speaking in her ear, and saw strange shapes flit to and fro. Quite suddenly, as it appeared, a face would be bending over her own, and as she watched it with languid curiosity, wondering what manner of thing it could be, it would melt away and vanish in the distance. At other times again it would grow larger and larger, until it assumed gigantic proportions, and she cried out in fear of the huge, saucer-like eyes. There was a weary puzzle in her brain, an effort to understand, but everything seemed mixed up and incomprehensible. She would look round the room and see the sunshine peeping in through the chinks of the blinds, and when she closed her eyes for a moment—just a single fleeting moment—lo! the gas was lit, and someone was nodding in a chair by her side. And it was by no means always the same room. She was tired, and wanted badly to rest, yet she was always rushing about here, there, and everywhere, striving vainly to dress herself in clothes which fell off as soon as they were fastened, hurrying to catch a train to reach a certain destination; but in each instance the end was the same—she was falling, falling, falling—always falling—from the crag of an Alpine precipice, from the pinnacle of a tower, from the top of a flight of stairs. The slip and the terror pursued her wherever she went; she would shriek aloud, and feel soft hands pressed on her cheeks, soft voices murmuring in her ear.

One vision stood out plainly from those nightmare dreams—the vision of a face which suddenly appeared in the midst of the big grey cloud which enveloped her on every side—a beautiful face which was strangely like, and yet unlike, something she had seen long, long ago in a world which she had well-nigh forgotten. It was pale and thin, and the golden hair fell in a short curly crop on the blue garment which was swathed over the shoulders. It was like one of the heads of celestial choir-boys which she had seen on Christmas cards and in books of engravings, yet something about the eyes and mouth seemed familiar. She stared at it curiously, and then suddenly a strange, weak little voice faltered out a well-known name.

"Rosalind!" it cried, and a quick exclamation of joy sounded from the side of the bed. Who had spoken? The first voice had been strangely like her own, but at an immeasurable distance. She shut her eyes to think about it, and the fair-haired vision disappeared, and was seen no more.

There was a big, bearded man also who came in from time to time, and Peggy grew to dread his appearance, for with it came terrible stabbing pain, as if her whole body were on the rack. He was one of the Spanish Inquisitors, of whom she had read, and she was an English prisoner whom he was torturing! Well, he might do his worst! She would die before she would turn traitor and betray her flag and country. The Savilles were a fighting race, and would a thousand times rather face death than dishonour.

One day, when she felt rather stronger than usual, she told him so to his face, and he laughed—she was quite sure he laughed, the hard-hearted wretch! And someone else said, "Poor little love!" which was surely an extraordinary expression for a Spanish Inquisitor. That was one of the annoying things in this new life—people were so exceedingly stupid in their conversation! Now and again she herself had something which she was especially anxious to say, and when she set it forth with infinite difficulty and pains the only answer which she received was a soothing, "Yes, dear, yes!"

"No, dear, no!" or a still more maddening, "Yes, darling, I quite understand!"—which she knew perfectly well to be an untruth. Really, these good people seemed to think that she was demented, and did not know what she was saying. As a matter of fact, it was exactly the other way about; but she was too tired to argue. And then one day came a sleep when she neither dreamt nor slipped nor fell, but opened her eyes refreshed and cheerful, and beheld Mrs Asplin sitting by a table drinking tea and eating what appeared to be a particularly tempting slice of cake.

"I want some cake!" she said clearly; and Mrs Asplin jumped as if a cannon had been fired off at her ear, and rushed breathlessly to the bedside, stuttering and stammering in amazement—

"Wh-wh-wh-what?"

"Cake!" repeated Peggy shrilly. "I want some! And tea! I want my tea!"

Surely it was a very natural request! What else could you expect from a girl who had been asleep and wakened up feeling hungry? What on earth was there in those commonplace words to make a grown-up woman cry like a baby, and why need everyone in the house rush in and stare at her as if she were a figure in a waxwork? Lord Darcy, Lady Darcy, Rosalind, the old French maid—they were all there—and, as sure as her name was Peggy Saville, they were all four, handkerchief in hand, mopping their eyes like so many marionettes!

Nobody gave her the cake for which she had asked. Peggy considered it exceedingly rude and ill-bred; but while she was thinking of it she grew tired again, and, rolling round into a soft little bundle among the blankets, fell afresh into sweet refreshing slumbers.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

CONVALESCENCE.

"Convalescence," remarked Peggy elegantly, a week later on, "convalescence is a period not devoid of attraction!" She was lying on a sofa in her bedroom at the Larches, wrapped in her white dressing-gown, and leaning against a nest of pink silk cushions, and, what with a table drawn up by her side laden with grapes and jelly, a pile of Christmas numbers lying close at hand, and the presence of an audience consisting of Rosalind, Lady Darcy, and Mrs Asplin, ready to listen admiringly to her conversation, and to agree enthusiastically with every word she uttered, it did indeed seem as if the position was one which might be endured with fortitude! Many were the questions which had been showered upon her since her return to consciousness, and the listeners never grew tired of listening to her account of the accident. How Rosalind had clutched too carelessly at the slender candlestick, so that it had fallen forward, setting the gauze dress in flames, how she herself had flown out of the room, torn down the curtains which draped the "harem," and had flung them round the frantic, struggling figure. With every day that passed, however, Peggy gained more strength, and was petted to her heart's content by everyone in the house. The old lord kissed her fondly on the cheek, and murmured, "God reward you, my brave girl, for I never can." Lady Darcy shed tears every morning when the burns were dressed, and said, "Oh, Peggy dear, forgive me for being cross, and do, do be sure to use the lotion for your arms regularly every day when you get better!" And the big doctor chucked her under the chin, and cried—

"Well, 'Fighting Saville,' and how are we to-day? You are the pluckiest little patient I've had for a long time. I'll say that for you! Let's have another taste of the rack!" It was all most agreeable and soothing to one's feelings!

One of the first questions Peggy asked after her return to consciousness was as to how much her father and mother had been told of her accident, and whether the news had been sent by letter or cable.

"By letter, dear," Mrs Asplin replied. "We talked it over carefully, and concluded that that would be best. You know, dearie, we were very, very anxious about you for a few days, but the doctor said that it would be useless cabling to your mother, because if all went well you would be up again before she could arrive, and if—if it had gone the other way, Peggy, she could not have been in time. I sent her a long letter, and I have written every mail since, and now we are going to calculate the time when the first letter will arrive, and send a cable to say that you are quite out of danger, and sitting up, and getting hungrier and more mischievous with every day as it passes!"

"Thank you," said Peggy warmly. "That's very kind. I am glad you thought of that; but will you please promise not to be economical about the cable? They won't care about the money. Spend pounds over it if it is necessary, but do, do manage to make them believe that I am quite perky. Put at the end, 'Peggy says she is perky!' They will know that is genuine, and it will convince them more than anything else." And so those five expressive words went flashing across the world at the end of a long message, and brought comfort to two hearts that had been near to breaking.

So soon as Peggy was pronounced to be out of danger, Mrs Asplin went back to the vicarage, leaving her in the charge of the kind hospital nurse, though for that matter every member of the household took it in turns to wait upon her. A dozen times a day the master and mistress of the house would come into the sick-room to inquire how things were going, or to bring some little gift for the invalid; and as she grew stronger it became the custom for father, mother, and daughter to join her at her early tea. Peggy watched them from her sofa, too weak to speak much, but keenly alive to all that was going on, among other things, to the change which had come over these three persons since she had known them first. Lord Darcy had always been kind and considerate, but his manner seemed gentler and more courteous than ever, while Rosalind's amiability was an hourly surprise, and Lady Darcy's manner had lost much of its snappish discontent. On one occasion, when her husband made some little request, she replied in a tone so sweet and loving that the listener started with surprise. What could it be that had worked this transformation? She did not realise that when the Angel of Death has hovered over a household, and has at last flown away with empty arms, leaving the home untouched, they would be hard hearts that were not touched, ungrateful natures that did not take thought of themselves, and face life with a higher outlook! Lady Darcy's social disappointments seemed light compared with the awful "might have been"; while Rosalind's lamentations over her disfigurement had died away at the sight of Peggy's unconscious form. Perhaps, when Lord Darcy thanked Peggy for all she had done for him and his, he had other thoughts in his mind than the mere physical deliverance of which she had been the instrument!

Arthur had been kept well informed of his sister's recovery, and proved himself the kindest of brothers, sending letters by the dozen, full of such nonsensical jokes, anecdotes, and illustrations, as would have cheered the gloomiest invalid in the world. But the happiest day of all was when the great news arrived that his name was placed first of all in the list of successful candidates. This was indeed tidings of comfort and joy! Peggy clapped her bandaged hands together, and laughed aloud with tears of pain streaming down her face. "Arthur Saville, V.C., Arthur Saville, V.C.!" she cried, and then fell to groaning because some days must still elapse before the medical examination was over, and her hero was set free to hasten to her side.

"And I shall be back at the vicarage then, and we shall all be together! Oh, let us be joyful! How happy I am! What a nice old world it is, after all!" she continued hilariously, while Rosalind gazed at her with reproachful eyes.

"Are you so glad to go away? I shall be vewy, vewy sowwy—I'll miss you awfully. I shall feel that there is nothing to do when you have gone away, Peggy!"—Rosalind hesitated, and looked at her companion in uncertain bashful fashion. "I—I think you like me a little bit now, and I'm vewy fond of you, but you couldn't bear me before we were ill. You might tell me why?"

"I was jealous of you," said Peggy promptly; whereat Rosalind's eyes filled with tears.

"You won't be jealous now!" she said dismally, and raised her head to stare at her own reflection in the mirror. The hair which had once streamed below her waist was now cut short round her head, her face had lost its delicate bloom, and an ugly scar disfigured her throat and the lower portion of one cheek. Beautiful she must always be, with her faultless features and wonderful eyes, but the bloom and radiance of colour which had been her chief charm had disappeared for the time being as completely as though they had never existed.

"I'll love you more," said Peggy reassuringly. "You are ever so much nicer, and you will be as pretty as ever when your hair grows and the marks fade away. I like you better when you are not quite so pretty, for you really were disgustingly conceited; weren't you now? You can't deny it."

"Oh, Peggy Saville, and so were you! I saw that the first moment you came into the woom. You flared up like a Turkey cock if anyone dared to offend your dignity, and you were always widing about on your high horse, tossing your head, and using gweat long words."

"That's pride, it's not conceit. It's quite a different thing."

"It's about the same to other people," said Rosalind shrewdly. "We both gave ourselves airs, and the wesult was the same, whatever caused it. I was pwoud of my face, and you were pwoud of your—your—er—family—and your cleverness, and—the twicks you played; so if I confess, you ought to confess too. I'm sorry I aggwavated you, Mawiquita, and took all the pwaise for the decowations. It was howwibly mean, and I don't wonder you were angwy. I'm sorry that I was selfish!"

"I exceedingly regret that I formed a false estimate of your character! Let's be chums!" said Peggy sweetly; and the two girls eyed one another uncertainly for a moment, then bent forward and exchanged a kiss of conciliation, after which unusual display of emotion they were seized with instant embarrassment.

"Hem!" said Peggy. "It's very cold! Fire rather low, I think. Looks as if it were going to snow."

"No," said Rosalind; "I mean—yes. I'll put on some more—I mean coals. In half an hour Esther and Mellicent will be here—"

"Oh, so they will! How lovely!" Peggy seized gladly on the new opening, and proceeded to enlarge on the joy which she felt at the prospect of seeing her friends again, for on that afternoon Robert and the vicarage party were to be allowed to see her for the first time, and to have tea in her room. She had been looking forward to their visit for days, and, new that the longed-for hour was at hand, she was eager to have the lamps lit, and all preparations made for their arrival.

Robert appeared first, having ridden over in advance of the rest. And Rosalind, after going out to greet him, came rushing back, all shaken with laughter, with the information that he had begun to walk on tiptoe the moment that he had left the drawing-room, and was creeping along the passage as if terrified at making a sound.

Peggy craned her head, heard the squeak, squeak of boots coming nearer and nearer, the cautious opening of the door, the heavy breaths of anxiety, and then, crash!—bang!—crash! down flopped the heavy screen round the doorway, and Rob was discovered standing among the ruins in agonies of embarrassment. From his expression of despair, he might have supposed that the shock would kill Peggy outright; but she gulped down her nervousness, and tried her best to reassure him.

"Oh, never mind—never mind! It doesn't matter. Come over here and talk to me. Oh, Rob, Rob, I am so glad to see you!"

Robert stood looking down in silence, while his lips twitched and his eyebrows worked in curious fashion. If it had not been altogether too ridiculous, Peggy would have thought that he felt inclined to cry. But he only grunted, and cried—

"What a face! You had better tuck into as much food as you can, and get some flesh on your bones. It's about as big as the palm of my hand! Never saw such a thing in my life."

"Never mind my face," piped Peggy in her weak little treble. "Sit right down and talk to me. What is the news in the giddy world? Have you heard anything about the prize? When does the result come out? Remember you promised faithfully not to open the paper until we were together. I was so afraid it would come while I was too ill to look at it!"

"I should have waited," said Robert sturdily. "There would have been no interest in the thing without you; but the result won't be given for ten days yet, and by that time you will be with us again. The world hasn't been at all giddy, I can tell you. I never put in a flatter time. Everybody was in the blues, and the house was like a tomb, and a jolly uncomfortable tomb at that. Esther was housekeeper while Mrs Asplin was away, and she starved us! She was in such a mortal fright of being extravagant that she could scarcely give us enough to keep body and soul together, and the things we had were not fit to eat. Nothing but milk puddings and stewed fruit for a week on end. Then we rebelled. I nipped her up in my arms one evening in the schoolroom, and stuck her on the top of the little bookcase. Then we mounted guard around, and set forth our views. It would have killed you to see her perched up there, trying to look prim and to keep up her dignity.

"'Let me down this moment, Robert. Bring a chair and let me get down.'

"'Will you promise to give us a pie to-morrow, then, and a decent sort of a pudding?'

"'It's no business of yours what I give you. You ought to be thankful for good wholesome food!'

"'Milk puddings are not wholesome. They don't agree with us—they are too rich! We should like something a little lighter for a change. Will you swear off milk puddings for the next fortnight if I let you down?'

"'You are a cruel, heartless fellow, Robert Darcy—thinking of puddings when Peggy is ill, and we are all so anxious about her!'

"'Peggy would die at once if she heard how badly you were treating us. Now then, you have kept me waiting for ten minutes, so the price has gone up. Now you'll have to promise a pair of ducks and mince-pies into the bargain! I shall be ashamed of meeting a sheep soon, if we go on eating mutton every day of the week.'

"'Call yourself a gentleman!' says she, tossing her head and withering me with a glance of scorn.

"'I call myself a hungry man, and that's all we are concerned about for the moment,' said I. 'A couple of ducks and two nailing good puddings to-morrow night, or there you sit for the rest of the evening!'

"We went at it hammer and tongs until she was fairly spluttering with rage; but she had to promise before she came down, and we had no more starvation diet after that. Oswald went up to town for a day, and bought a pair of blue silk socks and a tie to match—that's the greatest excitement we have had. The rest has been all worry and grind, and Mellicent on the rampage about Christmas presents. Oh, by the bye, I printed those photographs you wanted to send to your mother, and packed them off by the mail a fortnight ago, so that she would get them in good time for Christmas."

"Rob, you didn't! How noble of you! You really are an admirable person!" Peggy lay back against her pillows and gazed at her "partner" in great contentment of spirit. After living an invalid's life for these past weeks, it was delightfully refreshing to look at the big strong face. The sight of it was like a fresh breeze coming into the close, heated room, and she felt as if some of his superabundant energy had come into her own weak frame.

A little later the vicarage party arrived, and greeted the two convalescents with warmest affection. If they were shocked at the sight of Rosalind's disfigurement and Peggy's emaciation, three out of the four were polite enough to disguise their feelings; but it was too much to expect of Mellicent that she should disguise what she happened to be feeling. She stared and gaped, and stared again, stuttering with consternation—

"Why—why—Rosalind—your hair! It's shorter than mine! It doesn't come down to your shoulders! Did they cut it all off? What did you do with the rest? And your poor cheek! Will you have that mark all your life?"

"I don't know. Mother is going to twy electwicity for it. It will fade a good deal, I suppose, but I shall always be a fwight. I'm twying to wesign myself to be a hideous monster!" sighed Rosalind, turning her head towards the window the while in such a position that the scar was hidden from view, and she looked more like the celestial choir-boy of Peggy's delirium than ever, with the golden locks curling round her neck, and the big eyes raised to the ceiling in a glance of pathetic resignation.

Rob guffawed aloud with the callousness of a brother; but the other two lads gazed at her with an adoring admiration which was balm to her vain little heart. Vain still, for a nature does not change in a day; and, though Rosalind was an infinitely more lovable person now than she had been a few weeks before, the habits of a lifetime were still strong upon her, and she could never by any possibility be indifferent to admiration, or pass a mirror without stopping to examine the progress of that disfiguring scar.

"It wouldn't have mattered half so much if it had been Peggy's face that was spoiled," continued Mellicent, with cruel outspokenness, "and it is only her hands that are hurt. Things always go the wrong way in this world! I never saw anything like it. You know that night-dress bag I was working for mother, Peggy? Well, I only got two skeins of the blue silk, and then if I didn't run short, and they hadn't any more in the shop. The other shades don't match at all, and it looks simply vile. I am going to give it to—ahem! I mean that's the sort of thing that always happens to me—it makes me mad! You can't sew at all, I suppose? What do you do with yourself all day long, now that you are able to get up?"

Peggy's eyes twinkled.

"I sleep," she said slowly, "and eat, and sleep a little more, and eat again, and talk a little bit, roll into bed, and fall fast asleep. Voila tout, ma chere! C'est ca que je fais tous les jours."

Rosalind gave a shriek of laughter at Peggy's French, and Mellicent rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

"How s-imply lovely!" she sighed. "I wish I were you! I'd like to go to bed in November and stay there till May. In a room like this, of course, with everything beautiful and dainty, and a maid to wait upon me. I'd have a fire and an india-rubber hot-water bottle, and I'd lie and sleep, and wake up every now and then, and make the maid read aloud, and bring me my meals on a tray. Nice meals! Real, nice invalidy things, you know, to tempt my appetite." Mellicent's eyes rolled instinctively to the table, where the jelly and the grapes stood together in tempting proximity. She sighed, and brought herself back with an effort to the painful present. "Goodness, Peggy, how funny your hands look! Just like a mummy! What do they look like when the bandages are off? Very horrible?"

"Hideous!" Peggy shrugged her shoulders and wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I am going to try to grow old as fast as I can, so that I can wear mittens and cover them up. I'm really rather distressed about it, because I am so—so addicted to rings, don't you know. They have been a weakness of mine all my life, and I've looked forward to having my fingers simply loaded with them when I grew up. There is one of mother's that I especially admire—a big square emerald surrounded with diamonds. She promised to give it to me on my twenty-first birthday, but, unless my hands look very different by that time, I shall not want to call attention to them. Alack-a-day! I fear I shall never be able to wear a ring—"

"Gracious goodness! Then you can never be married!" ejaculated Mellicent, in a tone of such horrified dismay as evoked a shriek of merriment from the listeners—Peggy's merry trill sounding clear above the rest. It was just delicious to be well again, to sit among her companions and have one of the old hearty laughs over Mellicent's quaint speeches. At that moment she was one of the happiest girls in all the world.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

ALAS, FOR ARTHUR!

A few days later Peggy was driven home to the vicarage, and stood the drive so well that she was able to walk downstairs at tea-time, and sit at the table with only a cushion at her back, to mark her out as an invalid just recovering from a serious illness. There was a special reason why she wished to look well this afternoon, for Arthur was expected by the six o'clock train; and the candidate who had come out first in his examination lists must not have his reception chilled by anxiety or disappointment.

Peggy was attired in her pink dress, and sat roasting before the fire, so as to get some colour into her cheeks. If her face were only the size of the palm of a hand, she was determined that it should at least be rosy; and if she looked very bright, and smiled all the time, perhaps Arthur would not notice how thin she had become.

When half-past six struck, everyone crowded into the schoolroom, and presently a cab drove up to the door, and a modest rap sounded on the knocker.

"That's not Arthur!" cried Mrs Asplin confidently. "He knocks straight on without stopping, peals the bell at the same time, and shouts Christmas carols through the letter-box! He has sent on his luggage, I expect, and is going to pounce in upon us later on."

"Ah, no, that's not Arthur!" assented Peggy; but Mr Asplin turned his head quickly towards the door, as if his ear had caught a familiar note, hesitated for a moment, and then walked quickly into the hall.

"My dear boy!" the listeners heard him cry; and then another voice spoke in reply—Arthur's voice—saying, "How do you do, sir?" in such flat, subdued tones as filled them with amazement.

Mrs Asplin and Peggy turned towards each other with distended eyes. If Arthur had suddenly slid down the chimney and crawled out on the hearth before them, turned a somersault in at the window, or crawled from beneath the table, it would have caused no astonishment whatever; but that he should ring at the bell, walk quietly into the hall, and wait to hang up his hat like any other ordinary mortal,—this was indeed an unprecedented and extraordinary proceeding! The same explanation darted into both minds. His sister's illness! He was afraid of startling an invalid, and was curbing his overflowing spirits in consideration for her weakness.

Peggy rose from her chair, and stood waiting, with sparkling eyes and burning cheeks. He should see in one glance that she was better—almost well—that there was no need of anxiety on her behalf. And then the tall, handsome figure appeared in the doorway, and Arthur's voice cried—

"Peggikens! Up and dressed! This is better than I hoped. How are you, dear little Peg?"

There was something wrong with the voice, something lacking in the smile; but his sister was too excited to notice it. She stretched out her arms towards him, and raised her weak, quavering little voice in a song of triumph—

"See-ee the conquering he-he-he-he-hero com-ums! Sow-ow-ow-ow-ownd the trumpet, play—a—a—a—"

"Don't, Peg!" cried Arthur sharply. "Don't, dear!" He was standing by her side by this time, and suddenly he wrapped his arms round her and laid his curly head on hers. "I'm plucked, Peg!" he cried, and his voice was full of tears. "Oh, Peg, I'm plucked! It's all over; I can never be a soldier. I'm plucked—plucked—plucked!"

"Arthur dear! Arthur darling!" cried Peggy loudly. She clasped her arms round his neck, and glared over his shoulder, like a tigress whose young has been threatened with danger. "You plucked! My brother plucked! Ho! ho! ho!" She gave a shrill peal of laughter. "It's impossible! You were first of all, the very first. You always are first. Who was wicked enough, and cruel enough, and false enough, to say that Arthur Saville was plucked in an examination?"

"Arthur, my boy, what is it? What does it mean? You told us you were first. How can you possibly be plucked?"

"My—my eyes!" said Arthur faintly. He raised his head from Peggy's shoulder and looked round with a haggard smile. "The medical exam. They would not pass me. I was rather blind when I was here before, but I thought it was with reading too much. I never suspected there was anything really wrong—never for a moment!"

"Your eyes!" The vicar pressed his hand to his forehead, as if unable to grasp this sudden shattering of his hopes. "But—but I don't understand! Your eyes never gave you any trouble when you were here. You were not short-sighted. One knew, of course, that good sight was necessary; but there seemed no weakness in that direction. I can't imagine any cause that can have brought it on."

"I can!" said Arthur drearily. "I got a bad knock at lacrosse two years ago. I didn't tell you about it, for it wasn't worth while; but my eyes were bad for some time after that. I thought they were all right again; but I had to read a lot of things across a room, and made a poor show of it. Then the doctor took me to a window and pointed to an omnibus that was passing.

"'What's the name on that 'bus?' he said. 'What is the colour of that woman's hat? How many horses are there?'

"I guessed. I couldn't see. I made a shot at it, and it was a wrong shot. He was a kind old chap. I think he was sorry for me. I—I came out into the street, and walked about. It was very cold. I tried to write to you, but I couldn't do it—I couldn't put it down in black and white. No V.C. now, little Peg! That's all over. You will have a civilian for your brother, after all!"

He bent down to kiss the girl's cheeks as he spoke, and she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him passionately upon his closed eyelids.

"Dear eyes!" she cried impetuously. "Oh, dear eyes! They are the dearest eyes in all the world, whatever anyone says about them. It doesn't matter what you are—you are my Arthur, the best and cleverest brother in all the world. Nobody is like you!"

"You have a fine career before you still, my boy! You will always fight, I hope, and conquer enemies even more powerful than armed men!" cried Mrs Asplin, trembling. "There are more ways than one of being a soldier, Arthur!"

"I know it, mater," said the young man softly. He straightened his back and stood in silence, his head thrown back, his eyes shining with emotion, as fine a specimen of a young English gentleman as one could wish to meet. "I know it," he repeated, and Mrs Asplin turned aside to hide her tears. "Oh, my pretty boy!" she was saying to herself. "Oh, my pretty boy! And I'll never see him in his red coat, riding his horse like a prince among them all! I'll never see the medals on his breast! Oh, my poor lad that has the fighting blood in his veins! It's like tearing the heart out of him to turn Arthur Saville into anything but a soldier. And the poor father—what will he say at all, when he hears this terrible news?" She dared not trust herself to speak again; the others were too much stunned and distressed to make any attempt at consolation, and it was a relief to all when Mellicent's calm, matter-of-fact treble broke the silence.

"Well, for my part, I'm very glad!" she announced slowly. "I'm sorry, of course, if he has to wear spectacles, because they are not becoming, but I'm glad he is not going to be a soldier. I think it's silly having nothing to do but drill in barracks, and pretending to fight when there is no one to fight with. I should hate to be a soldier in times of peace, and it would be fifty thousand times worse in war. Oh, my goodness, shouldn't I be in a fright! I should run away—I know I should; but Arthur would be in the front of every battle, and it's absurd to think that he would not get killed. You know what Arthur is! Did you ever know him have a chance of hurting himself and not taking it? He would be killed in the very first battle—that's my belief—and then you would be sorry that you wanted him to be a soldier! Or, if he wasn't killed, he would have his legs shot off. Last time I was in London I saw a man with no legs. He was sitting on a little board with wheels on it, and selling matches in the street. Well, I must say I'd rather have my brother a civilian, as you call it, than have no legs, or be cut in pieces by a lot of nasty naked old savages."

A general smile went round the company. There was no resisting it. Even Arthur's face brightened, and he turned his head and looked at Mellicent with his old twinkling smile.

"Bravo, Chubby!" he cried. "Bravo, Chubby! Commend me to Mellicent for good, sound commonsense. The prospect of squatting on a board, selling matches, is not exhilarating, I must confess. I'm glad there is one person at least who thinks my prospects are improved." He gave a little sigh, which was stifled with praiseworthy quickness. "Well, the worst is over, now that I have told you and written the letter to India. Those were the two things that I dreaded most. Now I shall just have to face life afresh, and see what can be made of it. I must have a talk with you, sir, later on, and get your advice. Cheer up, Peggikens! Cheer up, mater! It's no use grieving over spilt milk, and Christmas is coming. It would never do to be in the dolefuls over Christmas! I've got a boxful of presents upstairs—amused myself with buying them yesterday to pass the time. You come up with me to-night, Peg, and I'll give you a peep. You look better than I expected, dear, but fearsome scraggy! We shall have to pad her out a bit, shan't we, mater? She must have an extra helping of plum-pudding this year."

He rattled on in his own bright style, or in as near an imitation of it as he could manage, and the others tried their best to follow his example and make the evening as cheery as possible. Once or twice the joy of being all together again in health and strength conquered the underlying sorrow, and the laughter rang out as gaily as ever; but the next moment Arthur would draw in his breath with another of those short, stabbing sighs, and Peggy would shiver, and lie back trembling among her pillows. She had no heart to look at Christmas presents that night, but Arthur carried her upstairs in his strong arms, laid her on her bed, and sat beside her for ten minutes' precious private talk.

"It's a facer, Peg," he said. "I can't deny it's a facer. When I walked out of that doctor's room I felt as weak as a child. The shock knocked the strength out of me. I had never thought of anything else but being a soldier, you see, and it's a strange experience to have to face life afresh, with everything that you had expected taken out of it, and nothing ahead but blankness and disappointment. I've been so strong too—as strong as a horse. If it hadn't been for that blow—well, it's over! It's a comfort to me to feel that it was not my own fault. If I'd been lazy or careless, and had failed in the exam., it would have driven me crazy; but this was altogether beyond my control. It is frightfully rough luck, but I don't mean to howl—I must make the best of what's left!"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure you will. You have begun well, for I think you have been wonderfully brave and courageous about it, Arthur dear!"

"Well, of course!" said Arthur softly. "I always meant to be that, Peg; and, as the mater says, it is only another kind of battle. The other would have been easier, but I mean to fight still. I am not going to give up all my dreams. You shall be proud of me yet, though not in the way you expected."

"I never was so proud of you in my life!" Peggy cried. "Never in all my life."

Long after Arthur had kissed her and gone to his own room she lay awake, thinking of his words and of the expression on his handsome face as the firelight played on moistened eye and trembling lip. "I mean to fight."

"You shall be proud of me yet." The words rang in her ears, and would not be silenced. When she fell asleep Arthur was still by her side; the marks of tears were on his face. He was telling her once more the story of disappointment and failure; but she could not listen to him, for her eyes were fixed on something that was pinned on the breast of his coat— a little cross with two words printed across its surface.

In her dream Peggy bent forward, and read those two words with a great rush of joy and exultation.

"For Valour!"

"For Valour!" Yes, yes, it was quite true! Never was soldier flushed with victory more deserving of that decoration than Arthur Saville in his hour of disappointment and failure.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

THE PARTING OF THE WAYS!

Arthur kept his word, and tried manfully not to let his own disappointment interfere with the enjoyment of Christmas Day.

The party at the vicarage was smaller than usual, for Rob and Oswald had both gone home for the festive season, and he knew well that the knowledge that "Arthur was coming" had seemed the best guarantee of a merry day to those who were left.

Peggy too—poor little Peg, with her bandaged hands and tiny white face—it would never do to grieve her by being depressed and gloomy!

"Begone, dull care!" cried Arthur to himself then, when he awoke on Christmas morning, and, promptly wrapping himself in his dressing-gown, he sallied out on to the landing, where he burst into the strains of "Christians, awake!" with such vigorous brush-and-comb accompaniment on the panels of the doors as startled the household out of their dreams.

"Miserable boy! I was having such a lovely nap! I'll never forgive you!" cried Mrs Asplin's voice, in sleepy wrath.

"Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!" shouted the girls; and Peggy's clear pipe joined in last of all. "And many of them! Come in! Come in! I was lying awake and longing to see you!"

Arthur put his ruffled head round the door and beamed at the little figure in the bed, as if he had never known a trouble in his life.

"What a wicked story! I heard you snore. Merry Christmas, Peg, and a Happy New Year! And don't you go for to do it again never no more! It's a jolly morning. I'll take you out for a toddle in the garden when we come home from church, if you are a good girl. Will you have your present now, or wait till you get it? It begins with a B. I love my love with a B, because she's a—"

"Oh, Arthur!" interrupted Peggy regretfully. "I haven't half such a nice present for you as I expected. You see I couldn't work anything, and I couldn't get out to the shops, and I hadn't nearly as much money as I expected either. If Rob and I had won that prize, I should have had ten pounds; but the stupid editors have put off announcing the result week after week. They say there were so many competitors; but that's no consolation, for it makes our chance less. I do hope it may be out next week. But, at any rate, I didn't get my ten pounds in time, and there I was, you see, with little money and practically no hands— a—er—a most painful contingency, which I hope it may never be your lot to experience. You must take the will for the deed."

"Oh, I will!" agreed Arthur promptly. "I'll take the will now, and you can follow up with the deed as soon as you get the cash. But no more journeys up to London, my dear, if you love me, and don't use such big words before seven o'clock in the morning, or you'll choke. It's bad for little girls to exert themselves so much. Now I'm going to skate about in the bath for a bit, and tumble into my clothes, and then I'll come back and give you a lift downstairs. You are coming down for breakfast, I suppose?"

"Rather! On Christmas morning! I should just think I was!" cried Peggy emphatically; and Arthur went off to the bathroom, calling in at Max's room en route, to squeeze a sponge full of water over that young gentleman's head, and pull the clothes off the bed, by way of giving emphasis to his, "Get up, you lazy beggar! It's the day after to-morrow, and the plum-pudding is waiting!"

Peggy was the only one of the young folks who did not go to church that morning; but she was left in charge of the decorations for the dinner-table, and when this was finished there was so much to think about that the time passed all too quickly.

Last year she and Arthur had spent Christmas with their mother; now both parents were away in India, and everything was strange and altered. As Peggy sat gazing into the heart of the big gloomy fire, it seemed to her that the year that was passing away would end a complete epoch in her brother's experiences and her own, and that from this hour a new chapter would begin. She herself had come back from the door of death, and had life given, as it were, afresh into her hands. Arthur's longed-for career had been checked at its commencement, and all his plans laid waste. Even the life in the vicarage would henceforth take new conditions, for Rob and Oswald would go up to Oxford at the beginning of the term, and their place be filled by new pupils. There was something solemnising in the consciousness of change which filled the air. One could never tell what might be the next development. Nothing was too unexpected to happen—since Arthur's success had ended in failure, and she herself had received Rosalind's vows of love and friendship.

"Good things have happened as well as bad," acknowledged Peggy honestly; "but how I do hate changes! The new pupils may be the nicest boys in the world, but no one will ever—ever be like Rob, and I'd rather Arthur had been a soldier than anything in the wide world. I wish one could go on being young for ever and ever. It's when you grow old that all these troubles and changes come upon you." And Peggy sighed and wagged her head, oppressed with the weight of fifteen years.

It was a relief to hear the clatter of horses' hoofs, and the sound of voices in the hall, which proved that the church-goers had returned home. Mr and Mrs Asplin had been driven home from church by Lord and Lady Darcy, and the next moment they were in the room, and greeting Peggy with demonstrative affection.

"We couldn't go home without coming to see you, dear," said Lady Darcy fondly. "Rosalind is walking with the rest, and will be here in a few minutes. A merry Christmas to you, darling, and many, many of them. I've brought you a little present which I hope you will like. It's a bangle bracelet—quite a simple one that you can wear every day—and you must think of me sometimes when you put it on."

She touched the spring of a little morocco case as she spoke, and there on the satin lining lay a band of gold, dependent from which hung the sweetest little locket in the world—heart-shaped, studded with pearls, and guarding a ring of hair beneath the glass shield.

Lady Darcy pointed to it in silence—her eyes filling with tears, as they invariably did on any reference to Rosalind's accident, and Peggy's cheeks flushed with pleasure.