"I heard all about it the other day, Miss Maisie," said the doctor in a very kind voice, "and who do you think told me? Tuvvy's little girl. She's got a brother about the age of yours, and they both think a lot of what you did for their father."

Maisie began to forget her confusion in the interest of Tuvvy's little girl. She stole a glance at the doctor, who did not look a bit vexed at her unlucky speech, but went on as good-naturedly as ever.

"She's a nice little maid, and it's hard lines for her just now. She has to lie quite still all day because she's hurt her back. But she's very good and patient."

"Can't you make her well?" asked Maisie, remembering the firm faith of the village people in Dr Price.

"Oh, I hope so," he replied cheerfully. "But it takes time, and it's dull and lonely for her, you see, while her people are out at work all day."

"Is she all alone?" asked Maisie. "Hasn't she got any one to be with her?"

"Well, she's got a kitten," answered Dr Price, "and that seems a comfort to her, but that's about all. By the way, Miss Maisie," he added, "how are all your cats? What became of the kitten you offered me some time back?"

"Oh," said Maisie sorrowfully, "didn't you hear about it? We gave it to old Sally's Eliza at Upwell, and it ran out through the front shop and got lost in the streets. Aunt Katharine doesn't think we shall hear of it again now. It was such a dear little kitten; not pretty like Darkie, but very good and sweet, and purred more than any of them."

"That was a bad job," said the doctor sympathetically.

"Is Tuvvy's little girl's kitten a pretty one?" asked Maisie.

"Well, as to that," he replied slowly, "it looked to me about like other cats, but then I didn't notice it much, you see, because I'm not so fond of 'em as you are. If it had been a dog now, I could have told you all its points at once. The little girl—Becky her name is—was very fond of it, that's quite certain."

Deeply interested, Maisie secretly wondered what the "points" of a dog were, and concluded that they must mean its paws and the tip of its tail. After a minute's silence she put another question, rather sternly.

"What colour was it? You must have seen that."

Dr Price looked quite cast down by this severe examination.

"I'm afraid I didn't," he said humbly; "you see they always look alike to me."

"There's quite as much difference in them as there is in dogs," said Maisie in an instructive voice; "Madam's three last kittens were not a bit alike. One was black—we kept that; one was quite white—we gave that to Philippa; and one was stripey grey, and that was the one that went to Upwell and got lost."

"It would be odd, wouldn't it?" suggested the doctor, "if it was the one I saw at Tuvvy's."

Maisie sat very upright, with a sparkle of excitement in her eyes.

"Could it be?" she exclaimed. "How did the little girl get it?"

Dr Price shook his head with a guilty air. "Didn't ask," he said.

His conduct with regard to the kitten had been thoroughly unsatisfactory, but he looked so sorry, that Maisie could not be hard upon him.

"Never mind," she said graciously; "I daresay, if you don't like cats— It had one white paw," she added quickly, with renewed hope, "but I daresay you didn't even notice that."

Dr Price was so anxious to please, that it is possible he might have gone the length of remembering the one white paw, but he was saved from this rashness by the entrance of Mrs Budget, bearing a covered dish from which came a very savoury smell.

"There's Miss Pringle stepping down with cloak and umbrella for Miss Chester," she said, "so I thought I'd just bring the dinner straight in. It's done to a turn, and smells like a nosegay," she added, lifting the cover with a triumphant flourish.

Pringle was Aunt Katharine's maid. It was most tiresome of her to come just now, for Maisie felt she might really be on the track of the lost kitten at last. She knew, however, that she must not stay any longer, and keep the doctor from the enjoyment of his dinner, so with a little sigh she slid off her chair, and held out her band to say good-bye.

"And if I were you, Miss Maisie," were the doctor's parting words, as he followed her out to the door, and folded the big cloak carefully round her, "I should just go over to Upwell, and have a look at that kitten one day. You'd leave it with Becky, wouldn't you, if it does turn out to be yours?"

Maisie's eyes were bright, and her cheeks flushed with excitement.

"Of course we should," she said; "that is, if old Sally's Eliza doesn't mind, and it's a really good home."

The doctor lingered so long in the porch looking after his little guest as she hurried up the wet road by Pringle's side, that Mrs Budget replaced the cover with a hasty crash.

"There's no credit in cooking for him, none at all," she muttered.

As for Maisie, she would have liked wings to fly back to Fieldside with this wonderful news, but she had to restrain her impatience and keep pace with Pringle, who held the umbrella and took mincing steps through the mud.

The way seemed endless, and when she did arrive, it was disappointing to find that Aunt Katharine would not be home till late in the evening. There was therefore only Dennis to whom she could pour out the story of Tuvvy's little daughter, and her hopes and fears about the grey kitten. He was interested and impressed at first, but very soon ready to dismiss the subject and return to the one which really filled his mind—the painting of the jackdaws' house.

"Only fancy," said Maisie, breaking out again for the twentieth time, as the children sat at dinner, "if it should be our dear little grey kitten who we thought was dead. Wouldn't it be lovely?"

"Yes," said Dennis absently. Then, after a moment's pause: "What colour had we better paint it?"

"Paint it!" repeated Maisie vaguely; but meeting a look of scorn from Dennis, she hastily added: "Oh, you mean the jackdaws' house; but you are pleased about the kitten, aren't you?"

"Of course I am," answered Dennis rather impatiently, "but that's only a chance, you see. If it is the kitten, it is; and if it isn't, it isn't. But the jackdaws' house is a real thing, and we must settle about the colour. How do you think," he went on seriously, "it would do to have it the same colour that Tuvvy's going to do the elevator? He might let us have some of his paint, you see."

"I shouldn't like it at all," said Maisie promptly; "he said it was to be a sort of a yaller, and I thought it sounded very ugly."

"Well, then," said Dennis, "you say a colour."

Maisie thought it over, her eyes fixed on the meadows and the fast-falling rain outside.

"I should paint it green," she said suddenly.

"Why?" asked Dennis.

"Because it's a pretty colour," she replied, "and the jackdaws would like it. It's like the leaves and grass, and they might think they were in a tree."

Dennis received the idea with a short laugh of contempt.

"Jackdaws are not such ninnies as that," he said. "They're sharp birds; they're not likely to mistake a cage for a tree. If we don't have it yellow, let's have it bright red, like Mr Solace's new wagon."

Maisie had known from the first that her opinion was merely asked as a matter of form, Dennis would have the colour he wished and no other; so she made no further objection, and it was settled, subject to Aunt Katharine's approval, that the jackdaws' house should be painted the brightest red possible to get. This done, Maisie retired into a corner of the play-room with Madam, and related to her attentive ear the discovery of that morning.—She was a better listener than Dennis, for at any rate she was not eager to talk on other matters, but Maisie longed to tell some one who really cared as much as she did herself. Aunt Katharine would be home soon, which was a comfort, and perhaps Philippa too would like to know. She had never seen the grey kitten, but she had heard about it so very often. Maisie made up her mind to write to her. She would have been surprised if she had known that Philippa also had made a discovery, and bad news to tell her of Madam's lost child. To hear what this discovery was, we must go back to the day when Philippa went home after her visit to Fieldside.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

PHILIPPA MAKES A DISCOVERY.

When Philippa, looking back from her seat in the carriage by Mrs Trevor's side, could no longer see Dennis and Maisie making signs of farewell, she leaned back with a pout of discontent. Her visit to Fieldside was over, and she had been so happy, that it seemed flat and dull to be going home with only Miss Mervyn to see when she got there. As they drove quickly through the village, she looked quite longingly at all the familiar places they passed. At the post-office, where her cousins had taken her to fetch the afternoon letters and buy bull's-eyes; at the cottage, where the old woman lived who had the immense yellow cat; at the blacksmith's, who was shoeing Dr Price's grey horse; and at the school-house, where the chubby-faced boys and girls were just pouring out into the road.

Farther on, she could see in the distance the gables and outbuildings of the Manor Farm, and the deep thatched roof of old Sally's cottage, from which a thin thread of smoke was rising. She was sorry to leave all these friendly things, and there seemed nothing to look forward to at Haughton Park, except perhaps the white kitten. She began to wonder how it was, and whether it had missed her, and remembering Maisie's advice, she determined that she would try to improve its behaviour, and make it into a really good cat. Her first question, therefore, when she arrived was, "Where's Blanche?" and she looked impatiently at her mother for the answer, for Mrs Trevor hesitated.

"The kitten, my darling?" she said rather nervously; "the kitten's in the stable, I think. I told Thomas to take great care of it."

Philippa, who was on her way up-stairs, turned round and faced her mother defiantly.

"Why is it in the stable?" she asked. "Who sent it there? It must come back directly."

"My sweet Philippa," said Mrs Trevor in a soothing voice, "do listen to me a moment; the kitten is a naughty little mischievous thing, and I cannot put up with it in the house any longer. I will just tell you why. You know my new velvet mantle which has just come down from London? The other day Briggs found the kitten lying in the very middle of it on my bed! Its paws were muddy, its hairs came off and stuck to the velvet, and I doubt if the mantle will ever be the same. Now, my darling, don't agitate yourself. It will be quite happy in the stable, and we shall be much more comfortable without it indoors. If anything's broken or goes wrong, I'm always told it is 'Miss Philippa's kitten,' and I'm tired to death of it."

Mrs Trevor paused and looked appealingly at her daughter, who only stamped her foot angrily in reply.

"I'll give you what you like for a pet instead of it. Love-birds, now, or a cockatoo? A cockatoo is no trouble at all, and quite an ornament to the house, and worth a great deal more than a silly white kitten.— Where are you going, my love?"—for Philippa had suddenly rushed back through the hall and out of the front door. In a short time she reappeared with the kitten hugged up to her breast, passed her mother without a word, went straight into the schoolroom and shut the door very loud. Mrs Trevor looked after her with a sigh of despair, but as usual made no further attempt to oppose her, and Philippa was left to amuse herself with her kitten as she liked.

But it was not nearly so easy, she said to herself, to find amusement at Haughton as it had been at Fieldside. There she had never known what it was to be dull and cross; here she felt both, as she looked round the empty schoolroom with the white kitten tucked under one arm. The room had a prim, precise air, with all the books and toys carefully arranged on the shelves, the musical box in its shining case on its own particular table, and nothing left lying about. Philippa pursed up her lips discontentedly. How different it was to the pleasant noise and bustle, and all the little daily excitements of Fieldside! How dull it was! How sorry she was to come back to it! She let the kitten drop listlessly, and stood regarding her playthings and treasures with gloomy dislike. Not one of them pleased her, not even her last new possession, the musical box. The kitten seemed to share her mood, for she walked restlessly about the room, sniffed in a disdainful way at the furniture, and gave a tiny peevish mew.

"Here, Blanche, come and play," cried Philippa.

She threw an india-rubber ball across the floor, but the kitten hardly deigned to turn her head towards it.

"How stupid you are!" exclaimed her mistress angrily, as she thought of Darkie's frolics and gambols. "You have heaps of things to play with, and yet you won't play, and I don't believe you're a bit glad to see me either."

Blanche continued to stroll uneasily round the room as though in search of something, and took no notice of the ball, even when it was rolled right under her nose.

"Well, I suppose what you want is your clockwork mouse," said Philippa, "and that's your very best toy. But I shan't let you have it long, because I'm not going to spoil you ever any more."

She wound up the little mouse, and let it run nimbly round and round close to the kitten. Formerly it had been a never-failing excitement, but now, to Philippa's surprise and vexation, Blanche sat perfectly unmoved before it, and did not lift a paw. Perhaps during her short visit to the stable she had become acquainted with real mice, for after giving one slight sniff at the imitation one, she rose and walked away with a high and scornful step.

"Well, I'm sure!" exclaimed Philippa. She stood gazing at the kitten as though she could hardly believe what she had seen, then turned and flung herself moodily into the window-seat. Everything at Haughton, even the kitten, was tiresome, and disagreeable, and dreadfully dull.

"You're not a bit of comfort," she said to Blanche, who was now mewing at the door to be let out, "and if they send you to the stable again, I shan't fetch you back. I believe you're just fit for a low, mean stable-cat. So there!"

It was some relief to hurl this insult, but it hurt Philippa a great deal more than the cat, and her eyes filled with tears as she turned her head and looked out into the garden. Here again the contrast to Fieldside struck her. Broad gravelled terraces, flights of stone steps, masses of brilliant flower-beds; and beyond, the wide green spaces of the park, with its groups of trees all standing in exactly the right places, well ordered, stately, correct, as though the very shrubs and plants had been trained to hold themselves with propriety.

At Fieldside you could not look for a minute out of the schoolroom window without seeing something alive. Cows strolling across the meadow; Aunt Katharine's chickens venturing into the garden, and driven out by Peter, cackling and shrieking; companies of busy starlings working away on the lawn; it was all lively and cheerful, though Mrs Trevor always said it was "buried in the country." Haughton Park was considered a "beautiful place," and Philippa was used to hearing it spoken of as such, but just now she decided in her own mind that it was not to be compared to Fieldside. As she sat gloomily gazing out of the window, her eye was caught by something which she had not noticed before, and which she began to observe with some interest. It was nothing more remarkable than the figure of a boy in a ragged jacket, who knelt on the garden path below, weeding. Philippa studied him attentively.

He was small and thin, just about Dennis's age, and he was certainly poor, for his clothes were old and shabby. Who was he? If he were a boy in the garden at Fieldside, she went on to reflect, Dennis and Maisie would know his name, and where he lived, and how many brothers and sisters he had, and what his father earned a week, and how long he had left school. Why should she not make these inquiries, and afterwards, perhaps, she could give him some new clothes, and some money to buy sweets. Then he would be grateful, as Tuvvy was to Dennis, and be willing to do all sorts of things for her. Suddenly, fired by this resolve, she jumped off the window-seat, intent on running down into the garden, when Miss Mervyn came into the room.

"Well, my dear Philippa," she said kindly, "have you enjoyed your visit?"

"Very much," answered Philippa ungraciously. "I hate coming home. There's nothing to do."

"Oh, come," said Miss Mervyn, with an air of forced cheerfulness, "you mustn't say that, with all these things to amuse you. Have you wound up the musical box?"

"I don't care for it," said Philippa, with as much disdain as the kitten had shown for the clockwork mouse.

Miss Mervyn's glance fell upon Blanche, who was washing her face delicately with the tip of one paw.

"How pleased the kitten must have been to see you again!" she remarked.

"You're just as wrong as you can be about that," said Philippa decidedly. "She wasn't a bit pleased, and I believe she'd rather go back to the stable."

"Well, to be sure, it is the proper place for her, isn't it?" agreed Miss Mervyn, with a look of relief; "and I daresay she's really happier there."

"But, all the same, I don't mean to let her go," added Philippa; "I shall keep her with me more than ever, and teach her to be very fond of me."

"Where are you going, my dear? it is just tea-time," asked Miss Mervyn, as Philippa left the room hurriedly after this remark.

"Into the garden," Philippa called back. "You needn't come," and she ran down-stairs as fast as she could. Her mind was so set upon doing good to the poor boy in the garden, that it did not once strike her that there was some one nearer home to whom she ought to be kind. Poor Miss Mervyn! How often Philippa worried her with her whims and naughtiness, and yet how patient and good she was! But that seemed natural to Philippa. It would have been quite as strange for Miss Mervyn to be cross and selfish, as for Blanche the kitten to be meek and well-behaved.

When Philippa reached the spot where the boy knelt, hard at work, she came to a standstill, and hardly knew how to begin the conversation. It would have been easier if he had looked up, or seemed aware of her presence; but his whole attention was so fixed on getting out the weeds with his knife, that he evidently had not heard her approach.

"Good afternoon, little boy," she began condescendingly at last.

The boy raised a hot face, and touched his ragged cap. He was much taller and bigger than Philippa herself but it seemed right to her to call him "little boy."

"Who are you?" was her first question. "I've never seen you before."

"I'm the new gardener's boy, miss," he answered; "I ain't been here long."

Philippa looked down at him, wondering what she should say next.

"Are you," she began hesitatingly, after a moment's pause—"are you very poor?"

The boy seemed a little puzzled. He sat back on his heels, and scraped the gravel thoughtfully from the blade of his knife.

"We ain't near so bad off as some in Upwell," he said at last; "but we could do with a little more sometimes, now that Becky's so bad."

"Oh, you live at Upwell, do you?" said Philippa; "and who is Becky, and why is she bad?"

"She's my sister, miss," answered the boy, "and she's had a fall and hurted her back. She can't run about, and hasn't not for ever so long. It's very hard on Becky. She was always one to like running about."

"Won't she ever get well?" asked Philippa, drawing a little nearer, and speaking with real interest.

"The doctor says she will, if so be she keeps quiet a bit longer, and has lots of nourishing things," replied the boy.

"Why doesn't she have them, then?" asked Philippa.

The boy cast down his eyes. "Well, you see, miss, up to now things has been a bit orkerd. Father didn't always bring home much, and I was at school. But that'll be different now, and I expect we'll get along fine."

At this moment Miss Mervyn appeared from the house. She carried Philippa's broad hat, a parasol, and a small knitted shawl, and came hastening up rather breathless.

"My dear child," she exclaimed, "no hat, nothing to shield you from the sun, and nothing over your shoulders! You will most certainly be ill!" She put the hat on Philippa's head, and the shawl round her neck, as she spoke. "Your tea is ready," she continued, with a puzzled glance at the boy, who had fallen busily to work again.

Philippa made no other answer than a sharp backward drive with her elbow, which nearly hit Miss Mervyn in the face as she stooped anxiously over her. Then she continued hurriedly to the boy:

"What's your name, and where do you live in Upwell? I mean to go and see your sister, and take her some nourishing things."

"Thank you, miss," murmured the boy shyly; "my name's Dan Tuvvy, and we live at Number 10 Market Street."

"Then," said Philippa, "it's your father, I suppose, that works for Mr Solace?"

Dan nodded.

"And it was my cousin Dennis," continued Philippa, with a superior air, "who was so very good to him, you know, and took so much trouble to persuade Mr Solace not to turn him away. You ought to be very grateful, you know, to my cousin Dennis."

Dan, who had not once looked up since Miss Mervyn's appearance, now seemed suddenly startled out of his shyness. He raised a face so glowing with pleasure and affection at the mention of Dennis's name, that he was almost like another boy.

"Well, we are, miss," he said earnestly, "just about—Becky, and me, and mother too," he added, as an after-thought. "We'd do anything for Master Dennis. And I'm pleased to hear, miss, as how you're his cousin, because p'r'aps you'll tell him so."

His dark eyes brightened as he spoke, and his cheeks flushed. Philippa, surprised at the sudden change, stood looking at him silently for a minute. How fond every one is of Dennis! she thought.

"I'll tell him what you say when I see him again," she said; "and you must remember to tell your sister that I'm coming to see her, and bring her some nourishing things."

"Thank you, miss," said Dan, dropping into his old shy manner again, as he touched his cap and bent over his weeding. He did not seem overcome with pleasure at the idea of Philippa's visit, and she felt a little disappointed, but she had been interested in his talk; and as she went back to the house with Miss Mervyn, her mind was so full of it, that she felt obliged to tell her all about Tuvvy and Dennis, and her own plans for Becky's benefit. Miss Mervyn listened attentively, and though she was not equal to Maisie and Dennis as a companion, Philippa was surprised to find how well she entered into the matter, and what good suggestions she could make. During tea-time, which passed much more pleasantly than usual, she found a great many questions to ask.

"Why do you suppose Dan looked so very pleased when I talked about Dennis?" she inquired.

"I suppose because he is a grateful little boy," answered Miss Mervyn.

"Do people aways look like that when they are grateful?" said Philippa. "Will his sister look like that when I take her the nourishing things?"

"Perhaps she will," said Miss Mervyn; "but, my dear Philippa, it is not only giving people things that makes them grateful."

"What does, then?" asked Philippa, with a stare of surprise.

"Well, I think kindness and love make people more grateful than rich gifts. Your cousin Dennis liked Tuvvy, and took a great deal of trouble for him. That was better than giving him a great deal of money."

Philippa thought this over a little.

"But," she said at length, "I can't possibly like Dan's sister Becky yet, you know, because I've never seen her."

"Meanwhile, then," said Miss Mervyn, "you can try to be grateful to all the people you have seen and love, and who do so much for you every day. Perhaps if you see Becky, you will like her too, and then you will be so glad to make her happy, that you will not stop to think whether she is grateful or not."

"What should you think," pursued Philippa, "are the most nourishing things of all?"

Miss Mervyn bent her mind anxiously on the subject, and finally decided in favour of milk, eggs, and beef-tea.

"But," objected Philippa, "they're all nasty, except eggs. Can't she have something nice? Jelly and tarts, and roast chickens?"

"Suppose," said Miss Mervyn, "we write out a list of things, and then you can show it to your mother this evening, and hear what she thinks."

That seemed a good plan to Philippa, and she was soon so absorbed in writing down desirable delicacies, that she would hardly consent to be dressed when the hour came for her to go to Mrs Trevor. Ready at last, she flew down-stairs in high spirits with the list in her hand, and at once burst into the story, jumbling up Becky, Dennis, Dan, and Tuvvy the wheelwright in such a manner that her mother gazed at her distractedly. Philippa was too excited to make things very clear, but at last Mrs Trevor gathered that for some reason or other she wished to go and see the sister of the boy who worked in the garden.

"And I want to take her these," added Philippa, thrusting a long scrawled list before her mother's eyes.

Mrs Trevor raised her eye-glasses and looked at it in despair.

"Why, my darling?" she inquired feebly.

"She's ill," answered Philippa. "May Mrs Bunce pack them in a basket?"

"Certainly, you may send them to the little girl if you wish, my dear, and it's very sweet of you to think of it. But I couldn't let you go into a dirty cottage and see sick people, you know. You might catch all sorts of complaints."

And to this, in spite of Philippa's angry arguments, Mrs Trevor remained firm. It did not matter, she said, what Dennis and Maisie were allowed to do at Fieldside, or how many poor people they went to see there. She did not choose Philippa to have anything to do with sick people in Upwell, and she could not listen to any more on the subject.

Philippa flew out of the room with her eyes full of tears, and her list crumpled up in her hand, cast herself upon Miss Mervyn's neck, and told her all this as well as she could for her sobs.

Miss Mervyn listened with sympathy.

"Did your mother say why she did not wish you to go?" she asked presently.

"Because," said Philippa with difficulty, "she says I should catch complaints. Dennis and Maisie don't catch complaints."

"Would you like me to go and hear what Mrs Trevor says?" suggested Miss Mervyn kindly. "Perhaps I could explain things to her better; but you must promise to be good and patient if your mother does not alter her mind."

"I promise, I promise," said Philippa eagerly. "And if you will persuade her, I will never, never be naughty again, and I will love you always."

Miss Mervyn shook her head rather sadly. "Don't promise too much," she said, as she left the room.

She had a difficult task before her, but she was so sincerely anxious to help Philippa, that she was at last able to put the matter before Mrs Trevor in a way which overcame her objections.

To begin with, it was a really good thing for Philippa to take an interest in something outside herself. Already, since she had this plan in her mind, she was more cheerful and contented. Then the little girl she wished to see was not ill of any complaint which Philippa could possibly catch, but had only strained her back. Then it would be quite possible to ascertain whether the Tuvvys were decent people, and their cottage fit for Philippa to enter. Miss Mervyn herself would go first and observe everything carefully. And finally, the child had so set her heart on making this visit, that it would be unwise to oppose it unless absolutely necessary. At length, therefore, she returned to the schoolroom, where she found Philippa curled up disconsolately in the depths of an armchair.

"Well," she exclaimed, springing up, "may I go?" Then as she saw Miss Mervyn smile, she flung her arms suddenly round her neck. "You're tremendously kind," she said; "and now you'll see how good I'll be always, and always, and always."

Miss Mervyn smiled still more. "That's a very long time, my dear Philippa," she said; "but at any rate you know now what it is to feel grateful, don't you? But you haven't thanked your mother yet. Run down-stairs and tell her how pleased you are."

Philippa's first impulse was, as usual, to refuse to do what she was told, but this evening she felt quite a new wish to please Miss Mervyn, and obeyed silently.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE GREATEST COMFORT.

"This is a dull room!" exclaimed Philippa.

She had just finished unpacking the basket of good things she had brought for Becky, and still knelt beside it, with various parcels spread out round her on the floor. Miss Mervyn had left her at the Tuvvys' cottage for a quarter of an hour, while she went to do some shopping in the town, and would call for her again in the pony-carriage, so that the two children were alone. They had been very silent hitherto, Philippa occupied with her unpacking, and Becky gazing at her meanwhile with shy admiration. It was like looking at a pretty picture, she thought—only better, because it was real; and her dark eyes examined her visitor's face and dress narrowly, while the kitten, alarmed at the entrance of a stranger, peeped out from the safe shelter of her arms. Neither she nor her mistress was accustomed to see such fine drooping feathers as those in Philippa's hat, nor such a soft white dress with lace frills. They seemed to make everything round them look dingier and more shabby. Philippa herself however, was much too busy to notice anything but the contents of her basket for some time. She continued to pull out package after package, naming each as she laid it on the floor, "Arrowroot, eggs, sponge-cakes," in a business-like manner, until she reached the last. Then tossing back her long hair, she sat back on her heels, gave a searching look round the room, and without a moment's hesitation exclaimed: "This is a dull room!"

Becky did not answer. Now that Philippa was there, it did look darker and more dismal than usual somehow, and the ceiling blacker with smoke.

"Do you lie here alone all day?" asked Philippa. "Don't you hate it?"

"'Tain't so bad as it used to be," said Becky.

"I couldn't bear it," remarked Philippa, after gazing at Becky for a minute with her mouth wide open.

"Folks has got to bear things," said Becky.

"I don't bear things," returned Philippa quickly; "I cry, and then mother or some one gets me what I want."

"If I was to cry ever so, mother wouldn't hear me," said Becky, "because she's out charing all day. Anyhow, she couldn't make my back well. Dr Price says as how nought but patience will do that, an' plenty to eat."

"Well, you'll have some nourishing things now, won't you?" said Philippa, with a glance at the parcels, "and I hope they'll make you well. And when you've eaten them all, I'm going to bring you some more."

"Thank you kindly, miss," said Becky, but she did not look so very pleased as Philippa had hoped, and she began to think she was not perhaps a grateful little girl. What should she say next, she wondered, and just then her eye fell on the kitten, which had jumped down to examine the parcels, and was patting them softly.

"Oh, you've got a cat!" she exclaimed. "Not a very pretty one, is it?"

An affectionate light came into Becky's eyes as she looked at her kitten.

"I call it pretty," she said; "but then I'm ever so fond of it, and it's fond of me too."

"I've got a cat at home," said Philippa, "a pretty white one called Blanche, but I don't think she's fond of me, though I give her all sorts of things. How did you make yours fond of you?"

"I don't know," said Becky. "I don't give her much, so 'tain't that. Sometimes she don't get much to eat for ever so long. I expect, though, she knows what a lot I think of her, and that's where it is!"

Philippa looked thoughtfully from the kitten to its mistress.

"I don't believe," she said, "that if I were to be ever so fond of Blanche, she would care much for me. Everybody's cats seem nicer than mine."

"I can't think how I ever got on without this one," said Becky. "She's a loving little thing, and that funny in her ways! Often and often she'll make me laugh with her tricks, even when my back's bad. She's a real comfort, like Dan said she would be—the greatest comfort I've got."

The greatest comfort! The words made Philippa think of Maisie and her grey kitten's loss.

"Where did you get it?" she asked quickly. "Who gave it to you?"

"Dan found her stray in the streets," said Becky. "A boy was going to behave cruel to her, and Dan fought him, and brought her home to me."

Philippa sprang to her feet.

"Then I do believe," she exclaimed, "that it's Maisie's grey kitten!"

Maisie's grey kitten! Becky clutched her pet closely, and looked up with eyes full of terror. How could it be any one's kitten but hers?

"You know," continued Philippa, much too excited by the discovery to think of Becky's feelings, "Maisie Chester's my cousin, sister to Dennis who was so kind to your father."

Becky nodded.

"Well, their cat had three kittens—a black one, a white one, and a grey one. They kept the black one, and gave the white one to me on my birthday, but the grey one got lost. It was sent to the tinsmith's in Upwell, and it ran away, so, of course," ended Philippa, pointing triumphantly at the small form in Becky's arms, "that's it. Won't Maisie be glad! She always liked it the best, and she's always talking about it now."

Before Becky could say a word, and, indeed, before she had got the dreadful fact into her mind that the kitten belonged to some one else, Miss Mervyn's entrance put a stop to any further explanation. She was anxious for Philippa to come away at once, and Philippa herself, full of her great discovery, was equally anxious to go, for she wanted to tell Dennis and Maisie the news without delay. They had tried to find the kitten for such a long while, and now she had been clever enough to do it, all by herself!

Might they drive straight to Fieldside, she asked, instead of going home; and in her eagerness, and the bustle of departure, she almost forgot to say good-bye to Becky at all. Then the big empty basket was carried out to the pony-carriage, Philippa's slim, white figure floated after it, there was a clatter of wheels, the scramble of the pony's feet, and Becky was alone.

Had it been a dream? Had Philippa really been there? What dreadful thing had she said? Maisie's grey kitten! Could it, oh, could it really be true? Perhaps it was a bad dream, after all. Becky glanced down on the floor where Philippa had unpacked the basket. There, just as she had left them, were all the nice things she had brought. Eggs, cakes, jelly in a basin, neat packets of arrowroot—it was no dream. She had really been, and brought them all with her, but what were they compared to what she would take away? What were all the good things in the world, if the grey kitten were to be Becky's friend and playfellow no longer? How could she do without her?

Poor Becky threw herself back on her couch, and covered her face with her hands in despair. The kitten seeing this, thought her mistress was going to take a nap, and at once settled herself in her usual place, with her paws planted on Becky's chest, and her green eyes lazily blinking into her face. They had passed many an hour together in this position, but to-day the kitten noticed something strange, for presently one shining tear and then another crept slowly between her mistress's closed fingers. This was some new game or joke, and she at once began to join in it, by patting at them softly, taking care not to put out her claws, and purring to show her satisfaction. What was her surprise when Becky suddenly caught her tightly to her breast, and bursting into heart-broken tears, exclaimed:

"Oh Kitty, Kitty, my own Kitty! Whatever shall I do?"

This was certainly most puzzling, and so unlike anything in the kitten's experience, that she could not make out what part her mistress wished her to play. She got out of the difficulty at last by going snugly to sleep, and presently, worn out by grief and crying, Becky was quiet too, and began to take comfort in the thought that she should soon be able to tell Dan all about it. He had often helped her out of troubles before, and perhaps he would think of some way now.

She lay with her eyes fixed patiently on the door, waiting for him to appear; but she knew before that happened the door would open twice, once for Mrs Tuvvy, and once for her father, who both got home earlier. Becky had seen the same things so often from her dim corner, that she could have described them with her eyes shut, and it was all just the same this afternoon. A heavy, flat-footed step, and Mrs Tuvvy entered with a tired, ill-used look on her face, cast off her shawl, untied the strings of her bonnet, and tipped it forward on her head. Becky would hardly have known her mother without her bonnet, for she wore it indoors and out. Then, talking all the time in a high, drawling voice, she proceeded to get the evening meal ready. If it were early in the week, there would be something savoury to cook, which she had brought home with her; or, perhaps, only a small piece of cold pork for Tuvvy's special benefit. To-night there were some slices of ham to broil, and the room was soon full of the sound and smell of her preparations.

The door opened again, and Tuvvy himself swung in, with a nod and a smile, and "How's yourself, Becky?" In times not long gone by Tuvvy had been used to enter in a very different manner, but he always came in steadily now, and sat down hungrily to his meals, however scanty they might be. Last of all, Dan, rosy-faced and cheerful, burst into the room; and then supper began, with a great clatter of knives and forks. Becky could not eat to-night, for she had far too much on her mind, but she knew it would be quite impossible to say anything until the meal was over. It seemed to last a long, long time, but at length Tuvvy gave his chair a little push back from the table, took his pipe and an old newspaper from his pocket, and settled himself to read. Mrs Tuvvy pulled herself out of her seat with a weary sigh, and began to journey backward and forwards with the empty dishes to the back kitchen. Now was the time.

"Dan," said Becky, "come here; I've got summat to tell yer."

Dan left off unlacing his boots, and at once went to his sister's side, but poor Becky's heart was so big with her sad story, that it was some time before she could make it plain to him. When he did understand it, he sat silent for a long while, with his lips pursed up, as though he were whistling.

"Say summat, Dan," cried Becky, in an agony at last.

"If so be," began Dan slowly, "as how it's Miss Maisie's kitten, 'tain't ours."

The kitten had finished its supper, and stretched itself out to sleep, just under Becky's chin. She gazed at her brother over its back, as though he were Fate itself, but said nothing.

"And we allers said," he went on, "as how we was very grateful to Master Dennis alonger of what he did for father."

Becky nodded. She knew that. It had made part of her day-dreams for months past.

"But there didn't seem any way to show it, because they're so rich and we're poor." Becky trembled at what was coming, as Dan went on in an even voice, very low, so as not to disturb his father. "And now we've got a thing to give. Course if I hadn't fought for it, and you hadn't took care on it, 'twouldn't a been alive now at all. So we'll give it to 'em cheerful, and be glad to do it."

This was poor comfort.

"Oh, I don't want to give it up," cried Becky. "I ain't glad to let it go. I'm that fond of it."

"Miss Maisie, she was fond of it too, wasn't she?" said Dan.

Becky nodded. "She loved it best of the three, Miss Trevor said. But she's got another cat, and I've got ne'er a one but this."

"Maybe," said Dan doubtfully, "I could get yer another you'd like as well in time."

Becky's only answer was to kiss the kitten fervently and shake her head.

Dan took hold of his head with both hands, and thought hard for a minute. Then he looked up and said, "There's two things, but you mustn't build on 'em." Becky's eyes showed a faint gleam of hope. "First," said Dan, holding up one finger, "it may not be it. There's more nor one grey kitten lost in Upwell. And second," holding up two, "if it is hers, she may let you keep it. You see she had given it away once."

How wise Dan was! Becky began to feel a little better.

"You mustn't build on 'em," said Dan, as he bent down to unlace his boots; "and if you have to give it up, you must think how pleased they'll be to have it, and do it cheerful."

There are few things easier than to tell others what is right to do, and few things harder than to do right one's self in some cases. Perhaps Dan did not understand all that the loss of the kitten would mean to Becky, when he spoke of giving it up "cheerful." He was fond of his sister, and sorry for her; but he had many things to enjoy in his active hard-working life, and it was natural he should sometimes forget how hard it must be to lie all day long in one dull room, to be often in pain, and to have nothing but a grey kitten to cheer and comfort one. It did not seem such a mighty matter to him to give it up, but to Becky it would be a sacrifice of her one joy and pleasure. If it must go, it must; but as to giving it up "cheerful," that she could never, never do. She loved it far too well. All that evening, and before she went to sleep at night, she could not hinder her mind from dwelling on the two chances Dan had mentioned. Oh, if one of them should turn out to be true! In the middle of the night, she woke with a start from a dream in which the kitten had been taken from her. She put out her hand to feel for it, and when her fingers touched the soft furry form curled up outside her bed, she could not help crying half with relief and half to think that the time might come when she should feel for it, and it would not be there.

Now all this sad trouble might have been spared, if Philippa had been a little more thoughtful. She was not an unkind little girl, but she was so entirely unused to considering other people's feelings, that it did not occur to her to imagine the effect of her words on Becky, or to say, "Of course Maisie will let you keep the kitten." That would have altered everything; but as it was, she was so full of her own cleverness at the discovery, that she talked of nothing else all the way to Fieldside, and seemed for the moment to have forgotten Becky and all she had meant to do for her.

It was a long way to drive round by Fieldside, and Miss Mervyn was not very willing to go, for it was getting late. "You must promise me, my dear Philippa," she said, "not to stay more than a few minutes if I allow you to go in, and I will wait for you in the pony-carriage."

Philippa promised readily, and arrived at the house, lost no time in making her way to the field, where she was told she should find Dennis and Maisie. At first she could see nothing of them; but presently, up in the corner where the cowhouse, haystack, and poultry-yard stood, she made out two busy figures in white aprons, deeply engaged with paint-brushes and pots of scarlet paint.

"Whatever are they doing?" she said to herself.

They were painting the jackdaws' house, and were that moment as perfectly happy as two children could be. Aunt Katharine had given full permission, two immense white aprons, and a liberal supply of paint, which last they were using freely, not only on the jackdaws' house, but on their own persons. Maisie in particular, who would take too much on her brush at a time, had splashed and sprinkled herself all over, even to the tip of her small round nose; so that she looked like a funny little clown squatting on the grass. Even the dog Peter, hunting rats under the haystack near, his agitated hind-legs only just visible, bore a scarlet patch of paint on one toe.

"Well!" exclaimed Philippa, when she had got close to them without being seen, "you are making a mess!"

"Why, it's Philippa!" exclaimed Maisie, throwing down her brush, and scrambling up from the ground; "but we mustn't go near you," she added, stopping short, "or you'll get all over paint."

"Isn't it jolly?" said Dennis. "Come round here and look at the bit I'm doing."

"No, thank you," said Philippa primly; "I haven't come to stay. Miss Mervyn's waiting in the pony-carriage. I've only come to say," with a pause, "that I've found your grey kitten."

"So have we," said Dennis coolly; "at least we think we know where it is."

Philippa's face fell. "Where?" she asked.

"We don't really know," said Maisie hastily, "only Dr Price saw a grey kitten at Tuvvy's house in Upwell, and Aunt Katharine says I may go to-morrow and see if it's ours."

"And I don't believe you'll know whether it is or not," said Dennis.

Philippa turned away sulkily. She was thoroughly disappointed to have her news received in this way.

"Oh well, then," she said, "you don't want to hear what I know about it, and I am sorry I came round all this way to tell you. Good-bye."

"Oh, stop! stop!" cried Maisie. "Wait for me. I want to hear very much; I'll go with you to the gate. Do stop a minute."

She struggled frantically as she spoke with the string of her apron, which was tied securely round her neck, and her voice was so pleading, that Philippa was softened. She was still cross with Dennis, who painted away, and did not care a bit; but it was difficult to be angry with Maisie, and when the apron was at last torn off, the two little girls ran across the field together towards the house.

Philippa's story turned out to be so very satisfactory and interesting. It seemed to clear away all doubt as to the whereabouts of the grey kitten. Maisie's eager questions and exclamations of pleasure were more than enough to satisfy her and make her feel quite good-tempered again.

"Did it seem happy?" inquired Maisie, as they drew near the gate. "Do you think it's got a good home?"

"Becky said," replied Philippa, "that it did not get much to eat sometimes, and it's a very ugly little house they live in; but she's very fond of it, and it's fond of her too."

"Then I expect it's all right," said Maisie; "it was always a dear little contented thing."

"She said it was her greatest comfort," added Philippa. "Wasn't it odd she should say that? It made me think of you and wonder if it was yours, and so I came straight off to tell you after I heard it was a stray kitten."

"Won't you come with me to-morrow?" asked Maisie. "You see you know Becky now, and I've never seen her."

Philippa quite approved of this. She would ask Miss Mervyn to bring her half-way to meet Maisie, and they would make the visit together.

"And I daresay Dennis will come too, if he's done painting," said Maisie.

"That doesn't matter at all," said Philippa, as she drove away with Miss Mervyn.

The next morning Maisie at Fieldside and Becky at Upwell woke up thinking of the same thing—the grey kitten—but with very different feelings. Maisie was delighted at the idea of meeting it again, and Becky was full of sorrow to think that she might have to say good-bye to it for ever. After her parents and Dan had all started out to their work, and left her alone with the kitten as usual, she thought it all seriously over, and made one firm resolve—she would not cry. If to give it up cheerful was impossible, she would at least prevent her grief from being seen. It might be hard, but it must be done, because, as Dan had said, Dennis and Maisie had been so good to them. "I'll shut my teeth tight," determined Becky, "and they shan't ever know I want to cry. Then, after they're gone, I can cry as much as I like."

With a sigh she proceeded to get the kitten ready for the visit, by brushing its coat carefully and smoothing it down with a duster. It had not very thick fur, but it was glossy and well-kept, and it was so used to kind treatment that it bore itself with confidence, like a cat with a good home. If there were nothing striking or handsome in its appearance, there was at least nothing slinking or miserable about it, and to Becky, who looked at it with the eyes of affection, it had every attraction a cat could possess.

"And now you're as ready as you can be," she said wistfully; "a collar or a bit o' ribbon would finish yer off, but I ain't got ne'er a one. Miss Maisie she'll have lots o' ribbons, and nicer things a deal for you to eat than I can give you, but she can't love you better. Maybe you'd be happier, but oh Kitty, Kitty, I hope you ain't her cat. I want to keep you, I do."

There was a knock at the door. "Come in," said Becky in a trembling voice, and both she and the kitten turned their eyes towards it in a frightened manner as it opened.

Philippa appeared first, stepping daintily forward with a swing of her elegant skirts, and for a moment Becky thought she was alone. But no, there was another little girl behind her, with rosy cheeks and very bright brown eyes. She came in shyly, and yet she looked very eager, and her gaze was fastened immediately on the kitten in Becky's arms.

"It's Miss Maisie," thought Becky, her grasp unconsciously tightening on its back.

"This," said Philippa, waving her hand grandly, "is my cousin, Miss Maisie Chester, and—" turning to Maisie—"this is Becky, and that's the kitten."

"How do you do?" said Maisie holding out her hand; "I hope you're better."

It was such a very kind little round face that approached that Becky could not feel afraid. She put out her hand and whispered, "Yes, thank you."

"Philippa says," continued Maisie, still with her eyes fixed on the kitten, "that you've found a stray kitten. And we lost a kitten—a grey one—in Upwell, and Aunt Katharine said I might come and see if this is it."

Face to face with the kitten at last, Maisie began to lose confidence in her memory. After all, it was a long time since she had seen it, and there were a great many grey cats in the world, and Dennis had always declared that it would be impossible to know it again. Her serious gaze rested on the kitten, Becky's on her face, and Philippa waited impatiently in the background for the decision.

"Well," she said at last; "is it it, or isn't it?"

"The thing is," began Maisie, "has it one white paw?"

Alas for Becky! She knew it had, only too well. Lifting it a little away from her, there was the fatal white paw plainly visible to Maisie's searching glance.

"And then," she continued, having observed this with a grave nod, "has it very nice little coaxing affectionate ways?"

Becky nodded with a full heart. She could not trust herself to speak.

"Does it purr much?" pursued Maisie. "More than other cats?"

Again Becky nodded. She had clenched her teeth long ago, but she began to be afraid that nothing would prevent her crying.

"May I have it in my arms?" asked Maisie.

She took it gently on to her knee, but the kitten had quite forgotten its babyhood, and thinking her an utter stranger, soon wriggled back to its mistress.

"It doesn't remember me," said Maisie rather sadly, "and yet I nursed it so very often."

"It is yours, then?" said Philippa.

"Yes," said Maisie. "I really and truly do believe it is, and I'm very glad."

She glanced at Becky as she spoke, and to her surprise saw that her eyes were full of tears.

"What's the matter?" she asked; "does your back hurt you?"

Becky shook her head. "'Tain't that," she managed to whisper. "I meant not to cry, but I don't seem able to keep it back."

She stopped and struggled with her tears, tore away the kitten, which clung to her with its little claws, and almost threw it into Maisie's lap.

"You're welcome to it," she sobbed out, "and you'll treat it kind."

At this rough usage the kitten gave a tiny mew of complaint, and Maisie herself was quite as much disturbed. She looked round at Philippa for help, stroked the kitten nervously, and stammered: "But it isn't mine any longer—I gave it away; didn't you know?"

"I told her all about it," said Philippa. "I told her it was given to the tinsmith's wife."

"And, of course, you said we shouldn't take it away?" said Maisie.

"Well, no," said Philippa, looking a little ashamed, as she remembered her hasty departure; "I didn't tell her that. I thought she would know it."

Maisie put the kitten gently back into Becky's arms.

"Don't be unhappy," she said. "Of course I'd much rather it stayed with you than with old Sally's Eliza; and I am sure she won't mind, because, you see, she hardly knew it before it ran away. And we couldn't have it at Fieldside, because we mustn't keep more than two cats, and we've got Madam and Darkie. And I don't want it either, because now I know it's happy and comfortable, I don't mind any longer."

Becky found it almost as hard not to cry now as it had been before, the relief was so great; but she managed to whisper some earnest thanks, as she clasped her pet closely to her.

"I hope it will always be a comfort to you," said Maisie, as the children said good-bye. "I always said it would grow up a nice little comforting cat, though it was never so pretty as the others. And now," she remarked to Philippa as they drove home, "the kittens are settled. They've each got a good home, and we know which has grown up the greatest comfort."



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

STRAWBERRIES AND CREAM.

Summer, which had seemed very long in coming to Dennis and Maisie, had at last made up its mind, and was really here, bringing all its best pleasures and most beautiful things to look at and enjoy. It was really hot weather, so that it was possible almost to live out of doors, and to have tea in the garden as a matter of course. Hot enough always to wear cotton frocks and holland suits, and sun-bonnets and broad straw hats, to do very few lessons, and to be out quite late in the evening. The roses were in bloom, the fields smelt sweet with new-mown hay, the strawberries were ripe: it was glorious June weather.

But at Upwell, though it was quite as hot, it was not by any means so beautiful. There the narrow dusty streets were stifling; the sun's fierce rays beat down on the houses all day, and when night came, it brought no coolness or relief, and there seemed no air to breathe. It was not so bad for the people who could get away from the town when their work was done, into the fields and lanes for a while; but there were some who were old or sick and could not move, and amongst these was poor Becky. She got thinner and whiter and weaker as the hot days followed each other, and though she was very patient, and always ready to say, "Better, thank you," with a smile, when her visitors asked how she was, she did not really feel better at all.

But though this was the case, she was not unhappy, and the days were seldom long and weary as they used to be, for she now had three friends who paid her constant visits—Philippa, Maisie, and Dennis. To expect their coming, to think of all they had said, and how they had looked, were such new pleasures that Becky was now more than contented with her lot. Some day she was going to get well, and run about again, and perhaps dance to the organ in the street; meanwhile she had her kitten, and she had her friends; it was all much better than it used to be. Amongst the three, she perhaps looked forward the least to seeing Philippa, who never came without an offering of some kind—a picture-book, or something nice to eat. Philippa tried hard to please, but there was always a little condescension in her manner, from which her cousins were quite free.

Maisie and Dennis seldom brought any present but a bunch of flowers, or a few strawberries, yet they seemed to leave behind them many other pleasant things to think of, which lasted until they came again. So Becky, in spite of aches and pains, thought herself very lucky just now, and would indeed have been surprised to know that there were still luckier days waiting for her not very far off.

For, meeting Dr Price in Upwell one day, Aunt Katharine stopped to speak to him, and asked what he thought of Becky, and whether she would soon get stronger. Dr Price shook his head.

"I can't do much more for her," he said, "all the while she has to stop in that stuffy room and get no fresh air. She ought to be out all day this weather. A month in the country would give her a chance."

A month in the country! Aunt Katharine drove home full of thought, and instead of stopping at Fieldside, went straight on to the Manor Farm. Could Mrs Solace tell her, she asked, after describing Becky's condition in a moving manner, of any suitable place in the village where the child could be lodged for a while? Now, if Mrs Solace had a weakness, it was to nurse and pet up anything ailing or delicate, and restore it to health. She did wonders with weakly chickens, invalid cows, and other creatures on the farm requiring care and comfort.

"Why shouldn't the child come here, Miss Chester?" she asked at once.

"Well, of course," replied Aunt Katharine, inwardly rejoiced at her success, "if you don't mind the trouble—"

No trouble at all, Mrs Solace declared, with her large beaming smile. There would be new milk for her, and fresh air, and the garden to sit in, and the beasts to amuse her; and she'd be better off than anywhere in the village. As to Andrew—certainly there had been a time when Andrew wouldn't have wished to encourage the Tuvvys, but that was over and done with. Tuvvy was as steady as you please now, and a valuable workman, and they'd be pleased to do anything for his child. Before Aunt Katharine left, the very hour and day of Becky's arrival were fixed. She was to come back in one of Mr Solace's wagons, which had to carry a load to Upwell station.

"She'll travel easiest so," said Mrs Solace, "because she can lie flat; and there's a tilt to the cart, so she'll be well shaded from the sun."

In this way, a few days later, Becky performed the journey between Upwell and Fieldside, not without a little fear and trembling at going so far into the wide world. When the moment came, it was hard to leave the dim room, the uneasy couch, the things she knew so well; and the look of the bright sunshine outside dazzled her unaccustomed eyes and made her blink. She had, however, two great comforts. Dan had begged a day's holiday that he might see her safely to the Manor Farm, and Mrs Solace had invited the grey kitten to come also. With these two friends to support her, Becky felt some courage, and after all, although she did not know Mr or Mrs Solace, there would be father at work quite near, and visits from the children at Fieldside.

Mr Solace's big wagon seemed to fill Market Street. The four iron-grey horses tossed all their gleaming brass medals with a jingling sound, as they stamped impatiently at the flies and gnats.

"We'll not have a heavy load home along, anyway," said George the carter, as he lifted Becky and her little bundle carefully on to the mattress in the wagon, "and you'll ride like a queen."

When she was comfortably settled, with Dan by her side holding the kitten in a hamper, the journey began. Not a hurried or discomposing one, for the grey horses, knowing that there was plenty of time before them, never changed their pace from a stately walk the whole way. So the wagon rolled majestically along through the noisy streets, out into the quiet open country, and carried Becky towards new scenes and fresh faces. The children at Fieldside had entreated permission to go and receive her on her arrival, but this Aunt Katharine would not allow.

"She will be tired, and perhaps rather shy at coming amongst strangers," she said; "the fewer people she sees at first the better. Leave her to Mrs Solace."

So Dennis and Maisie had to content themselves with seeing the wagon pass through the village, and knowing that Becky was in it. The next day Tuvvy stopped on his way home to say that she was not much tired, and doing finely, and Mrs Solace would be glad if Miss Maisie and Master Dennis would call in to see her. It was most provoking after this, that quite suddenly, following weeks of fine bright weather, the rain began, and would not leave off. Day after day one steady downpour: streaming window-panes, great puddles in the garden paths, grey sky, and wet green leaves.

"Isn't it unlucky for Becky?" said Maisie, looking out of the play-room window at the dreary dripping scene. "She won't be able to go out at all."

"It's unlucky for every one," answered Dennis. "Mr Solace doesn't want rain with nearly all his hay down."

Maisie's eyes were fixed on the grass-plot beneath the window, where a company of starlings were busily engaged digging for worms and grubs.

"It isn't unlucky for quite every one," she remarked; "the birds like it."

"But the worms don't," added Dennis quickly.

Maisie was silent. She had a tender heart, but she disliked worms very much, and was always filled with disgust and fear when she dug them up in her little garden. She could not feel quite so sorry for them as she did for other things in trouble.

"There's one good thing," resumed Dennis, after a little silence, "it can't go on raining much longer, because of Mrs Solace's strawberry party. It's certain to clear up in time for that."

Maisie agreed. "But," she added with a sigh, "that's a whole week off, and I do so want to see how Becky and the kitten are getting on."

Mrs Solace's strawberry party was a yearly entertainment which she always gave in June, just when the strawberries were ripe, and the children considered it the very best party in the summer. Others might be grander: at the vicarage, for instance, there was always a band, and at the Broadbents' there were glee-singers and ices; but when all attractions had been counted up, the Manor Farm still remained the place which pleased them most. Every one went to Mrs Solace's party, and came away with a feeling that they had spent a pleasant time. The vicar and his sister never missed it; Aunt Katharine and the children, the Broadbents, and others owning farms near Fieldside—even Dr Price, who was shy of gatherings in general—all met and talked to each other with smiling faces in the pretty old garden at the Manor Farm. Tea, with heaped-up dishes of strawberries, and a plentiful supply of cream, stood ready on little tables under the veranda, so that people could help themselves when and how they liked. Nothing could be more simple than Mrs Solace's preparations, and yet her party was always successful. She asked every one, paying no attention at all to family quarrels or the niceties of social position amongst the neighbouring farmers, and yet there were no haughty looks. Even the Broadbents, who were always prepared to be a little superior to every one, laid aside their elegant exclusiveness, and descended to the common ground of unaffected good-nature and enjoyment.

Perhaps one of the great reasons that made the party so pleasant was, that you might, as Dennis had said, always count on having a fine day. However wet or dull or cold it had been, the weather was sure to clear, and the sun to shine, for Mrs Solace, just on that special occasion, so that the children had grown to expect it as a matter of course. And yet another reason lay in the simple kindliness and good-will of Mrs Solace herself. The genial warmth of her welcome spread itself abroad and influenced her guests, much as the bountiful rays of the sun turned all the flowers and fruit to colour and sweetness in her garden. Sour looks, stiff manners, and peevish remarks seemed out of place, and as impossible on that day as cold winds, a cloudy sky, or unripe strawberries.

Mrs Solace had her usual luck this year: by the time the day of the party came, the rain was over and gone, and the sun was shining so brightly, that clouds and greyness were quite forgotten.

Philippa had come over from Haughton to go with her cousins; and the children, who always thought Aunt Katharine started much too late, begged that they might walk over earlier alone.

"We want to have a good long time with Becky, you see," said Maisie; "and we shan't be in any one's way."

When they arrived, therefore, at the door in the long grey wall which skirted the Manor Farm garden, they felt sure they were the very first guests, and walked slowly towards the house, expecting to meet Becky at every turn; for after a whole week at the farm, she surely ought to be running about as if there were nothing the matter with her!

But there was no Becky, nor any one else to be seen in the garden. The flowers and the bees had it all to themselves, and were blooming and buzzing away as happily as possible, with no one to notice them. After the rain, all the blossoms looked as bright and fresh as though they had just put on new clothes to do honour to Mrs Solace's party; and, indeed, they always seemed to enjoy their lives, and to bloom more abundantly here than anywhere else.

Aunt Katharine was proud of her garden, and took a great deal of pains to make her flowers do well; but with all her best efforts, they did not flourish like these, and yet there was so little trouble taken about them. They grew very much how they would and where they would. When they got too thick, they were weeded out; and when one sort died, it was renewed in exactly the same place year after year. Some which were left entirely to their own way, like the snapdragons, seemed to thrive best of all. These thrust themselves into the crevices of the old wall, waved in triumph along the top of it, and had sown themselves industriously at the sides of the garden paths, reaching out their velvety, glowing mouths from the most unexpected places, for the dusty-legged humble bees to dive into.

Certainly the bees had a fine time of it in the Manor garden, and plenty of sweetness to choose from, amongst the herbs, roses, and pinks which were mixed up together with the vegetables. These were separated by a wall from the lawn and flower-garden, and when the farmhouse came in view, the children saw that they were not the first visitors after all, for there were figures moving about under the deep veranda, and soon they were able to make out Becky sitting in a big wicker-chair with a cushion at her back.

"And she's got on my pink sun-bonnet that Aunt Katharine sent her," said Maisie.

All the way along they had been talking of Becky, and felt that they had a great deal to ask her about her journey, and what she thought of the Manor Farm; but now that they were here, and had shaken hands with her, a sudden silence fell on them all. Somehow Becky in her new surroundings struck them as a sort of stranger, and they stood round her, looking shyly at each other, without finding anything to say. This did not suit Philippa.

"Come and show me where the strawberry beds are," she said to Dennis, and when they had run away together, Maisie drew up a chair and sat down by Becky's side.

"How do you like being here?" she asked.

Becky had a faint tinge of colour in her face now, like a China rose washed in the rain; her dark eyes looked brighter, and when she smiled, something that would soon be a dimple showed in her cheek.

"Very well, thank you," she answered. "I can walk a bit now. This morning I walked as far as yonder rose-bush, and to-morrow I'm goin' to try and get up to the big tree."

"Very well" might have sounded faint praise for the Manor Farm to unaccustomed ears; but Maisie knew that the country-people used the term to express the very highest satisfaction, so she was quite content.

From their snug corner under the shady veranda, the children watched the arrival of the guests, as they came out of the house in twos and threes, and moved into the bright sunshine on the lawn.

"It's like looking at a peep-show or a magic-lantern," said Maisie; "we're in the shadow and they're in the light. Now I'll tell you who they are. Here's Mrs Broadbent and Emmeline and Lilian."

Mrs Broadbent and her two daughters stopped on their way to make many excuses for the absence of Mr Broadbent.

"He's such a one, Mr Solace, for sticking to his work; isn't he, girls? I said this morning, 'Now do take a little rest, papa, this afternoon, and leave things to your bailiff for once.' But no. 'The master's eye,' he says, 'does more work than both his hands.'"

"Well, he's in the right there," said Mr Solace good-humouredly.

"That's little Miss Chester, isn't it?" she went on, her sharp eye catching sight of the children, "and her cousin, Miss Trevor? How delicate she looks, poor child!" She nodded and smiled graciously.

"No, that's not Miss Trevor," replied Mr Solace; "that's my wheelwright's little girl. She's been ill, and she's stopping here for change of air. My wife's going to nurse her up a bit."

"So odd!" remarked Mrs Broadbent, as she and her daughters moved on into the garden. "I really do think Mrs Solace might draw the line somewhere."

"There's Mr Hurst," continued Maisie; "he's our vicar, you know; and the little lady with white hair and a big hat is his sister, who lives with him. And he's talking to your doctor, Dr Price. I wish he was our doctor, but we're never ill, so it doesn't matter much. I like Dr Price, ever since he told me about the kitten, only I wish he wouldn't keep such cruel dogs. Where is the kitten? Didn't you bring her?"

There was a little lump on Becky's knees covered up by her pinafore. She lifted a corner of it, and showed the grey kitten snugly asleep, curled up like a ball.

"I was afraid so many strange folk would scare her," she said.

The garden was soon full of the sound of voices and laughter, and alive with many-coloured figures. Preparations for tea began to appear in the veranda, and presently Dennis and Philippa came slowly back with heated faces, each bearing a cabbage-leaf full of strawberries.

"Philippa will say that they have bigger ones at Haughton," said Dennis; "so I was determined to find the very biggest I could. Now just look here, Philippa!" He spread out his cabbage-leaf exultingly. "The Manor Farm's famous for its strawberries; there's nothing like them for miles round. Yours at Haughton are all very well, but the very largest would be squinny beside these."

Philippa had plenty to say on the subject as usual, and she carried on a lively dispute with Dennis as to the merits of the strawberries, until the children's tea was brought out, and placed on a little table all to themselves.

During their meal, they could watch the other guests, who came in and out from the garden to rest from the glare of the sun, or to taste the strawberries and cream and other good things provided for them. They all talked and laughed a great deal, and their talk was almost entirely about strawberries and cream. One preferred strawberries alone; another considered cream such a great improvement; a third found the mixture unwholesome, but the fruit alone, beneficial. Lilian Broadbent sauntered in, very much overcome with the heat, and threw herself languidly into the wicker-chair which an attentive young farmer hastened to bring.

"That is the one they want her to marry," whispered Dennis, who knew every one's affairs.

Would she have some strawberries? With or without cream? Did she take sugar? Would she have them prepared for her? After a careless assent had been given to all these questions, Miss Broadbent thought that on the whole strawberries tasted better picked for one's self, only the very thought of stooping in the sun made her head ache. While her admirer suggested ways of overcoming this difficulty, Aunt Katharine and Mr Solace came in, and talked gravely of crops, and then the portly figures of Mrs Solace and Dr Price approached, and stopped to look at the little party of children.

"Your patient does you credit, Mrs Solace," said the doctor. "She looks better already. She'll soon be out of my hands, if she goes on at this rate."

Mrs Solace smiled at Becky with the same sort of comfortable pride as when she looked at a remarkably fine brood of turkeys.

"She's picking up a bit," she said; "but it's early days yet. We'll see how she looks after she's been here a month. I shouldn't wonder if she gets as hearty as Miss Maisie yonder.—Have you told Miss Maisie, Becky, what we're going to make of you, when you get quite strong and well?"

Becky looked shyly down at her plate. It was impossible to answer with so many people waiting to hear.

"Well, well, she'll tell you presently, I daresay," said Mrs Solace, as she moved away with Dr Price's huge figure plunging along beside her.

"What did Mrs Solace mean?" asked Maisie eagerly, when they were out of hearing.

"It's about the chickens," said Becky. "I like 'em ever so much, and Mrs Solace said this morning that some day she'd ask mother to let me come and bide here and look after 'em; but I've got to get strong, and grow a bit first."

"Well!" exclaimed Dennis enviously, "you are in luck!"

"I should earn wages, like Dan," said Becky.

"I only wish I had the chance of working on the farm," said Dennis; "but Aunt Katharine says I must go to school, and all sorts of things, first."

"What would you like to be, if you could?" asked Philippa.

Dennis mashed up his strawberries thoughtfully.

"Wheelwright best," he answered; "only that wouldn't have anything to do with the animals. I should like to be the pig-man very well; but it's no use saying what I should like, because I shan't have the chance."

"How nice it will be," said Maisie to Becky, as she set a saucer of cream carefully on the ground for the kitten, "when you and the grey kitten are settled here. Isn't it odd that she should have the very best home of the three, after all? We never thought it would turn out so."

"And she was the meanest and smallest of all the kittens," said Dennis.

"But," added Maisie, "Philippa and I have quite settled that she's the nicest of them, because she's been the greatest comfort."

And now, while the sun shines, and there are happy voices and smiles all around, it is a good moment for us to say farewell to Dennis and Maisie, Philippa and Becky, and to wish them prosperity. We have seen a little part of their lives, and can only guess what shall befall them further; but we know that life cannot be all sunshine and strawberry parties, and that grey skies and dull moments will come to each as time goes on. The best thing we can wish for them, therefore, is that they may be happy whether the sun shines or the rain falls in their way through the world: and this they can surely be, if their hearts are warm and their hands are willing to love and serve others, both in sadness and joy.

THE END.