Here Miss Tredgold placed a primer before each child, and she and Verena retired into the bay-window. They came out again at the end of ten minutes. Verena's cheeks were crimson, and Miss Tredgold decidedly wore a little of her northeast air. Pauline, on the whole, had a more successful interview with her new governess than her sister. She was smarter and brighter than Verena in many ways. But before the morning was over Miss Tredgold announced that all her pupils were shamefully ignorant.

"I know more about you now than I did," she said. "You will all have to work hard. Verena, you cannot even read properly. As to your writing, it is straggling, uneven, and faulty in spelling."



CHAPTER VII.

NANCY KING.

The rest of the day passed in a subdued state. The girls hardly knew themselves. They felt as though tiny and invisible chains were surrounding them. These chains pulled them whenever they moved. They made their presence felt when they spoke, when they sat down, and when they rose up. They were with them at dinner; they were with them whenever Miss Tredgold put in an appearance. Perhaps they were silken chains, but, all the same, they were intensely annoying. Verena was the most patient of the nine. She said to her sisters:

"We have never had any discipline. I was reading the other day in one of mother's books that discipline is good. It is the same thing as when you prune the fruit trees. Don't you remember the time when John got a very good gardener from Southampton to come and look over our trees? The gardener said, 'These trees have all run to wood; you must prune them.' And he showed John how, and we watched him. Don't you remember, girls?"

"Oh, don't I!" said Pauline. "And he cut away a lot of the little apples, and hundreds of tiny pears, and a lot of lovely branches; and I began to cry, and I told him he was a horrid, horrid man, and that I hated him."

"And what did he answer?"

"Oh, he got ruder than ever! He said, 'If I was your pa I'd do a little pruning on you.' Oh, wasn't I angry!"

Verena laughed.

"But think a little more," she said. "Don't you remember the following year how splendid the pears were? And we had such heaps of apples; and the gooseberries and raspberries were equally fine. We didn't hate the man when we were eating our delicious fruit."

Pauline made a slight grimace.

"Look here, Renny," she said suddenly; "for goodness' sake don't begin to point morals. It's bad enough to have an old aunt here without your turning into a mentor. We all know what you want to say, but please don't say it. Haven't we been scolded and directed and ordered about all day long? We don't want you to do it, too."

"Very well, I won't," said Verena.

"Hullo!" suddenly cried Briar; "if this isn't Nancy King! Oh, welcome, Nancy—welcome! We are glad to see you."

Nancy King was a spirited and bright-looking girl who lived about a mile away. Her father had a large farm which was known as The Hollies. He had held this land for many years, and was supposed to be in flourishing circumstances. Nancy was his only child. She had been sent to a fashionable school at Brighton, and considered herself quite a young lady. She came whenever she liked to The Dales, and the girls often met her in the Forest, and enjoyed her society vastly. Now in the most fashionable London attire, Nancy sailed across the lawn, calling out as she did so:

"Hullo, you nine! You look like the Muses. What's up now? I have heard most wonderful, astounding whispers."

"Oh, Nancy, we're all so glad to see you!" said Briar. She left her seat, ran up to the girl, and took her hand. "Come and sit here—here in the midst of our circle. We have such a lot to say to you!"

"And I have a lot to say to you. But, dear me! how grand we are!"

Nancy's twinkling black eyes looked with mock approval at Verena's plain but very neat gray dress, and at the equally neat costumes of the other girls. Then finally she gazed long and pensively at Penelope, who, in an ugly dress of brown holland, was looking back at her with eyes as black and defiant as her own.

"May I ask," said Nancy slowly, "what has this nursery baby to do in the midst of the grown-ups?"

"I'm not nursery," said Penelope, her face growing crimson; "I'm schoolroom. Don't tell me I'm nursery, because I'm not. We're all schoolroom, and we're having a right good time."

"Indeed! Then I may as well remark that you don't look like it. You look, the whole nine of you, awfully changed, and as prim as prim can be. 'Prunes and prisms' wouldn't melt in your mouths. You're not half, nor quarter, as nice as you were when I saw you last. I've just come home for good, you know. I mean to have a jolly time at Margate by-and-by. And oh! my boy cousins and my two greatest chums at school are staying with me now at The Hollies. The girls' names are Amelia and Rebecca Perkins. Oh, they're fine! Do give me room to squat between you girls. You are frightfully stand-off and prim."

"Sit close to me, Nancy," said Verena. "We're not a bit changed to you," she added.

"Well, that's all right, honey, for I'm not changed to you. Even if I am a very rich girl, I'm the sort to always cling to my old friends; and although you are as poor as church mice, you are quite a good sort. I have always said so—always. I've been talking a lot about you to Amelia and Rebecca, and they'd give their eyes to see you. I thought you might ask us all over."

"Oh! I daren't, Nancy," said Verena. "We are not our own mistresses now."

"Well, that's exactly what I heard," said Nancy. "Oh, how hot it is! Pen, for goodness' sake run and fetch me a cabbage-leaf to fan my face."

Penelope ran off willingly enough. Nancy turned to the others.

"I sent her off on purpose," she said. "If we can't come to you, you must come to us. We three girls at The Hollies, and my two boy cousins, Tom and Jack, have the most daring, delightful scheme to propose. We want to have a midnight picnic."

"Midnight picnic!" cried Verena. "But we can't possibly come, Nancy."

"My good girl, why not? You know I talked about it last year. We want to have one on a very grand scale; and there are a few friends at Southampton that I would ask to join us. You won't have any expense whatever. I'll stump up for the whole. Father gives me so much money that I have at the present moment over five pounds in the savings-bank. We will light fires in a clearing not far from here, and we will have tea and supper afterwards; and we shall dance—dance by the light of the moon—and I will bring my guitar to make music. Can you imagine anything in all the world more fascinating?"

"Oh, Nancy, it does sound too lovely!" said Briar. "I'd just give the world to go."

"Well, then, you shall come."

"But Aunt Sophy would not hear of it," said Verena.

"Nonsense!" cried Briar; "we must go. It would be such a jolly treat!"

Nancy favored the eight girls with a sharp glance.

"I have heard of that dreadful old body," she said. "Father told me. He said you'd be frumped up like anything, and all the gay life taken out of you. I came over on purpose. I pity you from the very bottom of my heart."

"But, Nancy, you can't think how things are changed," said Pauline. "All our time is occupied. Lessons began to-day. They are going to take hours and hours."

"But these are holiday times," said Nancy. "All the world has a holiday in the middle of the summer."

"That's true enough," said Verena; "but then we had holidays for over a year, and Aunt Sophia says we must begin at once. She is quite right, I'm sure; although of course we scarcely like it. And anyhow, Nancy, she won't allow us to go to a midnight picnic; there's no use thinking about it."

"But suppose you don't ask her. Of course, if she's an old maid she'll refuse. Old maids are the queerest, dumpiest things on the earth. I'm really thankful I'm not bothered with any of them. Oh! here comes Pen. It's nonsense to have a child like that out of the nursery. We'd best not say anything before her. Verena and Briar, will you walk down to the gate with me? I thought perhaps we might have the picnic in a week. It could be easily managed; you know it could."

"Oh, we must go!" said Pauline.

"I'm going," said Josephine.

But Verena was silent.

"Here's your cabbage-leaf. How red your face looks!" said Penelope.

Nancy turned and gazed at her. She was a bold-looking girl, and by no means pretty. She snatched the leaf angrily from Penelope's hand, saying:

"Oh, my dear, go away! How you do worry, jumping and dancing about! And what a stupid, good-for-nothing leaf you've brought! Fetch me one that's not completely riddled with caterpillar holes."

Penelope's black eyes flashed fire, and her face flushed.

"If I could, I would just," she said.

"If you could you would what?" said Nancy.

"I know—I know! And I'll do it, too."

A provoking smile visited the lips of the child. She danced backwards and forwards in an ecstasy of glee.

"I can punish you all fine," said Penelope; "and I'll do it, too."

She vanished out of sight. Now, it must be admitted that Penelope was not a nice child. She had her good points, for few children are without them; but in addition to being thoroughly untrained, to never having exercised self-control, she had by nature certain peculiarities which the other children had not. It had been from her earliest days her earnest desire to curry favor with those in authority, and yet to act quite as naughtily as any one else when she thought no one was looking. Even when quite a tiny child Penelope was wont to sit as still as a mouse in nurse's presence. If nurse said, "Miss Penelope, you are not to move or you will wake baby," then nurse knew that Penelope would not stir. But if this same child happened to be left with baby, so strong would be her jealousy that she would give the infant a sharp pinch and set it howling, and then run from the room.

These peculiarities continued with her growth. Nurse was fond of her because she was quiet and useful in the nursery, fairly tidy in her habits, and fairly helpful. But even nurse was wont to say, "You never can get at Miss Penelope. You can never see through what is brewing in her mind."

Now, when Aunt Sophia appeared on the scene, Penelope instantly determined to carry out the darling wish of her heart. This was no less than to be removed from the dullness of the nursery to the fascinating life that she supposed the elder children led. To accomplish this she thought it would be only necessary to make a great fuss about Aunt Sophia, to attend to her fads, and to give her numerous little attentions. In short, to show that she, Penelope, cared very much for her new aunt. But Aunt Sophia did not care for Penelope's fusses, and disliked her small attentions. Nevertheless, the small girl persevered, and in the end she did win a triumph, for she was promoted to the schoolroom, with its superior privileges and—alas! alas!—also its undoubted drawbacks. She, who hated lessons, must now try to read; she must also try to write, and must make valiant efforts to spell. Above and beyond all these things, she had to do one yet harder—she had to sit mute as a mouse for a couple of hours daily, with her hands neatly folded in her lap; and by-and-by she had to struggle with her clumsy little fingers to make hideous noises on the cracked old piano. These things were not agreeable to the wild child, and so uncomfortable and restrained had she felt during the first morning's lessons that she almost resolved to humble her pride and return to the nursery. But the thought of her sisters' withering, sarcastic remarks, and of nurse's bitterly cold reception, and nurse's words, "I told you so," being repeated for ever in her ears, was too much for Penelope, and she determined to give a further trial to the schoolroom life. Now it occurred to her that a moment of triumph was before her. In the old days she had secretly adored Nancy King, for Nancy had given her more than one lollypop; but when Nancy asked what the nursery child was doing with the schoolroom folk, and showed that she did not appreciate Penelope's society, the little girl's heart became full of anger.

"I'll tell about her. I'll get her into trouble. I'll get them all into trouble," she thought.

She ran into the shrubbery, and stood there thinking for a time. She was a queer-looking little figure as she stood thus in her short holland overall, her stout bare legs, brown as berries, slightly apart, her head thrown back, her hair awry, a smudge on her cheek, her black eyes twinkling.

"I will do it," she said to herself. "Aunt Sophy shall find out that I am the good one of the family."

Penelope ran wildly across the shrubbery, invaded the kitchen-garden, invaded the yard, and presently invaded the house. She found Miss Sophia sitting by her writing-table. Miss Sophia had a headache; teaching was not her vocation. She had worked harder that day than ever in her life before, and she had a great many letters to write.

It was therefore a very busy and a slightly cross person who turned round and faced Penelope.

"Don't slam the door, Penelope," she said; "and don't run into the room in that breathless sort of way."

"Well, I thought you ought for to know. I done it 'cos of you."

"'I did it because of you,' you should say."

"I did it because of you. I am very fond of you, aunt."

"I hope so; and I trust you will prove your affection by your deeds."

"Bovver deeds!" remarked Penelope.

"What is that you said, my dear?"

"I say, bovver deeds!"

"I confess I do not understand. Run away, now, Penelope; I am busy."

"But you ought for to know. Nancy King has come."

"Who is Nancy King?"

"A girl. She's squatting up close to Renny on the lawn, and her arm is twisted round Pauline's waist. She's big, and dressed awful grand. She has gold bangles on her arms, and tinkling gold things round her neck, and she's here, and I thought course you ought for to know. I thought so 'cos I love you. Aren't you pleased? Aren't I the sort of little girl you could perhaps give a lollypop to?"

"No, you are not, Penelope. I do not wish you to tell tales of your sisters. Go away, my dear; go away."

Penelope, in some wonder, and with a sense of disgust, not only with Nancy King and Miss Tredgold, but also with herself, left the room.

"I won't tell her any more," she thought. "She never seems to like what I do for her. She'd be pretty lonesome if it wasn't for me; but she don't seem to care for anybody. I'll just rush away to nursey this very minute and tell her how I love being a schoolroom girl. I'll tell her I dote on my lessons, and that I never for the big, big, wide world would be a nursery child again."

"Queer little child, Penelope," thought Miss Tredgold when her small niece had left her.

She sat with her pen suspended, lost in thought.

"Very queer child," she soliloquized; "not the least like the others. I can't say that I specially care for her. At present I am not in love with any of my nieces; but of all of them, Penelope is the child I like the least. She tells tales; she tries to curry favor with me. Is she truthful? Is she sincere? I have a terrible fear within me that occasions may arise when Penelope would prove deceitful. There! what am I saying? A motherless child—my own niece—surely I ought to love her. Yes, I do love her. I will try to love them all. What did she say about a girl sitting on the lawn with my girls? It is nice to talk of the Dales as my girls; it gives me a sort of family feeling, just as though I were not an old maid. I wonder what friends my girls have made for themselves round here. Nancy King. I don't know any people of the name of King who live about here. If Henry were any one else he would probably be able to tell me. I will go and see the girl for myself."

Miss Tredgold left the room. She had a very stately walk. The girls always spoke of her movements as "sailing." Miss Tredgold now sailed across the lawn, and in the same dignified fashion came up to the secluded nook where the girls, with Nancy King in their midst, were enjoying themselves. They were all talking eagerly. Nancy King was seated almost in the center of the group; the other girls were bending towards her. As Miss Tredgold appeared in view Josephine was exclaiming in her high-pitched, girlish voice:

"Oh, I say, Nancy! What screaming fun!"

When Josephine spoke Lucy clapped her hands, Helen laughed, Verena looked puzzled, and Pauline's expression seemed to say she longed for something very badly indeed.

"My dears, what are you all doing?" suddenly cried Aunt Sophia.

She had come up quietly, and they had none of them heard her. It was just as if a pistol had gone off in their ears. The whole nine jumped to their feet. Nancy's red face became redder. She pushed her gaily trimmed hat forward over her heated brows. She had an instinctive feeling that she had never before seen any one so dignified and magnificent as Miss Sophia Tredgold. She knew that this was the case, although Miss Sophia's dress was almost dowdy, and the little brown slipper which peeped out from under the folds of her gray dress was decidedly the worse for wear. Nancy felt at the same time the greatest admiration for Miss Tredgold, the greatest dislike to her, and the greatest terror of her.

"Aunt Sophia," said Verena, who could be a lady if she chose, "may I introduce our special friend——"

"And crony," interrupted Nancy.

"Our special friend, Nancy King," repeated Verena. "We have known her all our lives, Aunt Sophia."

"How do you do, Miss King?" said Miss Tredgold.

She favored "the young person," as she termed Miss King, with a very distant bow.

"Girls," she said, turning to the others, "are you aware that preparation hour has arrived? Will you all go quietly indoors?—Miss King, my nieces are beginning their studies in earnest, and I do not allow the hour of preparation to be interfered with by any one."

"I know all about that," said Nancy in a glib voice. "I was at a first-rate school myself for years. Weren't we kept strict, just! My word! we couldn't call our noses our own. The only language was parlez-vous. But it was a select school—very; and now that I have left, I like to feel that I am accomplished. None of you girls can beat me on the piano. I know nearly all the girls' songs in San Toy and the Belle of New York. Father loves to hear me when I sing 'Rhoda Pagoda.' Perhaps, Miss Tredgold, you'd like to hear me play on the pianoforte. I dote on dance music; don't you, Miss Tredgold? Dance music is so lively; it warms the cockles of the heart—don't it, Miss Tredgold?"

"I don't dance, so it is impossible for me to answer," said Miss Tredgold. "I am sorry, Miss King, to disturb a pleasant meeting, but my girls are under discipline, and the hour for preparation has arrived."

Nancy shrugged her capacious shoulders.

"I suppose that means conge for poor Nancy King," she said. "Very sorry, I'm sure. Good-day, madam.—Good-bye, Renny. I'll look you up another day.—Good-bye to all. I'm off to have a bit of fun with my boy cousins."

Nancy swung round and left the group. She walked awkwardly, switching her shoulders and swaying from side to side, a dirty train trailing after her.

"May I ask who your friend really is?" said Miss Tredgold when she had watched the departure of this most undesirable acquaintance.

"She is Nancy King, Aunt Sophia. We have known her all our lives," said Verena.

"My dear Verena, I have heard that statement before. Nevertheless, the fact that you have known that young person since you were little children does not reply to my question. Who is she? Where does she come from? Who is her father? I don't remember to have heard of any gentlefolks of the name of King residing in this part of the New Forest."

"She is not gentlefolk," said Pauline.

Pauline came a step nearer as she spoke. Her eyes were bright, and there was a red spot on each cheek.

"But although she is not born a lady, she is our friend," she continued. "She is the daughter of Farmer King, who keeps a very jolly house; and they have plenty of money. We have often and often been at The Hollies."

"Oh! we get delicious apples there," interposed Adelaide; "the juiciest you ever tasted—the cherry-and-brandy sort."

"I have never heard of that special apple, and I dislike its name," said Miss Sophia.—"Now come into the house, all of you."

She did not question them further. She walked on in front.

"I can't stand too much of this," whispered Briar to Verena.

But Verena said "Hush!" and clasped Briar's little hand as it lay on her arm.

They entered the house and proceeded to the pleasant schoolroom.

"It is now four o'clock," said Miss Tredgold. "At five tea is served. As the evening is so fine, I have ordered it to be laid under the cedar-tree on the lawn. For the next hour I expect close attention to lessons. I shall not stay in the room, but you, Verena, are monitress during my absence. Please understand that I expect honor. Honor requires that you should study, and that you should be silent. Here are your books. Prepare the lessons I shall require you to know to-morrow morning. Those girls who have not made due preparation will enter into Punishment Land."

"What in the world is that?" burst from the lips of the irrepressible Briar.

"Don't ask me," answered Miss Tredgold. "I hope you may never have a personal acquaintance with that gloomy country. Now farewell. For an hour fix your attention on your tasks; and adieu."

Never before had the Dale girls found themselves in such a quandary. For a whole long hour they were prohibited by a code of honor from speaking. They were all just bursting with desire to launch forth in a fiery torrent, but they must none of them utter a single word. Verena, as monitress, could not encourage rebellion. There are some things that even untrained girls, provided they are ladies, understand by intuition. The Dales were ladies by birth. Their home had belonged to their father's family for generations. There was a time in the past when to be a Dale of The Dales meant to be rich, honored, and respected. But, alas! the Dales, like many other old families, had gone under. Money had failed; purses had become empty; lands had been sold; the house had dwindled down to its present shabby dimensions; and if Miss Tredgold had not appeared on the scene, there would have been little chance of Mr. Dale's ten daughters ever taking the position to which their birth entitled them. But there are some things which an ancient race confers. Noblesse oblige, for one thing. These girls were naughty, rebellious, and angry; their hearts were very sore; their silken chains seemed at this moment to assume the strength of iron fetters; but during the hour that was before them they would not disobey Miss Tredgold. Accordingly their dreary books were opened. Oh, how ugly and dull they looked!

"What does it matter whether a girl knows how to spell, and what happened long, long ago in the history-books?" thought Briar.

"Aunt Sophia was downright horrid about poor Nancy," was Pauline's angry thought. "Oh! must I really work out these odious sums, when I am thinking all the time of poor Nancy?"

"I shall never keep my head if this sort of thing goes on for long," thought Verena as she bent over her page of English history. "Oh, dear! that midnight picnic, and Nancy's face, and the dancing in the glades of the Forest. It would have been fun. If there is one thing more than another that I love, it is dancing. I think I could dance for ever."

Verena could not keep her pretty little feet still. They moved restlessly under her chair. Pauline saw the movement, and a wave of sympathy flashed between the sisters. Pauline's eyes spoke volumes as they encountered the soft brown ones of pretty Verena.

But an hour—even the longest—is quickly over. Five o'clock struck, and quick to the minute each girl sprang to her feet. Books were put away, and they all streamed out into the open air. Now they could talk as much as they liked. How their tongues wagged! They flew at each other in their delight and embraced violently. Never before, too, had they been so hungry for tea; and certainly never before had they seen such a delightful and tempting meal as that which was now laid for them on the lawn. The new parlor-maid had brought it out and placed it on various little tables. A silver teapot reposed on a silver tray; the cups and saucers were of fine china; the teaspoons were old, thin, and bright as a looking-glass. The table-linen was also snowy white; but what the girls far more appreciated were the piles of fruit, the quantities of cakes, the stacks of sandwiches, and the great plates of bread-and-butter that waited for them on the festive board.

"Well!" said Briar. "Did you ever? It looks just like a party, or a birthday treat, or something of that sort. I will say there are some nice things about Aunt Sophia. This is certainly better than squatting on the ground with a basket of gooseberries and a hunch of bread."

"I liked the gooseberries," said Pauline, "but, as you say, Briar, this is nice. Ah! here comes the aunt."

Miss Tredgold sailed into view. She took her seat opposite the hissing urn and began to pour out cups of tea.

"For a week," she said, "I take this place. At the end of that time Verena occupies my throne."

"Oh, I couldn't!" said Verena.

"Why in the world not, Renny? You aren't quite a goose."

"Don't use those expressions, Pauline; they are distinctly vulgar," said Miss Tredgold.

"Bother!" said Pauline.

She frowned, and the thought of the gooseberries and the hard crusts that used to constitute tea on many days when there was no Aunt Sophia came back to her with a sense of longing and appreciation of the golden past.

Nevertheless the girls were hungry, and the tea was excellent; and when Miss Tredgold had seen that each plate was piled with good things, and that every girl had her cup of tea made exactly as she liked it, she began to speak.

"You know little or nothing of the world, my dear girls, so during tea I intend to give you some pleasant information. I attended a tea-party last year in a house not far from London. You would like to hear all about it, would you not?"

"If you are sure it is not lessons," said Briar.

"It is not lessons in the ordinary acception of the word. Now listen. This garden to which I went led down to the Thames. It was the property of a very great friend of mine, and she had invited what I might call a select company. Now will you all listen, and I will tell you how things were done?"

Miss Tredgold then proceeded to tell her story. No one could tell a story better. She made her narrative quite absorbing. For these girls, who had never known anything of life, she drew so vivid and fascinating a picture that they almost wished to be present at such a scene as she described. She spoke of the girls of the London world in their pretty dresses, and the matrons in their richer garments; of the men who moved about with polite deference. She spoke of the summer air, the beautiful appearance of the river, the charming punts and boats which disported themselves on the bosom of the waters.

"It must have been pretty; but rather stiff, wasn't it?" said Verena.

"To you, my dear, it would have been stiff, for you are not yet accustomed to self-restraint, but to those who belong to that world it was nothing short of enchantment."

"But you were in fetters," said Pauline; "and I should hate fetters however jolly they looked."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why, you know you are putting them on us."

"Hush, Paulie!" said Verena.

"You are, Aunt Sophy; and you can't be angry with me if I speak. I can't imagine any one getting accustomed to fetters; it is quite beyond me."

She shrugged her shoulders, and looked with her downright face full at Miss Tredgold.

"Never mind," said that lady after a pause. "I can't expect you to understand everything all at once; but my description of a real bit of the world can do you no harm. The world has its good points; you will find that out presently. Perhaps you may not like it, but some people do. In your case there is no saying. To-morrow I will tell you another story, but it shall be of the graver and sadder side of life. That story will also introduce the nobler side of life. But now the time has come for me to ask you a question, and I expect an answer. The time has come for me to ask a very straight question.—Verena, you are the eldest; I shall speak to you."

"Yes?" said Verena.

She felt herself coloring. She said afterwards she knew exactly what was coming. Pauline must have known also, for she pinched Verena's arm.

"Yes?" repeated the young girl.

"You are surprised at the story I have just related to you," continued Miss Tredgold. "You think that the courtly grace, the sweet refinement, the elegant manners, the words that speak of due knowledge of life and men and women, represent a state of fetterdom; but you must also have felt their charm."

"To a certain extent," said Verena slowly, "what you have said excited me."

"You feel it possible that, under certain circumstances, you, too, could belong to such a group?"

"Perhaps," said Verena.

"There is not a doubt of it, my dear. A few years' training, a little of that discipline which you call fetters, pretty manners, and suitable dress would make you quite the sort of girl who would appear amongst my cultivated friends in the garden by the River Thames. But now for my question: Could your friend, Nancy King, ever figure in such an assembly?"

"It would not perhaps be her world," said Verena.

"You have answered me. Now I am going to say something that may annoy you; nevertheless I must say it. Your acquaintanceship with that girl as a friend must cease, and absolutely. She is not your equal. You are not to know her as a friend. If you meet her, there is no reason why you should not be civil, but civility and friendship are different things. If the time comes when she is in need or in trouble, I should be deeply sorry to think you would not help her, but as a friend she is to cease to exist for you. This is my firm command to all of you girls. There are to be no two voices on the subject. You may not agree with me now, and you may think me hard, but I insist on having my own way. You cease to know Nancy King as a friend. I shall myself write to that young person and forbid her to visit here. I will try not to hurt her; but there are certain distinctions of class which I for one must insist upon preserving. She is not a lady, she was not born a lady, and she never can be a lady; therefore, my dear nieces, you are not to know her."



CHAPTER VIII.

MUSIC HATH CHARMS.

The girls were tired when they went to bed. The life of routine had fatigued them; although, of course, it would soon cease to do so. Notwithstanding, therefore, Miss Tredgold's startling announcement with regard to Nancy King, they slept soundly; and the next morning when nine o'clock struck they all appeared in the schoolroom, their persons neat, their hair carefully brushed, and each pair of eyes beaming with intelligence. Even Penelope looked her very best in a clean brown holland frock, and she went quite creditably through her alphabet, and did not squiggle her pot-hooks quite as much as she had done on the previous day.

Miss Tredgold was in an excellent humor. She praised the girls, told them she was much pleased with their performances, and said further that, if only they would meet her half-way by being attentive and intelligent and earnest in their work, she on her part would do all in her power to make lessons agreeable; she would teach them in a way which would be sure to arouse their interest, and she would vary the work with play, and give them as gay a time as the bright weather and their own happy hearts would permit.

The girls felt quite cheerful; they even began to whisper one to another that Aunt Sophia was developing more and more good points as days went on.

On that afternoon a great excitement was in store, for a beautiful new piano was to arrive from Broadwood's, and Aunt Sophia announced that she meant to play on it for the benefit of the entire household that evening.

"For, my dears," said that good lady, "I have forgotten neither my playing nor my singing. I will sing you old-fashioned songs to-night, and I quite hope that I may lure your father from his retirement. There was a time when he was musical—very musical."

"The dad musical!" cried Briar. "Aunt Sophia, what do you mean?"

"It is true, Rose. In the days long ago, when your mother and he and I spent happy times together, he played his violin better than any other amateur that I happen to know."

"There is an old violin in one of the attics," said Verena. "We have never touched it. It is in a case all covered with dust."

"His Stradivarius," murmured Miss Tredgold. "Oh dear! How are the mighty fallen! My dears, you had better say no more to me about that or I shall lose my temper."

The girls could not imagine why Miss Tredgold's eyes grew full of a certain mistiness and her cheeks were very pink with color. The next moment she looked full at her nieces.

"When your mother died she took a great deal away with her," she said. "What would you have done, poor children! if I had not been able to come to the rescue? It does seem almost impossible that your father, my brother-in-law, has forgotten to play on his Stradivarius."

"Well, aren't you glad you comed?" said Penelope, marching up and standing before the good lady. "Don't you like to feel you are so useful, the grand piano coming, and all the rest? Then you has us under your thumb. Don't you like that?"

"I don't understand you, Penny. You are talking in a very naughty way."

"I aren't. I are only saying what nursey said. Nursey said last night, 'Well, well, drat it all! They are under her thumb by this time.' I asked nursey what it meant, and she said, 'Miss Penny, little girls should be seen, and not heard.' Nursey always says that when I ask her questions that I want special to know. But when I comed down this morning I asked Betty what being under your thumb meant, and she said, 'Oh, lor', Miss Penny! You had better look out, miss. It means what you don't like, miss.' Then she said, Aunt Sophy, that old ladies like you was fond of having little girls under their thumbs. So I 'spect you like it; and I hope you won't squeeze us flat afore you have done."

Miss Tredgold had turned very red.

"How old are you, Pen?" she said when the loquacious child became silent.

Penelope tossed her head. "You knows of my age quite well."

"Then I will just repeat the remark made by your excellent nurse—'Little girls should be seen, and not heard.' I will add to that remark by saying that little girls are sometimes impertinent. I shall not say anything more to-day; but another time, if you address me as you have just done, I shall be obliged to punish you."

"And if I don't dress you," said Penelope—"if I'm awful good—will you give me sugar-plums?"

"That is a treat in the very far distance," said Miss Tredgold.—"But now, girls, go out. The more you enjoy this lovely air the better."

They did all enjoy it; after their hard work—for lessons were hard to them—freedom was sweet. With each moment of lesson-time fully occupied, leisure was delicious. They wandered under the trees; they opened the wicket-gate which led into the Forest, and went a short way into its deep and lovely shade. When lunch-bell sounded they returned with hungry appetites.

The rest of the day passed pleasantly. Even preparation hour was no longer regarded as a hardship. It brought renewed appetites to enjoy tea. And in the midst of tea a wild dissipation occurred, for a piano-van came slowly down the rutty lane which led to the front avenue. It stopped at the gates; the gates were opened, the piano-van came up the avenue, and John and two other men carried the beautiful Broadwood into the big drawing-room.

Miss Tredgold unlocked it and touched the ivory keys with loving fingers.

"I will play to you to-night when it is dusk," she said to the girls.

After this they were so eager to hear the music that they could scarcely eat their dinner. Mr. Dale now always appeared for the evening meal. He took the foot of the table, and stared in an abstracted way at Aunt Sophia. So fond was he of doing this that he often quite forgot to carve the joint which was set before him.

"Wake up, Henry," said Miss Sophia in her sharp voice; "the children are hungry, and so am I."

Then the student would shake himself, seize the knife and fork, and make frantic dashes at whatever the joint might happen to be. It must be owned that he carved very badly. Miss Tredgold bore it for a day or two; then she desired the parlor-maid to convey the joint to the head of the table where she sat. After this was done the dinner-hour was wont to progress very satisfactorily. To-day it went quickly by. Then Verena went up to her aunt.

"Now, Aunt Sophy," she said, "the gloaming has come, and music is waiting to make us all happy in the drawing-room."

"I will play for you, my dears," said Aunt Sophia.

She was just leaving the room when she heard Verena say:

"You love music, father. Do come into the drawing-room. Aunt Sophia has got her new piano. She means to play on it. Do come; you know you love music."

"Indeed, I do nothing of the kind," said Mr. Dale.

He pushed his gray hair back from his forehead and looked abstractedly at Miss Sophia, who was standing in the twilight just by the open door.

"You remind me, Sophia——" said Mr. Dale.

He paused and covered his eyes with his hand.

"I could have sworn that you were she. No music, thanks; I have never listened to it since she died. Your mother played beautifully, children; she played and she sang. I liked her songs; I hate the twaddle of the present day. Now I am returning to my Virgil. My renderings of the original text become more and more full of light. I shall secure a vast reputation. Music! I hate music. Don't disturb me, any of you."

When Mr. Dale reached his study he sank into his accustomed chair. His lamp was already lit; it burned brightly, for Miss Tredgold herself trimmed it each morning. His piles of books of reference lay in confusion by his side. An open manuscript was in front of him. He took up his pen. Very soon he would be absorbed by the strong fascination of his studies; the door into another world would open and shut him in. He would be impervious then to this present century, to his present life, to his children, to the home in which he lived.

"I could have sworn," he muttered to himself, "that Alice had come back. As Sophia stood in the twilight I should scarcely have known them apart. She is not Alice. Alice was the only woman I ever loved—the only woman I could tolerate in my house. My children, my girls, are none of them women yet, thank the Almighty. When they are they will have to go. I could not stand any other woman but Alice to live always in the house. But now to forget her. This knotty point must be cleared up before I go to bed."

The doors of the ancient world were slowly opening. But before they could shut Mr. Dale within their portals there came a sound that caused the scholar to start. The soft strains of music entered through the door which Verena had on purpose left open. The music was sweet and yet masterly. It came with a merry sound and a certain quick rhythm that seemed to awaken the echoes of the house. Impossible as it may appear, Mr. Dale forgot the ancient classics and the dim world of the past. He lay back in his chair; his lips moved; he beat time with his knuckles on the arms of his chair; and with his feet on the floor. So perfect was his ear that the faintest wrong note, or harmony out of tune, would be detected by him. The least jarring sound would cause him agony. But there was no jarring note; the melody was correct; the time was perfect.

"I might have known that Alice——" he began; but then he remembered that Alice had never played exactly like that, and he ceased to think of her, or of any woman, and became absorbed in those ringing notes that stole along the passage and entered by the open door and surrounded him like lightsome fairies. Into his right ear they poured their charm; in his left ear they completed their work. Virgil was forgotten; old Homer might never have existed.

Mr. Dale rose. He got up softly; he walked across the room and opened the door wide. There was a very bright light streaming down the passage. In the old days this passage was always dark; no one ever thought of lighting the lobbies and passages at The Dales. The master of the house wondered dimly at the light; but at the same time it gave him a sense of comfort.

Suddenly a voice began to sing:

"I know a bank whereon the wild thyme grows."

The voice was sweet, pure, and high. It floated towards him. Suddenly he stretched out his arms.

"I am coming, Alice," he said aloud. "Yes, I am coming. Don't call me with such insistence. I come, I tell you; I come."

He ran down the passage; he entered the central hall; he burst into the drawing-room. His eyes were full of excitement. He strode across the room and sank into a chair close to the singer.

Miss Tredgold just turned and glanced at him.

"Ah, Henry!" she said; "so you are there. I hoped that this would draw you. Now I am going to sing again."

"A song of the past," he said in a husky voice.

"Will this do?" she said, and began "Annie Laurie."

Once again Mr. Dale kept time with his hand and his feet. "Annie Laurie" melted into "Home, Sweet Home"; "Home, Sweet Home" into "Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonny Doon"; "Ye Banks and Braes" wandered into the delicious notes of "Auld Lang Syne."

Suddenly Miss Tredgold rose, shut and locked the piano, and then turned and faced her audience.

"No more to-night," she said. "By-and-by you girls shall all play on this piano. You shall also sing, for I have not the slightest doubt that most of you have got voices. You ought to be musical, for music belongs to both sides of your house. There was once a time when your father played the violin as no one else, in my opinion, ever played it. By the way, Henry, is that violin still in existence?"

"Excuse me," said Mr. Dale; "I never touch it now. I have not touched it for years. I would not touch it for the world."

"You will touch it again when the time is ripe. Now, no more music to-night. Those who are tired had better go to bed."

The girls left the room without a word. Miss Tredgold then went up to Mr. Dale.

"Go back to your study and your Virgil," she said. "Don't waste your precious time."

He looked exactly as though some one had whipped him, but he took her at her word and returned to his study.

The music was henceforth a great feature in the establishment. Miss Tredgold enhanced its value by being chary in regard to it. She only played as a special treat. She would by no means give them the great pleasure of her singing and playing every night.

"When you have all had a good day I will sing and play to you," she said to the girls; "but when you neglect your work, or are idle and careless, or cross and sulky, I don't intend to amuse you in the evenings. I was brought up on a stricter plan than the girls of the present day, and I mean while I am with you to bring you up in the same way. I prefer it to the lax way in which young people are now reared."

For a time Miss Tredgold's plans went well. Then there came a day of rebellion. Pauline was the first to openly rebel against Aunt Sophia. There came a morning when Pauline absolutely refused to learn her lessons. She was a stoutly built, determined-looking little girl, very dark in complexion and in eyes and hair. She would probably be a handsome woman by-and-by, but now she was plain, with a somewhat sallow face, heavy black brows, and eyes that could scowl when anything annoyed her. She was the next eldest to Verena, and was thirteen years of age. Her birthday would be due in a fortnight. Even at The Dales birthdays were considered auspicious events. There was always some sort of present, even though it was worth very little in itself, given by each member of the family to the possessor of the birthday. Mr. Dale generally gave this happy person a whole shilling. He presented the shilling with great pomp, and invariably made the same speech:

"God bless you, my dear. May you have many happy returns of the day. And now for goodness' sake don't detain me any longer."

A shilling was considered by the Dale girls as valuable as a sovereign would be to girls in happier circumstances. It was eked out to its furthest dimensions, and was as a rule spent on good things to eat. Now, under Miss Tredgold's reign, Pauline's birthday would be a much more important event. Miss Tredgold had long ago taken Verena, Briar, Patty, Josephine, and Adelaide into her confidence. Pauline knew quite well that she was talked about. She knew when, the girls retired into corners that she was the object of their eager conversations. The whole thing was most agreeable to her sense of vanity, and when she suddenly appeared round a corner and perceived that work was put out of sight, that the eager whisperers started apart, and that the girls looked conscious and as if they wished her out of the way, she quite congratulated herself on the fact that hers was the first birthday in the immediate future, and that on that day she would be a very great personage indeed. As these thoughts came to her she walked with a more confident stride, and thought a great deal of her own importance. At night she lay awake thinking of the happy time, and wondering what this coming birthday, when she would have been fourteen whole years in the world, would bring forth.

There came a lovely morning about a week before the birthday. Pauline had got up early, and was walking by herself in the garden. She felt terribly excited, and almost cross at having to wait so long for her pleasure.

"After all," thought Pauline, "Aunt Sophia has done something for us. How horrid it would be to go back to the old shilling birthdays now!"

As she thought these thoughts, Patty and Josephine, arm-in-arm and talking in low tones, crossed her path. They did not see her at first, and their words reached Pauline's ears.

"I know she'd rather have pink than blue," said Patty's voice.

"Well, mine will be trimmed with blue," was Josephine's answer.

Just then the girls caught sight of Pauline, uttered shrieks, and disappeared down a shady walk.

"Something with pink and something with blue," thought Pauline. "The excitement is almost past bearing. Of course, they're talking about my birthday presents. I do wish my birthday was to-morrow. I don't know how I shall exist for a whole week."

At that moment Miss Tredgold's sharp voice fell on her ears:

"You are late, Pauline. I must give you a bad mark for want of punctuality, Go at once into the schoolroom."

To hear these incisive, sharp tones in the midst of her own delightful reflections was anything but agreeable to Pauline. She felt, as she expressed it, like a cat rubbed the wrong way. She gave Miss Tredgold one of her most ungracious scowls and went slowly into the house. There she lingered purposely before she condescended to tidy her hair and put on her house-shoes. In consequence she was quite a quarter of an hour late when she appeared in the schoolroom. Miss Tredgold had just finished morning prayers.

"You have missed prayers this morning, Pauline," she said. "There was no reason for this inattention. I shall be obliged to punish you. You cannot have your usual hour of recreation before dinner. You will have to write out the first page of Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel; and you must do it without making any mistake either in spelling or punctuation. On this occasion you can copy from the book. Now, no words, my dear—no words. Sit down immediately to your work."

Pauline did sit down. She felt almost choking with anger. Was she, an important person who was soon to be queen of a birthday, one about whom her sisters talked and whispered and made presents for, to be treated in this scant and ungracious fashion? She would not put up with it. Accordingly she was very inattentive at her lessons, failed to listen when she should, played atrociously on the piano, could not manage her sums, and, in short, got more and more each moment into Miss Tredgold's black books.

When recreation hour arrived she felt tired and headachy. The other girls now went out into the pleasant sunshine. Pauline looked after them with longing. They would sit under the overhanging trees; they would eat fruit and talk nonsense and laugh. Doubtless they would talk about her and the birthday so near at hand. At noon the schoolroom was hot, too, for the sun beat hard upon the windows, and Pauline felt more stifled and more headachy and sulky than ever.

"Oh! please," she said, as Miss Tredgold was leaving the room, "I can't do this horrid writing to-day. Please forgive me. Do let me go out."

"No, Pauline; you must take your punishment. You were late this morning; you disobeyed my rules. Take the punishment which I am obliged to give you as a lady should, and make no more excuses."

The door was shut upon the angry girl. She sat for a time absolutely still, pressing her hand to her aching brow; then she strolled across the schoolroom, fetched some paper, and sat down to her unwelcome task. She wrote very badly, and when the hour was over she had not half copied the task assigned to her. This bad beginning went on to a worse end. Pauline declined to learn any lessons in preparation hour, and accordingly next morning she was absolutely unprepared for her tasks.

Miss Tredgold was now thoroughly roused.

"I must make an example," she said to herself. "I shall have no influence over these girls if I let them think I am all softness and yielding. The fact is, I have shown them the south side of my character too long; a little touch of the northeast will do them no harm."

Accordingly she called the obstinate and sulky Pauline before her.

"I am very much displeased with you. You have done wrong, and you must be punished. I have told you and your sisters that there is such a place as Punishment Land. You enter it now, and live there until after breakfast to-morrow morning."

"But what do you mean?" said Pauline.

"I mean exactly what I say. You have been for the last twenty-four hours extremely naughty. You will therefore be punished for the next twenty-four hours. You are a very naughty girl. Naughty girls must be punished, and you, Pauline, are now under punishment. You enter Punishment Land immediately."

"But where is it? What is it? I don't understand."

"You will soon. Girls, I forbid you to speak to your sister while she is under punishment. Pauline, your meals will be sent to you in this room. You will be expected to work up your neglected tasks and learn them thoroughly. You must neither play with nor speak to your sisters. You will have no indulgence of any sort. When you walk, I wish you to keep in the north walk, just beyond the vegetable garden. Finally, you will go to bed at seven o'clock. Now leave the room. I am in earnest."



CHAPTER IX.

PUNISHMENT LAND.

Pauline did leave the room. She passed her sisters, who stared at her in horrified amazement. She knew that their eyes were fixed upon her, but she was doubtful if they pitied her or not. Just at that moment, however, she did not care what their feelings were. She had a momentary sense of pleasure on getting into the soft air. A gentle breeze fanned her hot cheeks. She took her old sailor hat from a peg and ran fast into a distant shrubbery. Miss Tredgold had said that she might take exercise in the north walk. If there was a dreary, ugly part of the grounds, it might be summed up in the north walk. The old garden wall was on one side of it, and a tattered, ugly box-hedge on the other. Nothing was to be seen as you walked between the hedge and the wall but the ground beneath your feet and the sky above your head. There was no distant view of any sort. In addition to this disadvantage, it was in winter an intensely cold place, and in summer, notwithstanding its name, an intensely hot place. No, Pauline would not go there. She would disobey. She would walk where she liked; she would also talk to whom she liked.

She stood for a time leaning against a tree, her face scarlet with emotion, her sailor hat flung on the ground. Presently she saw Penelope coming towards her. She felt quite glad of this, for Penelope might always be bribed. Pauline made up her mind to disobey thoroughly; she would walk where she pleased; she would do what she liked; she would talk to any one to whom she wished to talk. What was Penelope doing? She was bending down and peering on the ground. Beyond doubt she was looking for something.

"What is it, Pen?" called out her sister.

Penelope had not seen Pauline until now. She stood upright with a start, gazed tranquilly at the girl in disgrace, and then, without uttering a word, resumed her occupation of searching diligently on the ground. Pauline's face put on its darkest scowl. Her heart gave a thump of wild indignation. She went up to Penelope and shook her by the arm. Penelope, still without speaking, managed to extricate herself. She moved a few feet away. She then again looked full at Pauline, and, to the amazement of the elder girl, her bold black eyes filled with tears. She took one dirty, chubby hand and blew a kiss to Pauline.

Pauline felt suddenly deeply touched. She very nearly wept herself.

"Oh, dear Penny," she said, "how good you are! I didn't know you'd feel for me. I can bear things better if I know you feel for me. You needn't obey her, need you? See, I've got three-ha'pence in my pocket. I'll give you the money and you can buy lollypops. I will really if only you will say a few words to me now."

"I daren't," burst from Penelope's lips. "You have no right to tempt me. I can't; I daren't. I am looking now for Aunt Sophy's thimble. She was working here yesterday and she dropped it, she doesn't know where. She's awful fond of it. She'll give me a penny if I find it. Don't ask me any more. I've done very wrong to speak to you."

"So you have," said Pauline, who felt as angry as ever. "You have broken Aunt Sophia's word—not your own, for you never said you wouldn't speak to me. But go, if you are so honorable. Only please understand that I hate every one of you, and I'm never going to obey Aunt Sophia."

Penelope only shook her little person, and presently wandered away into a more distant part of the shrubbery. She went on searching and searching. Pauline could see her bobbing her little fat person up and down.

"Even Penny," she thought, "is incorruptible. Well, I don't care. I won't put up with this unjust punishment."

The dinner-gong sounded, and Pauline, notwithstanding her state of disgrace, discovered that she was hungry.

"Why should I eat?" she said to herself. "I won't eat. Then perhaps I'll die, and she'll be sorry. She'll be had up for manslaughter; she'll have starved a girl to death. No, I won't eat a single thing. And even if I don't die I shall be awfully ill, and she'll be in misery. Oh dear! why did mother die and leave us? And why did dreadful Aunt Sophy come? Mother was never cross; she was never hard. Oh mother! Oh mother!"

Pauline was now so miserable that she flung herself on the ground and burst into passionate weeping. Her tears relieved the tension of her heart, and she felt slightly better. Presently she raised her head, and taking out her handkerchief, prepared to mop her eyes. As she did so she was attracted by something that glittered not far off. She stretched out her hand and drew Miss Tredgold's thimble from where it had rolled under a tuft of dock-leaves. A sudden burst of pleasure escaped her lips as she glanced at the thimble. She had not seen it before. It certainly was the most beautiful thimble she had ever looked at. She put it on the tip of her second finger and turned it round and round. The thimble itself was made of solid gold; its base was formed of one beautifully cut sapphire, and round the margin of the top of the thimble was a row of turquoises. The gold was curiously and wonderfully chased, and the sapphire, which formed the entire base of the thimble, shone in a way that dazzled Pauline. She was much interested; she forgot that she was hungry, and that she had entered into Punishment Land. It seemed to her that in her possession of the thimble she had found the means of punishing Aunt Sophia. This knowledge soothed her inexpressibly. She slipped the lovely thimble into her pocket, and again a keen pang of downright healthy hunger seized her. She knew that food would be awaiting her in the schoolroom. Should she eat it, or should she go through the wicket-gate and lose herself in the surrounding Forest?

Just at this moment a girl, who whistled as she walked, approached the wicket-gate, opened it, and came in. She was dressed in smart summer clothes; her hat was of a fashionable make, and a heavy fringe lay low on her forehead. Pauline looked at her, and her heart gave a thump of pleasure. Now, indeed, she could bear her punishment, and her revenge on Miss Tredgold lay even at the door. For Nancy King, the girl whom she was not allowed to speak to, had entered the grounds.

"Hullo, Paulie!" called out that young lady. "There you are! Well, I must say you do look doleful. What's the matter now? Is the dear aristocrat more aristocratic than ever?"

"Oh, don't, Nancy! I ought not to speak to you at all."

"So I've been told by the sweet soul herself," responded Nancy. "She wrote me a letter which would have put another girl in such a rage that she would never have touched any one of you again with a pair of tongs. But that's not Nancy King. For when Nancy loves a person, she loves that person through thick and thin, through weal and woe. I came to-day to try to find one of you dear girls. I have found you. What is the matter with you, Paulie? You do look bad."

"I'm very unhappy," said Pauline. "Oh Nancy! we sort of promised that we wouldn't have anything more to do with you."

"But you can't keep your promise, can you, darling? So don't say any more about it. Anyhow, promise or not, I'm going to kiss you now."

Nancy flung her arms tightly round Pauline's neck and printed several loud, resounding kisses on each cheek; then she seated herself under an oak tree, and motioned to Pauline to do likewise.

Pauline hesitated just for a moment; then scruples were forgotten, and she sat on the ground close to Nancy's side.

"Tell me all about it," said Nancy. "Wipe your eyes and talk. Don't be frightened; it's only poor old Nancy, the girl you have known since you were that high. And I'm rich, Paulie pet, and although we're only farmer-folk, we live in a much finer house than The Dales. And I'm going to have a pony soon—a pony of my very own—and my habit is being made for me at Southampton. I intend to follow the hounds next winter. Think of that, little Paulie. You'll see me as I ride past. I'm supposed to have a very good figure, and I shall look ripping in my habit. Well, but that's not to the point, is it? You are in trouble, you poor little dear, and your old Nancy must try and make matters better for you. I love you, little Paulie. I'm fond of you all, but you are my special favorite. You were always considered something like me—dark and dour when you liked, but sunshiny when you liked also. Now, what is it, Paulie? Tell your own Nancy."

"I'm very fond of you, Nancy," replied Pauline. "And I think," she continued, "that it is perfectly horrid of Aunt Sophia to say that we are not to know you."

"It's snobbish and mean and unlady-like," retorted Nancy; "but her saying it doesn't make it a fact, for you do know me, and you will always have to know me. And if she thinks, old spiteful! that I'm going to put up with her nasty, low, mean, proud ways, she's fine and mistaken. I'm not, and that's flat. So there, old spitfire! I shouldn't mind telling her so to her face."

"But, on the whole, she has been kind to us," said Pauline, who had some sense of justice in her composition, angry as she felt at the moment.

"Has she?" said Nancy. "Then let me tell you she has not a very nice way of showing it. Now, Paulie, no more beating about the bush. What's up? Your eyes are red; you have a great smear of ink on your forehead; and your hands—my word! for so grand a young lady your hands aren't up to much, my dear."

"I have got into trouble," said Pauline. "I didn't do my lessons properly yesterday; I couldn't—I had a headache, and everything went wrong. So this morning I could not say any of them when Aunt Sophia called me up, and she put me into Punishment Land. You know, don't you, that I am soon to have a birthday?"

"Oh, don't I?" interrupted Nancy. "Didn't a little bird whisper it to me, and didn't that same little bird tell me exactly what somebody would like somebody else to give her? And didn't that somebody else put her hand into her pocket and send—— Oh, we won't say any more, but she did send for something for somebody's birthday. Oh, yes, I know. You needn't tell me about that birthday, Pauline Dale."

"You are good," said Pauline, completely touched. She wondered what possible thing Nancy could have purchased for her. She had a wild desire to know what it was. She determined then and there, in her foolish little heart, that nothing would induce her to quarrel with Nancy.

"It is something that you like, and something that will spite her," said the audacious Nancy. "I thought it all out, and I made up my mind to kill two birds with one stone. Now to go on with the pretty little story. We didn't please aunty, and we got into trouble. Proceed, Paulie pet."

"I didn't learn my lessons. I was cross, as I said, and headachy, and Aunt Sophia said I was to be made an example of, and so she sent me to Punishment Land for twenty-four hours."

"Oh, my dear! It sounds awful. What is it?"

"Why, none of my sisters are to speak to me, and I am only to walk in the north walk."

"Is this the north walk?" asked Nancy, with a merry twinkle in her black eyes.

"Of course it isn't. She may say what she likes, but I'm not going to obey her. But the others won't speak to me. I can't make them. And I am to take my meals by myself in the schoolroom, and I am to go to bed at seven o'clock."

Pauline told her sad narrative in a most lugubrious manner, and she felt almost offended at the conclusion when Nancy burst into a roar of laughter.

"It's very unkind of you to laugh when I'm so unhappy," said Pauline.

"My dear, how can I help it? It is so ridiculous to treat a girl who is practically almost grown up in such a baby fashion. Then I'd like to know what authority she has over you."

"That's the worst of it, Nancy. Father has given her authority, and she has it in writing. She's awfully clever, and she came round poor father, and he had to do what she wanted because he couldn't help himself."

"Jolly mean, I call it," said Nancy. "My dear, you are pretty mad, I suppose."

"Wouldn't you be if your father treated you like that?"

"My old dad! He knows better. I've had my swing since I was younger than you, Paulie. Of course, at school I had to obey just a little. I wasn't allowed to break all the rules, but I did smuggle in a good many relaxations. The thing is, you can do what you like at school if only you are not found out. Well, I was too clever to be found out. And now I am grown up, eighteen last birthday, and I have taken a fancy to cling to my old friends, even if they have a snobby, ridiculous old aunt to be rude to me. My dear, what nonsense she did write!—all about your being of such a good family, and that I wasn't in your station. I shall keep that letter. I wouldn't lose it for twenty shillings. What have you to boast of after all is said and done? A tumble-down house; horrid, shabby, old-fashioned, old-maidy clothes; and never a decent meal to be had."

"But it isn't like that now," said Pauline, finding herself getting very red and angry.

"Well, so much the better for you. And did I make the little mousy-pousy angry? I won't, then, any more, for Nancy loves little mousy-pousy, and would like to do what she could for her. You love me back, don't you, mousy?"

"Yes, Nancy, I do love you, and I think it's a horrid shame that we're not allowed to be with you. But, all the same, I'd rather you didn't call me mousy."

"Oh dear, how dignified we are! I shall begin to believe in the ancient family if this sort of thing continues. But now, my dear, the moment has come to help you. The hour has arrived when your own Nancy, vulgar as she is, can lend you a helping hand. Listen."

"What?" said Pauline.

"Jump up, Paulie; take my hand, and you and I together will walk out through that wicket-gate, and go back through the dear old Forest to The Hollies, and spend the day at my home. There are my boy cousins from London, and my two friends, Rebecca and Amelia Perkins—jolly girls, I can tell you. We shall have larks. What do you say, Paulie? A fine fright she'll be in when she misses you. Serve her right, though."

"But I daren't come with you," said Pauline. "I'd love it more than anything in the world; but I daren't. You mustn't ask me. You mustn't try to tempt me, Nancy, for I daren't go."

"I didn't know you were so nervous."

"I am nervous about a thing like that. Wild as I have been, and untrained all my life, I do not think I am out-and-out wicked. It would be wicked to go away without leave. I'd be too wretched. Oh, I daren't think of it!"

Nancy pursed up her lips while Pauline was speaking; then she gave vent to a low, almost incredulous whistle. Finally she sprang to her feet.

"I am not the one to try and make you forget your scruples," she said. "Suppose you do this. Suppose you come at seven o'clock to-night. Then you will be safe. You may be wicked, but at least you will be safe. She'll never look for you, nor think of you again, when once you have gone up to bed. You have a room to yourself, have you not?"

Pauline nodded.

"I thought so. You will go to your room, lock the door, and she will think it is all right. The others won't care to disturb you. If they do they'll find the door locked."

"But I am forbidden to lock my room door."

"They will call to you, but you will not answer. They may be angry, but I don't suppose your sisters will tell on you, and they will only suppose you are sound asleep. Meanwhile you will be having a jolly good time; for I can tell you we are going to have sport to-night at The Hollies—fireworks, games, plans for the future, etc., etc. You can share my nice bed, and go back quite early in the morning. I have a lot to talk over with you. I want to arrange about our midnight picnic."

"But, Nancy, we can't have a midnight picnic."

"Can't we? I don't see that at all. I tell you what—we will have it; and we'll have it on your birthday. Your birthday is in a week. That will be just splendid. The moon will be at the full, and you must all of you come. Do you suppose I'm going to be balked of my fun by a stupid old woman? Ah! you little know me. My boy cousins, Jack and Tom, and my friends, Becky and Amy, have made all arrangements. We are going to have a time! Of course, if you are not there, you don't suppose our fun will be stopped! You'll hear us laughing in the glades. You won't like that, will you? But we needn't say any more until seven o'clock to-night."

"I don't think I'm coming."

"But you are, Paulie. No one will know, and you must have a bit of fun. Perhaps I'll show you the present I'm going to give you on your birthday; there's no saying what I may do; only you must come."

Nancy had been standing all this time. Pauline had been reclining on the ground. Now she also rose to her feet.

"You excite me," she said. "I long to go, and yet I am afraid; it would be so awfully wicked."

"It would be wicked if she was your mother, but she's not. And she has no right to have any control over you. She just got round your silly old father——"

"I won't have dad called silly!"

"Well, your learned and abstracted father. It all comes to much the same. Now think the matter over. You needn't decide just this minute. I shall come to the wicket-gate at half-past seven, and if you like to meet me, why, you can; but if you are still too good, and your conscience is too troublesome, and your scruples too keen, you need not come. I shall quite understand. In that case, perhaps, I'd best not give you that lovely, lovely present that I saved up so much money to buy."

Pauline clasped her hands and stepped away from Nancy. As she did so the breeze caught her full gray skirt and caused it to blow against Nancy. Nancy stretched out her hand and caught hold of Pauline's pocket.

"What is this hard thing?" she cried. "Have you got a nut in your pocket?"

"No," said Pauline, instantly smiling and dimpling. "Oh, Nancy, such fun!"

She dived into her pocket and produced Miss Tredgold's thimble.

"Oh, I say!" cried Nancy. "What a beauty! Who in the world gave you this treasure, Paulie?"

"It isn't mine at all; it belongs to Aunt Sophia."

"You sly little thing! You took it from her?"

"No, I didn't. I'm not a thief. I saw it in the grass a few minutes ago and picked it up. It had rolled just under that dock-leaf. Isn't it sweet? I shall give it back to her after she has forgiven me to-morrow."

"What a charming, return-good-for-evil character you have suddenly become, Pauline!"

As Nancy spoke she poised the thimble on her second finger. Her fingers were small, white, and tapering. The thimble exactly fitted the narrow tip on which it rested.

"I never saw anything so lovely," she cried. "Never mind, Paulie, about to-morrow. Lend it to me. I'd give my eyes to show it to Becky."

"But why should I lend it to you? I must return it to Aunt Sophia."

"You surely won't give it back to her to-day."

"No, but to-morrow."

"Let to-morrow take care of itself. I want to show this thimble to Becky and Amy. I have a reason. You won't refuse one who is so truly kind to you, will you, little Paulie? And I tell you what: I know you are starving, and you hate to go into the house for your food. I will bring you a basketful of apples, chocolates, and a peach or two. We have lovely peaches ripe in our garden now, although we are such common folk."

Pauline felt thirsty. Her hunger, too, was getting worse. She would have given a good deal to have been able to refuse the horrid meals which would be served to her in the schoolroom. Perhaps she could manage without any other food if she had enough fruit.

"I should like some very much," she said. "Aunt Sophia has, as she calls it, preserved the orchard. We are not allowed to go into it."

"Mean cat!" cried Nancy.

"So will you really send me a basket of fruit?"

"I will send Tom with it the instant I get home. He runs like the wind. You may expect to find it waiting for you in half-an-hour."

"Thank you. And you will take great care of the thimble, won't you?"

"Of course I will, child. It is a beauty."

Without more ado Nancy slipped the thimble into her pocket, and then nodding to Pauline, and telling her that she would wait for her at the wicket-gate at half-past seven, she left her.

Nancy swung her body as she walked, and Pauline stood and watched her. She thought that Nancy looked very grown-up and very stylish. To look stylish seemed better than to look pretty in the eyes of the inexperienced little girl. She could not help having a great admiration for her friend.

"She is very brave, and so generous; and she knows such a lot of the world!" thought poor Pauline. "It is a shame not to be allowed to see her whenever one likes. And it would be just heavenly to go to her to-night, instead of spending hungry hours awake in my horrid bedroom."



CHAPTER X.

DISCIPLINE.

The other girls were miserable; but Miss Tredgold had already exercised such a very strong influence over them that they did not dare to disobey her orders. Much as they longed to do so, none of them ventured near poor Pauline. In the course of the afternoon Miss Tredgold called Verena aside.

"I know well, my dear, what you are thinking," she said. "You believe that I am terribly hard on your sister."

Verena's eyes sought the ground.

"Yes, I quite know what you think," repeated Miss Tredgold. "But, Verena, you are wrong. At least, if I am hard, it is for her good."

"But can it do any one good to be downright cruel to her?" said Verena.

"I am not cruel, but I have given her a more severe punishment than she has ever received before in her life. We all, the best of us, need discipline. The first time we experience it when it comes from the hand of God we murmur and struggle and rebel. But there comes a time when we neither murmur nor struggle nor rebel. When that time arrives the discipline has done its perfect work, and God removes it. My dear Verena, I am a woman old enough to be your mother. You must trust me, and believe that I am treating Pauline in the manner I am to-day out of the experience of life that God has given me. We are so made, my dear, that we none of us are any good until our wills are broken to the will of our Divine Master."

"But this is not God's will, is it?" said Verena. "It is your will."

"Consider for a moment, my child. It is, I believe, both God's will and mine. Don't you want Pauline to be a cultivated woman? Don't you want her character to be balanced? Don't you want her to be educated? There is a great deal that is good in her. She has plenty of natural talent. Her character, too, is strong and sturdy. But at present she is like a flower run to weed. In such a case what would the gardener do?"

"I suppose he would prune the flower."

"If it was a hopeless weed he would cast it out of his garden; but if it really was a flower that had degenerated into a weed, he would take it up and put it to some pain, and plant it again in fresh soil. The poor little plant might say it was badly treated when it was taken from its surroundings and its old life. This is very much the case with Pauline. Now, I do not wish her to associate with Nancy King. I do not wish her to be idle or inattentive. I want her to be energetic, full of purpose, resolved to do her best, and to take advantage of those opportunities which have come to you all, my dear, when I, your mother's sister, took up my abode at The Dales. Sometime, dear, it is quite possible that, owing to what will be begun in Pauline's character to-day, people will stop and admire the lovely flower. They will know that the gardener who put it to some pain and trouble was wise and right. Now, my dear girl, you will remember my little lecture. Pauline needs discipline. For that matter, you all need discipline. At first such treatment is hard, but in the end it is salutary."

"Thank you, Aunt Sophy," said Verena. "But perhaps," she added, "you will try and remember, too, that kindness goes a long way. Pauline is perhaps the most affectionate of us all. In some ways she has the deepest feelings. But she can be awfully sulky, and only kindness can move her."

"I quite understand, my dear; and when the time comes kindness will not be wanting. Now go away and amuse yourself with your sisters."

Verena went away. She wondered as she did so where Pauline was hiding herself. The others had all settled down to their various amusements and occupations. They were sorry for Pauline, but the pleasant time they were enjoying in the middle of this lovely summer's day was not to be despised, even if their sister was under punishment. But Verena herself could not rest. She went into the schoolroom. On a tray stood poor Pauline's neglected dinner. Verena lifted the cover from the plate, and felt as though she must cry.

"Pauline is taking it hardly," thought the elder girl.

Tea-time came, and Pauline's tea was also sent to the schoolroom. At preparation hour, when the rest of the girls went into the room, Pauline's tea remained just where it had been placed an hour before. Verena could scarcely bear herself. There must be something terribly wrong with her sister. They had often been hungry in the old days, but in the case of a hearty, healthy girl, to do without any food from breakfast-time when there was plenty to eat was something to regard with uneasiness.

Presently, however, to her relief, Pauline came in. She looked rough and untidy in appearance. She slipped into the nearest chair in a sulky, ungainly fashion, and taking up a battered spelling-book, she held it upside down.

Verena gave her a quick glance and looked away. Pauline would not meet Verena's anxious gaze. She kept on looking down. Occasionally her lips moved. There was a red stain on her cheek. Penelope with one of her sharpest glances perceived this.

"It is caused by fruit," thought the youngest of the schoolroom children. "I wonder who has given Pauline fruit. Did she climb the garden wall or get over the gate into the orchard?"

Nobody else noticed this stain. Miss Tredgold came in presently, but she took no more notice of Pauline than if that young lady did not exist.

The hour of preparation was over. It was now six o'clock. In an hour Pauline was expected to go to bed. Now, Pauline and Verena had bedrooms to themselves. These were attic rooms at the top of the house. They had sloping roofs, and would have been much too hot in summer but for the presence of a big beech tree, which grew to within a few feet of the windows. More than once the girls in their emancipated days, as they now considered them, used to climb down the beech tree from their attic windows, and on a few occasions had even managed to climb up the same way. They loved their rooms, having slept in them during the greater part of their lives.

Pauline, as she now went in the direction of the north walk, thought with a sense of satisfaction of the bedroom she had to herself.

"It will make things easier," she thought. "They will all be on the lawn doing their needlework, and Aunt Sophia will be reading to them. I will go past them quite quietly to my room, and then——"

These thoughts made Pauline comparatively happy. Once or twice she smiled, and a vindictive, ugly expression visited her small face.

"She little knows," thought the girl. "Oh, she little knows! She thinks that she is so clever—so terribly clever; but, after all, she has not the least idea of the right way to treat me. No, she has not the least idea. And perhaps by-and-by she will be sorry for what she has done."

Seven o'clock was heard to strike in the house. Pauline, retracing her steps, went slowly past her sisters and Miss Tredgold. Miss Tredgold slightly raised her voice as the culprit appeared. She read aloud with more determination than ever. Penelope flung down the duster she was hemming and watched Pauline.

"I a'most wish I wor her," thought the ex-nursery child. "Anything is better than this horrid sewing. How it pricks my fingers! That reminds me; I wonder where Aunt Sophy's thimble has got to. I did look hard for it. I wish I could find it. I do want that penny so much! It was a beauty thimble, too, and she loves it. I don't want to give it back to her 'cos she loves it, but I should like my penny."

Pauline had now nearly disappeared from view.

"Paulie is up to a lark," thought Penelope, who was the sharpest of all the children, and read motives as though she was reading an open book. "She doesn't walk as though she was tur'ble unhappy. I wonder what she's up to. And that red stain on her cheek was fruit; course it was fruit. How did she get it? I wish I knew. I'll try and find out."

Pauline had now reached her bedroom. There she hastily put on her best clothes. They were very simple, but, under Miss Tredgold's regime, fairly nice. She was soon attired in a neat white frock; and an old yellow sash of doubtful cleanliness and a bunch of frowsy red poppies were folded in a piece of tissue paper. Pauline then slipped on her sailor hat. She had a great love for the old sash; and as to the poppies, she thought them far more beautiful than any real flowers that ever grew. She meant to tie the yellow sash round her waist when she reached the shrubbery, and to pin the poppies into her hat. The fact that Miss Tredgold had forbidden her to wear this sash, and had herself removed the poppies from her Sunday hat, gave her now a sense of satisfaction.

"Young ladies don't wear things of that sort," Miss Tredgold had said.

"A young lady shall wear things of this sort to-night," thought Pauline.

Having finished her toilet, she locked her door from the outside and put the key into her pocket; but before she left the room she drew down the dark-green blind. She then slipped downstairs and went out through the back way. She had to go through the yard, but no one saw her except Betty, who, as she afterwards remarked, did observe the flutter of a white dress with the tail of her eye. But Betty at that moment was immersed in a fresh installment of the wonderful adventures of the Duke of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton and his bride, and what did it matter to her if the young ladies chose to run out in their best frocks?

Pauline reached the shrubbery without further adventure. There she put on her extra finery. Her yellow sash was tied in a large bow, and her poppies nodded over her forehead.

It was a very excited dark-eyed girl who presently met Nancy King on the other side of the wicket-gate.

"Here I am," said Pauline. "I expect I shall never have any luck again all my life; but I want to spite her at any cost, so here I am."

"Delicious!" said Nancy. "Isn't it good to spite the old cat? Now then, let's be off, or we may be caught. But I say, how fine we are!"

"You always admired this bunch of poppies, didn't you, Nancy? Do you remember? Before you went to that grand school at Brighton you used to envy me my poppies. I found them among mother's old things, and Verena gave them to me. I love them like anything. Don't you like them very much, placed so in front of my hat?"

"Didn't I say, 'How fine we are'?"

"Yes; but somehow your tone——"

"My dear Paulie, you are getting much too learned for my taste. Now come along. Take my hand. Let us run. Let me tell you, you look charming. The girls will admire you wonderfully. Amy and Becky are keen to make your acquaintance. You can call them by their Christian names; they're not at all stiff. Surname, Perkins. Nice girls—brought up at my school—father in the pork line; jolly girls—very. And, of course, you met Jack and Tom last year. They're out fishing at present. They'll bring in beautiful trout for supper. Why, you poor little thing, you must be starved."

"Ravenous. You know I had only your fruit to-day."

"You shall have a downright jolly meal, and afterwards we'll have fireworks; and then by-and-by you will share my bed. Amy and Becky will be in the same room. They think there's a ghost at the other side of the passage, so they came along to my chamber. But you won't mind."

"I won't mind anything after my lonely day. You are quite sure that I'll get back in time in the morning, Nancy?"

"Trust me for that. Haven't you got the key of your room?"

"Yes; it's in my pocket. I left the window on the latch, and I can climb up the beech tree quite well. Oh! that reminds me, Nancy; you must let me have that thimble before I return to The Dales."

"To be sure I will, dear. But you needn't think of returning yet, for you have not even arrived. Your fun is only beginning. Oh! you have done a splendid, spirited thing running off in this fashion. I only hope she'll go to your room and tap and tap, and knock and knock, and shout and shout, and get, oh, so frightened! and have the door burst open; and then she'll see for herself that the bird has flown. Won't she be in a tantrum and a fright! Horrid old thing! She'll think that you have run off forever. Serve her right. Oh! I almost wish she would do it—that I do."

"But I don't," said Pauline. "If she did such a thing it would almost kill me. It's all very well for you to talk in that fashion; you haven't got to live with her; but I have, and I couldn't stand her anger and her contempt. I'd be put into Punishment Land for a year. And as one day has very nearly killed me, what would a year of it do? If there is any fear of what you wish for, I'd best go back at once."

"What! and lose the trout, and the game pie, and the steak and onions, and the fried potatoes, and the apple turnovers, and the plum puffs, to say nothing of the most delicious lollypops you have ever tasted in your life? And afterwards fireworks; for Jack and Tom have bought a lot of Catherine-wheels and rockets to let off in your honor. And then a cosy, warm hug in my bed, with Amy and Becky telling ghost stories in the bed opposite. You don't mean to tell me you'd rather have your lonely room and starvation than a program of that sort?"

"No, no. Of course I'll go on with you. I've done it now, so I'll stick to it. Oh, I'm madly hungry! I hope you'll have supper the moment we get in."

"Supper will be delayed as short a time as possible. It rather depends upon the boys and when they bring the trout home. But here is a queen cake. I stuffed it into my pocket for you. Eat it as we go along."

So Pauline ate it and felt better. Her courage returned. She no longer thought of going back. Had she done so, she knew well that she would not sleep. People never slept well if they were hungry.

"No," she said to herself; "I will go on with it now. I'll just trust to my good luck, and I'll enjoy the time with Nancy. For, after all, she's twice as kind as Aunt Sophia. Why should I make myself miserable on account of a woman who is not my mother?"

The Hollies was a very snug, old-fashioned sort of farm. It had been in the King family for generations, and Mr. Josiah King was a very fine specimen of the British farmer. He was a big man with a red face, bushy whiskers, grizzled hair, and a loud laugh. The expression of his broad, square face was somewhat fierce, and the servants at the farm were afraid to anger him. He was a just enough master, however, and was always served well by his people. To only one person was he completely mild and gentle, and that person, it is needless to say, was his daughter Nancy. Nancy was his only child. Her mother was dead, and from her earliest days she had been able to twist her father round her little finger. He sent her to a smart boarding school, and no money was spared in order to give her pleasure. It was the dream of Farmer King, and Nancy's dearest ambition also, that she should be turned into a lady. But, alas and alack! Miss Nancy could not overcome the stout yeoman blood in her veins. She was no aristocrat, and nothing could make her one. She was just a hearty, healthy happy-minded English girl; vulgar in voice and loud in speech, but fairly well-intentioned at heart. She was the sort of farmer's daughter who would marry a farmer, and look after the dairy, and rear stalwart sons and hearty girls in her turn. Nature never intended her for a fine lady; but silly Nancy had learnt a great deal more at school than how to talk a little French very badly and how to recite a poem with false action and sentiment. She had learnt to esteem the world for the world's own sake, and had become a little ashamed of the farmer and the farmer's ways; and, finally, when she returned from school she insisted on the best parlor being turned into a sort of drawing-room, on her friends being regaled with late dinners, and on herself being provided with servants, so that she need not touch household work. She was playing, therefore, the game of being a lady, and was failing as she played it. She knew that she was failing, and this knowledge made her feel very cross. She tried hard to stifle it, and clung more than ever to her acquaintanceship with the Dale girls.

In her heart of hearts Nancy knew that she would very much like to milk the cows, and superintend the dairy, and churn the butter. In her heart of hearts she would have adored getting up early in the morning and searching for the warm, pink eggs, and riding barebacked over the farm with her father, consulting him on the tilling of the land and the best way to make the old place profitable; for one day it would be her own, and she would be, for her class in life, a rich girl. Just at present, however, she was passing through a phase, and not a very pleasant one. She thought herself quite good enough to go into any society; and fine dress, loud-voiced friends, and the hollow, empty nothings which she and her acquaintances called conversation seemed the best things possible that could come into life. She was, therefore, not at all in the mood to give up her friendship with the Dale girls.

Now, there never was a girl less likely to please Miss Tredgold than this vulgarly dressed, loud-voiced, and unlady-like girl. Nancy was desired to abstain from visiting at The Dales, and the Dale girls were told that they were not to talk to Nancy. Nancy's rapture, therefore, when she was able to bring Pauline to The Hollies could scarcely be suppressed.

Amy and Becky Perkins were standing in the old porch when the two girls appeared. Nancy called out to her friends, and they ran to meet her.

"This is Paulie," said Nancy; "in other words, Pauline Dale—Pauline Dale, the aristocrat. We ought to be proud to know her, girls. Pauline, let me introduce my special friend, Becky Perkins. She's in pork, but that don't matter. And my other special friend, Amy Perkins; also in pork, but at your service. Girls, you didn't happen to notice if supper was being put on the table, did you?"

"I should think we did," said Becky. "I smelt fish. The boys brought in a lot of trout. I'm as hungry as hungry can be."

"Let's run upstairs first," said Nancy, turning to Pauline. "You'd like to take off your hat and wash your hands, wouldn't you, my fine friend of aristocratic circles?"

"I wish you wouldn't talk like that, Nancy," said Pauline, flushing angrily, while the two Perkins girls looked at her with admiration.

"Well, then, I won't," said Nancy; "but I'm always one for my joke. I meant no harm. And you know you are aristocratic, Paulie, and nothing will ever take it out of you. And I'm terribly afraid that nothing will take the other thing out of me. I only talk to you like this because I'm so jealous. So now come along and let's be friends."

The two girls scampered up the old oak stairs. They ran down an uneven passage, and reached a door of black oak, which was opened with an old-fashioned latch. At the other side of the door they found themselves in a long and very low room, with a black oak floor and black oak walls. The floor of the room was extremely uneven, being up in one part and down in another, and the whole appearance of the room, although fascinating, was decidedly patchy. In an alcove at one end stood a four-post bedstead, with a gaudily colored quilt flung over it; and in the alcove at the other end was another four-post bedstead, also boasting of a colored quilt. There were two washstands in the room, and one dressing-table. The whole place was scrupulously neat and exquisitely clean, for the white dimity curtains rivalled the snow in winter, and the deal washstands and the deal dressing-table were as white as the scrubbing of honest hands could make them. The whole room smelt of a curious mixture of turpentine, soap, and fresh flowers.