"I had the lavender sheets put on the bed for you and me," said Nancy. "They are of the finest linen. My mother spun them herself, and she put them in lavender years and years ago. I am heartily glad to welcome you, little Paulie. This is the very first time you have ever slept under our humble roof. So kiss me, dear."

"How snug and sweet it all is!" said Pauline. "I am glad that I came."

"This is better than lying down hungry in your own little room," said Nancy.

"Oh, much better!"

Pauline skipped about. Her high spirits had returned; she was charmed with the room in which she was to repose. Through the lattice window the sweetest summer air was entering, and roses peeped all round the frame, and their sweet scent added to the charm of the old-fashioned chamber.

"I hope you won't mind having supper in the kitchen," said Nancy. "I know it's what a Dale is not expected to submit to; but, nevertheless, in Rome we do as the Romans do—don't we?"

"Oh, yes; but I wish you wouldn't talk like that, Nancy. As if I cared. Whether I am a lady or not, I am never too fine for my company; and it was when Aunt Sophia wanted us to give you up that I really got mad with her."

"You are a darling and a duck, and I love you like anything," said Nancy. "Now come downstairs. We are all hungry, and the boys are mad to be at the fireworks."

"I have never seen fireworks in my life," said Pauline.

"You poor little innocent! What a lot the world has to show you! Now then, come along."

Pauline, deprived of her hideous hat, looked pretty and refined in her white dress. She made a contrast to the showy Nancy and the Perkins girls. The boys, Jack and Tom Watson, looked at her with admiration, and Jack put a seat for Pauline between himself and his brother.

The farmer nodded to her, and said in his bluff voice:

"Glad to welcome you under my humble roof, Miss Pauline Dale. 'Eartily welcome you be. Now then, young folks, fall to."

The meal proceeded to the accompaniment of loud jokes, gay laughter, and hearty talking. The farmer's voice topped the others. Each remark called forth fresh shouts of laughter; and when a number of dogs rushed in in the middle of supper, the din almost rose to an uproar.

Pauline enjoyed it all very much. She laughed with the others; her cheeks grew rosy. Nancy piled her plate with every available dainty. Soon her hunger left her, and she believed that she was intensely happy.



CHAPTER XI.

THE BURNT ARM.

After supper the excitement waxed fast and furious. The boys, aided by the farmer and one of his men, proceeded to send off the fireworks. This was done on a little plateau of smoothly cut lawn just in front of the best sitting-room windows. The girls pressed their faces against the glass, and for a time were satisfied with this way of looking at the fun. But soon Nancy could bear it no longer.

"It is stupid to be mewed up in the close air," she said. "Let's go out."

No sooner had she given utterance to the words than all four girls were helping the boys to let off the squibs, Catherine-wheels, rockets, and other fireworks. Pauline now became nearly mad with delight. Her shouts were the loudest of any. When the rockets went high into the air and burst into a thousand stars, she did not believe that the world itself could contain a more lovely sight. But presently her happiness came to a rude conclusion, for a bit of burning squib struck her arm, causing her fine muslin dress to catch fire, and the little girl's arm was somewhat severely hurt. She put out the fire at once, and determined to hide the fact that she was rather badly burnt.

By-and-by they all returned to the house. Nancy sat down to the piano and began to sing some of her most rollicking songs. Then she played dance music, and the boys and girls danced with all their might. Pauline, however, had never learned to dance. She stood silent, watching the others. Her high spirits had gone down to zero. She now began to wish that she had never come. She wondered if she could possibly get home again without being discovered. At last Nancy noticed her grave looks.

"You are tired, Paulie," she said; "and for that matter, so are we. I say, it's full time for bed. Good-night, boys. Put out the lamps when you are tired of amusing yourselves. Dad has shut up the house already. Come, Paulie; come, Amy; come, Becky."

The four girls ran upstairs, but as they were going down the passage which led to their pretty bedroom, Pauline's pain was so great that she stumbled against Becky and nearly fell.

"What is it?" said Becky. "Are you faint?"

She put her arm around the little girl and helped her into the bedroom.

"Whatever can be wrong?" she said. "You seemed so lively out in the open air."

"Oh, you do look bad, Paulie!" said Nancy. "It is that terrible fasting you went through to-day. My dear girls, what do you think? This poor little aristocrat, far and away too good to talk to the likes of us"—here Nancy put her arms akimbo and looked down with a mocking laugh at the prostrate Pauline—"far too grand, girls—fact, I assure you—was kept without her food until I gave her a bit of bread and a sup of water at supper. All these things are owing to an aunt—one of the tip-top of the nobility. This aunt, though grand externally, has a mighty poor internal arrangement, to my way of thinking. She put the poor child into a place she calls Punishment Land, and kept her without food."

"That isn't true," said Pauline. "I could have had plenty to eat if I had liked."

"That means that if you were destitute of one little spark of spirit you'd have crawled back to the house to take your broken food on a cold plate like a dog. But what is the matter now? Hungry again?"

"No; it is my arm. Please don't touch it."

"Do look!" cried Amy Perkins. "Oh, Nancy, she has got an awful burn! There's quite a hole through the sleeve of her dress. Oh, do see this great blister!"

"It was a bit of one of the squibs," said Pauline. "It lit right on my arm and burned my muslin sleeve; but I don't suppose it's much hurt, only I feel a little faint."

"Dear, dear!" said Nancy. "What is to be done now? I don't know a thing about burns, or about any sort of illness. Shall we wake cook up? Perhaps she can tell us something."

"Let's put on a bandage," said one of the other girls. "Then when you lie down in bed, Pauline, you will drop asleep and be all right in the morning."

Pauline was so utterly weary that she was glad to creep into bed. Her arm was bandaged very unskilfully; nevertheless it felt slightly more comfortable. Presently she dropped into an uneasy doze; but from that doze she awoke soon after midnight, to hear Nancy snoring loudly by her side, to hear corresponding snores in a sort of chorus coming from the other end of the long room, and to observe also that there was not a chink of light anywhere; and, finally, to be all too terribly conscious of a great burning pain in her arm. That pain seemed to awaken poor Pauline's slumbering conscience.

"Why did I come?" she said to herself. "I am a wretched, most miserable girl. And how am I ever to get back? I cannot climb into the beech-tree with this bad arm. Oh, how it does hurt me! I feel so sick and faint I scarcely care what happens."

Pauline stretched out her uninjured arm and touched Nancy.

"What is it?" said Nancy. "Oh, dear! I'd forgotten. It's you, Paulie. How is your arm, my little dear? Any better?"

"It hurts me very badly indeed; but never mind about that now. How am I to get home?"

"I'll manage that. Betty, our dairymaid, is to throw gravel up at the window at four o'clock. You shall have a cup of tea before you start, and I will walk with you as far as the wicket-gate."

"Oh, thank you! But how am I to get into my room when I do arrive at The Dales? I don't believe I shall be able to use this arm at all."

"Of course you will," said Nancy. "You will be miles better when cook has looked to it. I know she's grand about burns, and has a famous ointment she uses for the purpose. Only, for goodness' sake, Paulie, don't let that burn in the sleeve of your dress be seen; that would lead to consequences, and I don't want my midnight picnic to be spoilt."

"I don't seem to care about that or anything else any more."

"What nonsense! You don't suppose I should like this little escapade of yours and mine to be known. You must take care. Why, you know, there's father. He's very crotchety over some things. He likes all of you, but over and over again he has said:

"'I'm as proud of being an honest farmer as I should be to be a lord. My grandfather paid his way, and my father paid his way, and I am paying my way. There's no nonsense about me, and I shall leave you, Nancy, a tidy fortune. You like those young ladies at The Dales, and you shall have them come here if they wish to come, but not otherwise. I won't have them here thinking themselves too grand to talk to us. Let them keep to their own station, say I. I don't want them.'

"Now you see, Paulie, what that means. If father found out that your aunt had written to me and desired me to have nothing further to do with you, I believe he'd pack me out of the country to-morrow. I don't want to leave my home; why should I? So, you see, for my sake you must keep it the closest of close secrets."

"You should have thought of that before you tempted me to come," said Pauline.

"That is just like you. You come here and enjoy yourself, and have a great hearty meal, and when you are likely to get into a scrape you throw the blame on me."

"You can understand that I am very miserable, Nancy."

"Yes; and I'm as sorry as I can be about that burn; but if you'll be brave and plucky now, I'll help you all I can. We'll get up as soon as ever the day dawns, and cook shall put your arm straight."

As Nancy uttered the last words her voice dwindled to a whisper, and a minute later she was again sound asleep. But Pauline could not sleep. Her pain was too great. The summer light stole in by degrees, and by-and-by the sharp noise made by a shower of gravel was heard on the window.

Pauline sprang into a sitting posture, and Nancy rubbed her eyes.

"I'm dead with sleep," she said. "I could almost wish I hadn't brought you. Not but that I'm fond of you, as I think I've proved. We haven't yet made all our arrangements about the midnight picnic, but I have the most daring scheme in my head. You are every single one of you—bar Penelope, whom I can't bear—to come to that picnic. I'll make my final plans to-day, and I'll walk in the Forest to-morrow at six o'clock, just outside your wicket-gate. You will meet me, won't you?"

"But—— Oh! by the way, Nancy, please give me back that beautiful thimble. I'm so glad I remembered it! It belongs to Aunt Sophia."

"I can't," said Nancy, coloring, "I lent it to Becky, and I don't know where she has put it. I'll bring it with me to-morrow, so don't fuss. Now jump up, Paulie; we have no time to lose."

Accordingly Pauline got up, dressed herself—very awkwardly, it is true—and went downstairs, leaning on Nancy's sympathetic arm. Nancy consulted the cook, who was good-natured and red-faced.

"You have got a bad burn, miss," she said when she had examined Pauline's arm; "but I have got a famous plaster that heals up burns like anything. I'll make your arm quite comfortable in a twinkling, miss."

This she proceeded to do, and before the treatment had been applied for half an hour a good deal of Pauline's acute pain had vanished.

"I feel better," she said, turning to Nancy. "I feel stronger and braver."

"You will feel still braver when you have had your cup of tea. And here's a nice hunch of cake. Put it into your pocket if you can't eat it now. We had best be going; the farm people may be about, and there's no saying—it's wonderful how secrets get into the air."

Pauline looked startled. She again took Nancy's hand, and they left the house together.

Now, it so happened that the the morning was by no means as fine as those lovely mornings that had preceded it. There was quite a cold wind blowing, and the sky was laden with clouds.

"We'll have rain to-day," said Nancy; "rain, and perhaps thunder. I feel thunder in the air, and I never was mistaken yet. We must be quick, or we'll both be drenched to the skin."

Accordingly the two walked quickly through the Forest path. But before they reached the wicket-gate the first mutterings of thunder were audible, and heavy drops of rain were falling.

"I must leave you now, Paulie," said Nancy, "for if I go any farther I'll be drenched to the skin. Climb up your tree, get into your bedroom, and go to bed. If you can manage to send that white dress over to me, I will put on a patch that even your aunt will not see. Put on another dress, of course, this morning, and say nothing about the burn. Good-bye, and good luck! I'll be over about six o'clock to-morrow evening to talk over our midnight picnic."

"And the thimble," said Pauline. "You won't forget the thimble."

"Not I. Good gracious, what a flash! You had best get home at once; and I must run for my life or I may be struck down under all these trees."

Pauline stood still for a minute, watching Nancy as she disappeared from view; then slowly and sadly she went up to the house.

She was too tired and depressed to mind very much that the rain was falling in showers, soaking her thin white muslin dress, and chilling her already tired and exhausted little frame. The rattle of the thunder, the bright flash of the lightning, and the heavy fall of the tempest could not reach the graver trouble which filled her heart. The way of transgressors had proved itself very hard for poor Pauline. She disliked the discomfort and misery she was enduring; but even now she was scarcely sorry that she had defied and disobeyed Aunt Sophia.

After a great deal of difficulty, and with some injury to her already injured arm, she managed to climb the beech-tree and so reach the gabled roof just under her attic window. She pushed the window wide open and got inside. How dear and sweet and fresh the little chamber appeared! How innocent and good was that little white bed, with its sheets still smoothly folded down! It took Pauline scarcely a minute to get into her night-dress, sweep her offending white dress into a neighboring cupboard, unlock the door, and put her head on her pillow. Oh, there was no place like home! It was better to be hungry at home, it was better to be in punishment at home, than to go away to however grand a place and however luxuriant a feast.

"And Nancy's home isn't grand," thought Pauline. "And the food was rough. Aunt Sophia would even call it coarse. But, oh, I was hungry! And if I hadn't been so naughty I'd have been very happy. All the same," she continued, thinking aloud, as was her fashion. "I won't go to that midnight picnic; and Renny must not go either. Of course, I can't tell Aunt Sophia what I did last night. I promised Nancy I wouldn't tell, and it wouldn't be fair; but see if I do anything wrong again! I'll work like a Briton at my lessons to-day. Oh, how badly my arm hurts! And what an awful noise the storm is making! The thunder rattles as though it would come through the roof. My arm does ache! Oh, what lightning! I think I'll put my head under the sheet."

Pauline did so, and notwithstanding the tempest, she had scarcely got down into the real warmth of her bed before sleep visited her.

When she awoke the storm was over, the sun was shining, and Verena was standing at the foot of her bed.

"Do get up, Paulie," she said. "How soundly you have slept! And your face is so flushed! And, oh, aren't you just starving? We only discovered last night that you hadn't touched any of your food."

"I'm all right," said Pauline.

"You will try to be good to-day, won't you, Paulie? You don't know how miserable I was without you, for you are my own special most darling chum. You will try, won't you?"

"Yes, I will try, of course," said Pauline. "Truly—truly, I will try."



CHAPTER XII.

CHANGED LIVES.

After the mental storm of the day before, Pauline would never forget the peace of the day that followed. For Miss Tredgold, having punished, and the hours of punishment being over, said nothing further to signify her displeasure. She received Pauline kindly when she appeared in the schoolroom. She took her hand and drew the little girl toward her. It was with a great effort that the poor girl could suppress the shriek that nearly rose to her lips as the unconscious Miss Tredgold touched her burnt arm.

"We will forget about yesterday, Pauline," said her aunt. "We will go back to work this morning just as though there never had been any yesterday. Do you understand?"

"I think so," said Pauline.

"Do you happen to know your lessons?"

"I'm afraid I don't."

"Well, my dear, as this is practically your first transgression, I am the last person to be over-hard. You can listen to your sisters this morning. At preparation to-day you will doubtless do your best. Now go to your seat."

Pauline sat between Briar and Adelaide. Adelaide nestled up close to her, and Briar took the first opportunity to whisper:

"I am so glad you are back again, dear old Pauline! We had a horrid time without you yesterday."

"They none of them know what I did," thought Pauline; "and, of course, I meant to tell them. Not Aunt Sophia, but the girls. Yes, I meant to confide in the girls; but the atmosphere of peace is so nice that I do not care to disturb it. I will put off saying anything for the present. It certainly is delightful to feel good again."

Lessons went on tranquilly. The girls had a time of delightful rest afterwards in the garden, and immediately after early dinner there came a surprise. Miss Tredgold said:

"My dear girls, there are several things you ought to learn besides mere book knowledge. I propose that you should be young country ladies whom no one will be ashamed to know. You must learn to dance properly, and to skate properly if there ever is any skating here. If not, we will go abroad for the purpose. But while you are in the Forest I intend you to have riding lessons and also driving lessons. A wagonette will be here at two o'clock, and we will all go for a long and delightful drive through the Forest. I am going to some stables about six or seven miles away, where I hear I can purchase some good horses and also some Forest ponies. Don't look so excited, dears. I should be ashamed of any nieces of mine brought up in the New Forest of England who did not know how to manage horses."

"Oh, she really is a darling!" said Verena. "I never did for a single moment suppose that we should have had the chance of learning to drive."

"And to ride," said Pauline.

She began to skip about the lawn. Her spirits, naturally very high, returned.

"I feel quite happy again," she said.

"Why, of course you are happy," said Verena; "but you must never get into Punishment Land again as long as you live, Paulie, for I wouldn't go through another day like yesterday for anything."

The wagonette arrived all in good time. It drew up at the front door, and Mr. Dale, attracted by the sound of wheels, rose from his accustomed seat in his musty, fusty study, and looked out of the window. The window was so dusty and dirty that he could not see anything plainly; but, true to his determination, he would not open it. A breeze might come in and disturb some of his papers. He was busy with an enthralling portion of his work just then; nevertheless, the smart wagonette and nicely harnessed horses, and the gay sound of young voices, attracted him.

"I could almost believe myself back in the days when I courted my dearly beloved Alice," he whispered to himself. "I do sincerely trust that visitors are not beginning to arrive at The Dales; that would be the final straw."

The carriage, however, did not stop long at the front door. It was presently seen bowling away down the avenue. Mr. Dale, who still stood and watched it, observed that it was quite packed with bright-looking young girls. Blue ribbons streamed on the breeze, and the girls laughed gaily.

"I am glad those visitors are going," thought the good man, who did not in the least recognize his own family. "A noisy, vulgar crowd they seemed. I hope my own girls will never become like that. Thank goodness they did not stay long! Sophia is a person of discernment; she knows that I can't possibly receive incidental visitors at The Dales."

He returned to his work and soon was lost to all external things.

Meanwhile the girls had a lovely and exciting drive. Aunt Sophia was in her most agreeable mood. The children themselves were quite unaccustomed to carriage exercise. It was a wonderful luxury to lean back on the softly cushioned seats and dash swiftly under the noble beech-trees and the giant oaks of the primeval forest. By-and-by they drove up to some white gates. Verena was desired to get out and open them. The carriage passed through. She remounted into her seat, and a few minutes later they all found themselves in a great cobble-stoned yard surrounded by stables and coach-houses. The melodious cry of a pack of fox-hounds filled the air. The girls were almost beside themselves with excitement. Presently a red-faced man appeared, and he and Miss Tredgold had a long and mysterious talk together. She got out of the wagonette and went with the man into the stables. Soon out of the stables there issued, led by two grooms, as perfect a pair of Forest ponies as were ever seen. They were well groomed and in excellent order, and when they arched their necks and pawed the ground with their feet, Pauline uttered an irrepressible shout.

"Those ponies are coming to The Dale in a fortnight," said Miss Tredgold. "Their names are Peas-blossom and Lavender."

"I believe I'll die if much more of this goes on," gasped Briar. "I'm too happy. I can't stand anything further."

"Hush, Briar!" said Verena, almost giving her sister a shake in her excitement, and yet at the same time trying to appear calm.

"Now, my dear children, we will go home," said their aunt. "The wagonette will come any day that I send for it, and Mr. Judson informs me he hopes by-and-by to have a pair of carriage horses that I may think it worth while to purchase."

"Aren't these good enough?" asked Verena, as they drove back to The Dales.

"They are very fair horses, but I don't care to buy them. Judson knows just the sort I want. I am pleased with the ponies, however. They will give you all a great deal of amusement. To-morrow we must go to Southampton and order your habits."

"I wonder I ever thought her cross and nasty and disagreeable," thought Pauline. "I wonder I ever could hate her. I hope she'll let me ride Peas-blossom. I liked his bright eyes so much. I never rode anything in my life, but I feel I could ride barebacked on Peas-blossom. I love him already. Oh, dear! I don't hate Aunt Sophia now. On the contrary, I feel rather bad when I look at her. If she ever knows what I did yesterday, will she forgive me? I suppose I ought to tell her; but I can't. It would get poor Nancy into trouble. Besides—I may as well be frank with myself—I should not have the courage."

As soon as the girls got home Penelope ran up to Pauline.

"You stayed for a long time in the shrubbery yesterday, didn't you, Pauline?" she asked.

"Yes," said Pauline.

"You didn't by any chance find Aunt Sophy's thimble?"

"I! Why should I?"

Pauline felt herself turning red. Penelope fixed her exceedingly sharp eyes on her sister's face.

"You did find it; you know you did. Where is it? Give it to me. I want my penny. Think of all the fun you are going to have. She doesn't mean me to ride, 'cos I asked her. I must have my penny. Give me the thimble at once, Paulie."

"I haven't got it. Don't talk nonsense, child. Let me go. Oh! you have hurt me."

Pauline could not suppress a short scream, and the next minute she felt herself turning very faint and sick, for Penelope had laid her exceedingly hard little hand on Pauline's burnt arm.

"What is it, Paulie? I know you are not well," said Verena, running up.

"It is 'cos of her bad conscience," said Penelope, turning away with a snort of indignation.

"Really," said Verena, as Pauline leaned against her and tried hard to repress the shivers of pain that ran through her frame, "Penelope gets worse and worse. Only that I hate telling tales out of school, I should ask Aunt Sophia to send her back to the nursery for at least another year. But what is it, Paulie dear? You look quite ill."

"I feel rather bad. I have hurt my arm. You must not ask me how, Renny. You must trust me. Oh dear! I must tell you what has happened, for you will have to help me. Oh, Renny, I am in such pain!"

Poor Pauline burst into a torrent of tears. Where was her happiness of an hour ago? Where were her rapturous thoughts of riding Peas-blossom through the Forest? Her arm hurt her terribly; she knew that Penelope was quite capable of making mischief, she was terrified about the thimble. Altogether her brief interval of sunshine was completely blotted out.

Verena, for her years, was a wonderfully wise girl. She had since her mother's death been more or less a little mother to the younger children. It is true, she had looked after them in a somewhat rough-and-ready style; but nevertheless she was a sympathetic and affectionate girl, and they all clung to her. Now it seemed only natural that Pauline should lean on her and confide her troubles to her. Accordingly Verena led her sister to a rustic seat and said:

"Sit down near me and tell me everything."

"It is this," said Pauline. "I have burned my arm badly, and Aunt Sophia must not know."

"You have burnt your arm? How?"

"I would rather not tell."

"But why should you conceal it, Paulie?"

"I'd rather conceal it; please don't ask me. All I want you to do is to ask me no questions, but to help me to get my arm well; the pain is almost past bearing. But, Renny, whatever happens, Aunt Sophia must not know."

"You are fearfully mysterious," said Verena, who looked much alarmed. "You used not to be like this, Paulie. You were always very open, and you and I shared every thought Well, come into the house. Of course, whatever happens, I will help you; but I think you ought to tell me the whole truth."

"I can't, so there! If you are to be a real, real sister to me, you will help me without asking questions."

The girls entered the house and ran up to Pauline's bedroom. There the injured arm was exposed to view, and Verena was shocked to see the extent of the burn.

"You ought to see a doctor. This is very wrong," she said.

She made Pauline lie down, and dressed her arm as well as she could. Verena was quite a skilful little nurse in her own way, and as Pauline had some of the wonderful ointment which the Kings' cook had given her, and as Verena knew very nicely how to spread it on a piece of rag, the arm soon became more comfortable.

Just before dinner Miss Tredgold called all the girls round her.

"I have something to say," she remarked. "I want you all to go upstairs now; don't wait until five minutes before dinner. You will each find lying on your bed, ready for wearing, a suitable dinner-blouse. Put it on and come downstairs. You will wear dinner-dress every night in future, in order to accustom you to the manners of good society. Now go upstairs, tidy yourselves, and come down looking as nice as you can."

The girls were all very much excited at the thought of the dinner-blouses. They found them, as Aunt Sophia had said, each ready to put on, on their little beds. Verena's was palest blue, trimmed daintily with a lot of fluffy lace. The sleeves were elbow-sleeves, and had ruffles round them. The blouse in itself was quite a girlish one, and suited its fair wearer to perfection. Pauline's blouse was cream-color; it also had elbow-sleeves, and was very slightly open at the neck.

"Do be quick, Paulie," called out Briar. "I have got a sweet, darling, angel of a pink blouse. Get into yours, and I'll get into mine. Oh, what tremendous fun this is!"

Briar ran whooping and singing down the corridor. She was met by nurse with baby in her arms.

"Now, Miss Rose, what's up?" said the good woman. "You do look happy, to be sure. You don't seem to miss the old days much."

"Of course I don't, nursey. I'm twice as happy as I used to be."

"Twice as happy with all them lessons to learn?"

"Yes; twice as happy, and twice as good. She doesn't scold us when we're good. In fact, she's just uncommonly nice. And to-night she says she'll play and sing to us; and it's so delicious to listen to her! Dad comes out of his study just as if she drew him by magic. And I like to learn things. I won't be a horrid pig of an ignorant girl any more. You will have to respect me in the future, nursey. And there's a darling little blouse lying on my bed—pink, like the leaf of a rose. I am to wear it to-night. I expect Aunt Sophia chose it because I'm like a rose myself. I shall look nice, shan't I, nursey?"

"That's all very well," said nurse. "And for my part I don't object to civilized ways, and bringing you up like young ladies; but as to Miss Pen, she's just past bearing. New ways don't suit her—no, that they don't. She ain't come in yet—not a bit of her. Oh! there she is, marching down the corridor as if all the world belonged to her. What have you done to yourself, Miss Pen? A nice mess you are in!"

"I thought I'd collect some fresh eggs for your tea, nursey," said the incorrigible child; "and I had three or four in my pinafore when I dropped them. I am a bit messy, I know; but you don't mind, do you, nursey?"

"Indeed, then, I do. Just go straight to the nursery and get washed."

Penelope glanced at Briar with a wry face, and ran away singing out in a shrill voice:

"Cross patch, draw the latch, Sit by the fire and spin."

She disappeared like a flash, and nurse followed her, murmuring angrily.

Briar ran into her bedroom. This room she shared with Patty and Adelaide. They also were wildly delighted with their beautiful blouses, and had not begun to dress when Briar appeared.

"I say, isn't it all jolly?" said Briar. "Oh, Patty, what a duck yours is!—white. And Adelaide's is white, too. But don't you love mine? I must be a very pretty girl to cause Aunt Sophia to choose such a lovely shade of rose. I wonder if I am really a pretty girl. Do stand out of the way; I want to stare at myself in the glass."

Briar ran to the dressing-table. There she pushed the glass into such an angle that she could gaze contentedly at her features. She saw a small, rather round face, cheeks a little flushed, eyes very dark and bright, quantities of bright brown curling hair, dark pencilled eyebrows, a little nose, and a small pink mouth.

"You are a charming girl, Briar Dale," she said, "worthy of a rose-pink blouse. Patty, don't you just love yourself awfully?"

"I don't know," said Patty. "I suppose every one does."

"The Bible says it is very wrong to love yourself," said Adelaide. "You ought to love other people and hate yourself."

"Well, I am made the contrary," said Briar. "I hate other people and love myself. Who wouldn't love a darling little face like mine? Oh, I am just a duck! Help me into my new blouse, Patty."

The three girls, each with the help of the other, managed to array themselves even to Briar's satisfaction. She was the neatest and also the vainest of the Dales. When she reached the outside corridor she met Verena, looking sweet, gentle, and charming in her pale-blue blouse. They all ran down to the drawing-room, where Miss Tredgold was waiting to receive them. She wore the old black lace dress, which suited her faded charms to perfection. She was standing by the open French window, and turned as her nieces came in. The girls expected her to make some remark with regard to their appearance, but the only thing she said was to ask them to observe the exquisite sunset.

Presently Pauline appeared. She looked pale. There were black shadows under her eyes, and she was wearing a dirty white shirt decidedly the worse for wear. The other girls looked at her in astonishment. Verena gave her a quick glance of pain. Verena understood; the others were simply amazed. Miss Tredgold flashed one glance at her, and did not look again in her direction.

Dinner was announced in quite the orthodox fashion, and the young people went into the dining-room. Mr. Dale was present. He was wearing quite a decent evening suit. He had not the faintest idea that he was not still in the old suit that had lain by unused and neglected for so many long years. He had not the most remote conception that Miss Tredgold had taken that suit and sent it to a tailor in London and desired him to make by its measurements a new suit according to the existing vogue. Mr. Dale put on the new suit when it came, and imagined that it was the old one. But, scholar as he was, he was learning to appreciate the excellent meals Miss Tredgold provided for him. On this occasion he was so human as to find fault with a certain entree.

"This curry is not hot enough," he said. "I like spicy things; don't you, Sophia?"

Miss Tredgold thought this an enormous sign of mental improvement. She had already spoken to cook on the subject of Mr. Dale's tastes.

"Why, drat him!" was Betty's somewhat indignant answer. "In the old days he didn't know sprats from salmon, nor butter from lard. Whatever have you done to him, ma'am?"

"I am bringing him back to humanity," was Miss Tredgold's quiet answer.

Betty raised her eyebrows. She looked at Miss Tredgold and said to herself:

"So quiet in her ways, so gentle, and for all so determined! Looks as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth; yet you daren't so much as neglect the smallest little sauce for the poorest little entree or you'd catch it hot. She's a real haristocrat. It's a pleasure to have dealings with her. Yes, it's a downright pleasure. When I'm not thinking of my favorite 'ero of fiction, the Dook of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton, I feel that I'm doing the next best thing when I'm receiving the orders of her ladyship."

Another of cook's ideas was that Miss Tredgold was a person of title, who chose for the present to disguise the fact. She certainly had a marvellous power over the erratic Betty, and was turning her into a first-rate cook.

"Are you going to give us some of that exquisite music to-night, Sophia?" asked Mr. Dale when he had finished his dinner. He looked languidly at his sister-in-law.

"On one condition I will," she said. "The condition is this: you are to accompany my piano on the violin."

Mr. Dale's face became pale. He did not speak for a minute; then he rose and went nimbly on tiptoe out of the room.

There was silence for a short time. The girls and their aunt had migrated into the drawing-room. The drawing-room looked sweetly pretty with its open windows, its softly shaded lamps, its piano wide open, and the graceful figures of the girls flitting about. Even Pauline's ugly blouse was forgotten. There was a sense of mystery in the air. Presently in the distance came the sound of a fiddle. It was the sound of a fiddle being tuned. The notes were discordant; but soon rich, sweeping melodies were heard. They came nearer and nearer, and Mr. Dale, still playing his fiddle, entered the room. He entered with a sort of dancing measure, playing an old minuet as he did so.

Miss Tredgold stepped straight to the piano and without any music, played an accompaniment.

"I have won," she thought. "I shall send him away for change of air; then the study must be cleaned. I shall be able to breathe then."



CHAPTER XIII.

NANCY SHOWS HER HAND.

It was not until after breakfast on the following morning that Miss Tredgold said anything to Pauline about the ugly shirt she had chosen to wear on the previous evening.

"My dear," she said then, very gently, "I did not remark on your dress last night; but for the future remember that when I say a thing is to be done, it is to be done. I had a pretty, suitable blouse put into your room for you to appear in last night. Why did you wear that ugly torn shirt?"

"I couldn't help myself," said Pauline.

"That is no reason."

Pauline was silent. She looked on the ground. Miss Tredgold also was silent for a minute; then she said decisively:

"You will wear the new blouse to-night. Remember, I expect to be obeyed. I will say nothing more now about your forgetting my orders last evening. Do better in the future and all will be well."

It was with great difficulty that Pauline could keep the tears from her eyes. What was to become of her. She did not dare expose her burnt arm; she could not possibly wear a blouse with sleeves that reached only to the elbow without showing the great burn she had received. If Miss Tredgold found out, might she not also find out more? What was she to do?

"What am I to do, Verena?" she said on the afternoon of that same day.

"What do you mean, Paulie? Your arm is better, is it not?"

"Yes; it doesn't hurt quite so much. But how can I wear the new blouse to-night?"

"Would it not be wiser," said Verena, "if you were to tell Aunt Sophy that you have burnt your arm? It is silly to make a mystery of it."

"But she will make me tell her how I did it."

"Well?"

"I daren't tell her that. I daren't even tell you."

"What am I to think, Paulie?"

"Anything you like. You are my own sister, and you must not betray me. But she must never know. Can't you think of something to get me out of this? Oh, dear! what is to be done?"

Verena shook her head.

"I don't know what is to be done," she said, "if you haven't the courage to speak the truth. You have probably got into some scrape."

"Oh! I——"

"I am sure you have, Paulie; and the sooner you tell the better. The longer you conceal whatever it is, the worse matters will grow."

Pauline's face grew crimson.

"I am exceedingly sorry I told you," she said. "You are not half, nor quarter, as nice a sister as you used to be. Don't keep me. I am going into the shrubbery to help Penelope to look for Aunt Sophy's thimble."

Verena said nothing further, and Pauline went into the shrubbery.

"I seem to be getting worse," she said to herself. "Of course, I don't really want to help Penelope. How should I, when I know where the thimble is? There she is, hunting, hunting, as usual. What a queer, unpleasant child she is growing!"

Penelope saw Pauline, and ran up to her.

"You might tell me everything to-day," said the child. "Where did you put it?"

"I have come to help you to look for it, Pen."

"Don't be silly," was Penelope's answer.

She instantly stood bolt upright.

"There's no use in my fussing any longer," she said. "I've gone round and round here, and picked up leaves, and looked under all the weeds. There isn't a corner I've left unpoked into. Where's the good of troubling when you have it? You know you have it."

"I know nothing of the kind. There! I will tell you the simple truth. I have not got the thimble. You may believe me as much as you like."

"Then I'll believe just as much as nothing at all. If you haven't got the thimble, you know where it is. I'll give you until this time to-morrow to let me have it, and if you don't I'll go straight to Aunt Sophy."

"Now, Pen, you are talking nonsense. You have no proof whatever that I have touched the thimble; and what will Aunt Sophia say to a little child who trumps up stories about her elder sister?"

"Perhaps she'll be very glad," said Penelope. "I have often thought that with such a lot of you grown-up girls, and all of you so very rampagious and not a bit inclined to obey or do your lessons nicely, poor Aunt Sophy, what is really a dear old duck of a thing, wants some one like me to spy round corners and find out what goes on ahind her back. Don't you think so? Don't you think her'll love me if I tell her always what goes on ahind of her back?"

"If she's a bit decent she'll hate you," said Pauline. "Oh, Pen, how were you made? What a queer, queer sort of child you are! You haven't ideas like the rest of us."

"Maybe 'cos I'm nicer," said Penelope, not at all impressed by Pauline's contempt. "Maybe I shouldn't like to be made same as all you others are. There is something wrong about Aunt Sophy's thimble, and if I don't get it soon I'll be 'bliged to tell her."

Penelope's eyes looked like needles. She walked away. Pauline gazed after her; then she went into the house.

"That thimble is really a very trifling matter," she said to herself, "but even that at the present moment annoys me. Nancy has promised to bring it back to me this evening, and I will just put it somewhere where Pen is sure to find it. Then she'll be in raptures; she'll have her penny, and that matter will be set at rest. Oh, dear! it is almost time to go and meet Nancy. She must not keep me long, for now that that horrid dressing for dinner has begun, it takes quite half an hour to get properly tidy. But what am I to do? How can I wear that blouse?"

Pauline waited her chance, and slipped out at the wicket-gate without even Penelope's sharp eyes watching her. She found Nancy pacing up and down at the other side. Nancy was decidedly cross.

"Why did you keep me waiting?" she said. "It is five minutes past six, and I have barely another five minutes to stay with you, and there's a lot to talk over."

"I'm in great luck to be able to come at all, Nancy. I didn't think I could ever slip away from the others. As to the midnight picnic, we must give it up. It is quite impossible for me to come. And I know the others won't; they're all getting so fond of Aunt Sophy. What do you think? She has given us ponies, and we're to have carriage-horses presently; and we are obliged to dress for dinner every evening."

"Oh, you are turning aristocratic, and I hate you," said Nancy, with a toss of the head.

She looked intensely jealous and annoyed. She herself was to ride soon, and her habit was already being made. She had hoped against hope that Miss Tredgold would be impressed by seeing her gallop past in an elegant habit on a smart horse.

"Oh, Nancy!" said Pauline, "don't let us talk about ponies and things of that sort now; I am in great, great trouble."

"I must say I'm rather glad," said Nancy. "You know, Paulie, you are in some ways perfectly horrid. I did a great deal for you the other night, and this is all the thanks I get. You won't come to the midnight picnic, forsooth! And you won't have anything more to do with me, forsooth! You'll ride past me, I suppose, and cut me dead."

"I shall never do anything unkind, for I really do love you, Nancy. I have always loved you, but I can't get into fresh scrapes. They're not worth while."

"You didn't talk like that when you were mad and starving the other day."

"No, I didn't; but I do now. I have been miserable ever since I came back; and, oh, my arm has pained me so badly! You can imagine what I felt last evening when we were desired to wear pretty new blouses with elbow-sleeves; such sweet little dears as they all were. Mine was cream-color—just what suits me best—but of course I couldn't appear in it."

"Why not?"

"With my burnt arm! How could I, Nancy?"

Nancy burst out into a roar of laughter.

"What a lark!" she cried. "Well, and what did the poor little Miss Misery do?"

"I had to put on an old dirty shirt, the only one I could find. Aunt Sophia gave me no end of a lecture this morning. She says I am to wear my new blouse to-night or she'll know the reason why. Of course, I can't wear it."

"Then you can't have any dinner?"

"I am absolutely beside myself to know what to do," said Pauline. "Sometimes I think I'll go to bed and pretend I have got a headache. Oh, dear, what a bad girl I am turning into!"

Nancy laughed again.

"It is sometimes very tiresome to develop a conscience," she said. "You were a much nicer girl before that grand aunt of yours arrived to turn things topsy-turvy. As to the midnight picnic, you must come. I have made a bet on the subject. Jack and Tom say you won't come—that you will be afraid. 'Pauline Dale afraid! That's all you know about her,' says I. I have assured them that you will come whatever happens, and they have said you won't. So the end of it is that Tom, Jack, and I have made a bet about it. It is ten shillings' worth either way. If you come, I get three beautiful pairs of gloves. If you don't come, I give the boys ten shillings. Now you see how important it is. Why, Paulie, of course you will come! We are going to have a right-down jolly time, for father is so tickled with the notion that he is coming, too; and he says he will give us a real good lark. And we are going to Friar's Oak, eight miles away; and we are to take hampers full of dainties. And Fiddler Joe will come with us to play for us; and there's a beautiful green-sward just under the beech-trees by Friar's Oak, and there we'll dance by the full light of the moon. Oh, you must come! I told father you were coming, and he was awfully pleased—as pleased as Punch—and he said:

"'That's right, my girl; that's right, Nancy. If the Dales stick to me through thick and thin, I'll stick to them.'

"You know, Pauline, you have always been at our fun before; so, aunt or no aunt, you can't fail us now."

"I'd like to go beyond anything," said Pauline, who felt intensely tempted by this description. "It is so horrible to be pulled up short. But I know I can't, so there's no use thinking about it."

"You needn't answer me now. I'll come back again. This is Friday night. I'll come back on Monday night. The picnic is arranged for Wednesday night. Listen, Paulie; you will have to change your mind, for if you don't—well!"

"If I don't?"

"I can make it very hot for you."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll come and have a talk with your aunt. There!"

"Oh, Nancy. What about?"

"Such an interesting story, darling! All about our fun that night when you burnt your arm—all about our gaiety, and the fireworks, and your stealing away as you did, and your stealing back as you did. Oh! I shall have a jolly story to tell; and I will tell it, too. She'll turn me away, and tell me she'll never see me any more; but what of that? She's done that already. I will have my fun; you will have your punishment. That's fair enough, isn't it? You don't desert Nancy King for nothing, remember that, Pauline, so you had better say at once that you will come. Now, my love, I think that is about all."

Nancy's face was very red. She was feeling thoroughly angry. Pauline's manner annoyed her past description. She really imagined herself to be extremely kind and good-natured to Pauline, and could not endure the little girl taking her present high stand.

"I must be going now," she said.

She gave Pauline a nod which was scarcely friendly, but was, at the same time, very determined, and was about to run home, when Pauline called her.

"Don't go for a minute, Nancy. There's something else. Have you brought me back Aunt Sophia's thimble?"

"No, I have not. I have a story to tell you about that, and I was just forgetting it. I do hope and trust you won't really mind."

"Oh, what is it? You know I am quite likely to get into a scrape about that horrid thimble as well as everything else. What is the story? The thimble isn't yours. You surely haven't lost it!"

"Nothing of the kind. You look as though you thought I had stolen it. Mean as I am, I am not quite so bad as that. Now let me tell you. Becky, poor old girl! saw it. She's always mad about finery of any sort, and her people are rich as rich. I had the thimble in my pocket, and she was snuggling up close to me in her nice, engaging little fashion, and she felt the thimble hard against my side, much as I felt it when it was in your pocket. In she slipped her little bit of a white hand and drew it out. I never saw any one so delighted over a toy of the sort in all my life. It fitted her little finger just to a nicety.

"'Why,' she exclaimed, 'I never, never saw a thimble like this before; did you, Nancy?'

"'Guess not,' I answered. 'It's a cunning one, isn't it?'

"She kept turning it round and round, and looking at it, and pressing it up to her cheek, and trying to see her own reflection in that wonderful sapphire at the bottom of the thimble. Then what do you think happened? I own it was a little sharp of her, but of course you can't be so unfriendly as to mind. She took the precious little toy and put it into a dear, most precious little box, and covered it over with soft, soft cotton-wool, and placed a sweet little lid on the top. Dear me, Pauline! you needn't open your eyes any wider. And when she had secured the little box, she wrapped it in brown paper, and twined it, and sealed it, and addressed it to her sister Josephine in London."

"Then she stole it," said Pauline.

"Not a bit of it. What a narrow-minded girl you are! Just hear my story out. Becky sent the thimble to Josephine to their house in Bayswater, with directions that Josephine was to take it to their jeweller, Paxton, and ask him to make another in all particulars precise ditto the same. You understand? Precise ditto the same—sapphire, gold, turquoise, and all. And this beautiful thimble is to be worn on the dear little middle finger of Becky's dear little white hand. When it is faithfully copied you will have the original thimble back, my love, but not before. Now, then, ta-ta for the present."

Nancy ran off before Pauline had time to reply. She felt stunned. What did everything mean? How queer of Nancy to have suddenly turned into a perfectly awful girl—a sort of fiend—a girl who had another girl completely in her power; who could, and would if she liked, make that other girl wretched; who could and would ruin that other girl's life. There was a time when the midnight picnic seemed the most delightful thing on earth; but it scarcely appeared delightful now to poor Pauline, whose head ached, whose arm ached, and whose whole body ached. What was she to do?

When she re-entered the shrubbery, her unhappy feelings were by no means lightened to see that Penelope was waiting for her. Penelope stood a little way off, her feet firmly planted a little apart, her straw hat pushed back from her sunburned face, her hands dropped straight to her sides.

"I didn't eavesdrop," she said. "I could have easy. There was a blackberry briar, and I could have stole under it and not minded the scratches, and I could have heard every single word; but I didn't, 'cos I'm not mean. But I saw you talking to Nancy, what kind Aunt Sophy says you're not to talk to. Perhaps, seeing you has done what is awful wrong, you'll give me a penny instead of Aunt Sophy; then I needn't tell her that you were talking to Nancy when you oughtn't, and that I think you have got the thimble. Will you give me a penny or will you not?"

Pauline put her hand into her pocket.

"You are a most detestable child," she said.

"Think so if you like," said Penelope. "Oh, here's my penny!"

She snatched at the penny which was reposing on Pauline's palm.

"Now I'll go straight off and get John to bring me in some cookies," she exclaimed.



CHAPTER XIV.

PAULINE CONFESSES.

Pauline was in such a strait that she made up her mind to tell a lie. She had never, so far as she could remember, told an actual and premeditated lie before. Now matters were so difficult, and there seemed such a certainty of there being no other way out, that she resolved to brave the consequences and add to her former sin by a desperate, downright black lie. Accordingly, just before dinner she ran into Verena's room.

"Renny," she said, "I have made up my mind."

"What about?" asked Verena. "Why, Pauline, you do look bad. Your face is as white as a sheet."

"I shall have to explain," continued Pauline. "I am going to tell how I got the burn on my arm."

Verena gave a great sigh of relief.

"I am glad," she cried. "It is far better to tell."

"So I think," said Pauline in an airy fashion. "Give me a kiss, Verena; I must dress for dinner, and I haven't a moment to lose."

"You will wear your pretty blouse?"

"Certainly."

Pauline dashed out of the room, banging the door noisily after her.

"I wonder what she means," thought Verena. "She is certainly getting rather queer. I am afraid she has a terrible secret on her mind. I am glad she means to confess, poor darling! I seem to have less influence over her than I used to have, and yet I love no one like Paulie. She is all the world to me. I love her far better than the others."

Meanwhile Pauline, with great difficulty, put on her pretty evening-blouse. How she hated those elbow-sleeves! How she wished the little soft chiffon frills were longer! At another time she would have been delighted with her own reflection in the glass, for a cream-colored silk blouse suited her. She would have liked to see how well she looked in this new and fashionable little garment. She would have been pleased, too, with the size and brilliancy of her black eyes. She would have admired that flush which so seldom visited her sallow cheeks; she would even have gazed with approbation at her pearly-white teeth. Oh, yes, she would have liked herself. Now she felt that she hated herself. She turned from the glass with a heavy sigh.

Having finished her toilet, she wrapped a soft muslin handkerchief round her wounded arm and ran downstairs. Her aunt was already in the drawing-room, but to Pauline's relief no one else was present. The little girl ran up to her aunt, dropped a curtsy, and looked somewhat impertinently into her face.

"Here I am," she said; "and how do I look?"

"You have put on your blouse, Pauline. It suits you. Turn round and let me see how it fits at the back. Oh! quite nicely. I told Miss Judson to make the blouses in a simple fashion, so that they could be washed again and again. But what is the matter, my dear? Your face is very white. And—why, my dear Pauline, what is wrong with your arm?"

"I have something to confess, Aunt Sophy. I hope you won't be terribly angry."

"Something to confess, my dear child? Well, I am glad you have the courage to confess when you do wrong. There is nothing like owning up one's faults, Pauline. There is nothing else that really strengthens the soul. Well, I am listening, dear. Now, what is it?"

Pauline slowly unfastened the handkerchief which she had bound round her arm, and showed the great burn to Miss Tredgold.

Miss Tredgold started, uttered an exclamation, took the little arm in her hand, and looked tenderly at the ugly place.

"My poor little girl," she said. "Do you mean that you have been suffering from this all this time? But how in the world did it happen?"

"That is what I want to confess. I did something extremely naughty the day you kept me in Punishment Land."

"What was it?"

"You sent me to bed at seven o'clock."

"Yes; that was part of the punishment."

"Well, I didn't like it. Oh! here comes Verena. Renny, I am confessing my sins."

Verena ran up, her face full of anxiety. She put her arm round Pauline's waist.

"See how bad her poor arm is," she said, glancing at Miss Tredgold.

"Yes," said Miss Tredgold, "it is badly hurt; but don't interrupt, Verena. I am listening to the story of how Pauline burnt her arm."

"You sent me to bed at seven o'clock," said Pauline, who, now that she had embarked on her narrative, felt emboldened and, strange to say, almost enjoyed herself. "I could not possibly sleep at seven o'clock, you know; so, to amuse myself, I tried on my new white dress; and then I lit a candle, drew down the blinds, and looked at myself in the glass. I was so pleased! I did look nice; I felt quite conceited."

"You needn't tell me how you felt, Pauline. I want to hear facts, not accounts of your feelings. You did wrong to put on your white dress, for it had already been fitted on by the dressmaker, and it was being carefully kept for Sunday wear. But proceed. After you lit the candle and drew down the blinds what happened?"

"A great puff of wind came in through the window, and it blew the blind against the candle, and the flame of the candle came towards me, and I had my hand up to arrange my hair. I was fastening it up with hairpins to make myself look quite grown-up."

"Well?"

"And the candle caught my sleeve and set it on fire."

Miss Tredgold now began to look so pale that Verena vaguely wondered if she were going to faint. The little culprit, however, stood bolt upright and gazed with defiant black eyes at her aunt.

"Yes," said Pauline, "I suffered awful pain, and the sleeve blazed up like anything; but I ran to the basin of water and put it out. I was afraid to tell you. I had to tell Renny that I had burnt my arm, but I didn't tell her how it happened, and I wouldn't allow her to breathe to you that I was in pain. That was the reason I could not wear my pretty blouse last night, and you were angry with me. I hope you won't be angry any more; but the sleeve of the dress is burnt badly. Perhaps you won't give me any birthday present because the sleeve of my new dress is so much injured."

"I will see about that. The thing is to cure your arm. The doctor must come immediately."

"But it is getting better."

"You must see the doctor," said Miss Tredgold.

She went out of the room as she spoke. Pauline sank into a chair; Verena looked down at her.

"Have you told the truth?" asked Verena suddenly.

Pauline nodded with such a savage quickness that it made her sister positively certain that she had not heard the right story.

Miss Tredgold came back in a minute.

"I have sent for Dr. Moffat," she said. "I hope he will be here after dinner. My dear child, why didn't you tell me before?"

"Are you going to forgive me?" faltered Pauline. "I—I almost think I'd rather you didn't."

"You are a very queer child, and I may as well tell you frankly you are talking nonsense. You did wrong, of course, to put on the white dress; but I think, my dear, your sufferings have been your punishment. We will say no more now about the burnt sleeve. Fortunately I have plenty of the same muslin in the house, and the mischief can be quickly repaired. Now, dear, lie back in that chair. No; you are not to come in to dinner. It shall be sent to you here on a tray."

For the rest of the evening Pauline was so pitied and fussed over, and made so thoroughly comfortable, that she began to think the black, black lie she had uttered quite a good thing.

"Here am I half out of my scrape," she thought. "Now, if I can only persuade Nancy not to force us to go to that midnight picnic, and not to tell if we don't go, and if I can get the thimble back, I shall be once more as happy as the day is long. This wicked black lie shall not frighten me. There is no other way out. I cannot possibly tell the truth. What would Nancy think if I did?"

The doctor came. He ordered a healing lotion for the arm; he also felt the pulse of the little patient. He declared her to be slightly feverish, and ordered her to bed.

Half the next day Pauline stayed in her comfortable bed. She was fed with dainties by Aunt Sophia, was not expected to learn any lessons, and was given a fascinating story-book to wile away the time. During the morning, when she was not engaged in the schoolroom, Miss Tredgold stayed by the little girl's side, and mended the burnt dress, cutting out a new sleeve and putting it in with deft, clever fingers.

Pauline watched her as one fascinated. As she looked and observed the graceful figure, the kindly expression of the eyes, and the noble pose of the head, there stole over her desolate little heart a warm glow. She began to love Aunt Sophia. When she began to love her she began also to hate herself.

"I don't want to love her a bit," thought the child. "I want quite to detest her. If I love her badly—and perhaps I may—it will make things that must happen much more difficult."

Aunt Sophia left the room. She came back presently with a dainty jelly and some home-made biscuits. She put an extra pillow at Pauline's back, and placed the little tray containing the tempting food in front of her.

"What are you thinking about, Paulie?" she asked suddenly.

"About how nice you are," answered the child; and then she added, "I don't want you to be nice."

"Why so?"

"Because I don't. I can't tell you more than just I don't."

Miss Tredgold said nothing more. She resumed her work, and Pauline ate her jelly.

"Aunt Sophy," she said presently, "I want to be awfully good at my lessons next week. I want to learn real desperate hard. I want to turn into a very clever girl. You'd like me to be clever, wouldn't you?"

"Provided you are not conceited with it," said Aunt Sophia in her abrupt way.

"Perhaps I should be," said Pauline. "I was always thought rather smart. I like people to call me smart. You don't want me to turn stupid because I may get conceited."

"No, dear; I want you to be natural. I want you to try very hard to be learned, to be good, to be a lady. I want you to be the sort of woman your mother would have wished you to be had she lived. I want you to grow up strong in mind and strong in body. I want you to be unselfish. I want you to look upon life as a great gift which you must not abuse, which you must make use of. I want you, Paulie, and your sisters to be the best in every sense of that great word. You will fail. We all fail at times; but there is forgiveness for each failure if you go to the right and only source. Have I said enough?"

"Yes," said Pauline in a low voice.

Her conscience was pricking her. She lowered her eyes; the long black lashes trembled with tears. Miss Tredgold stooped and kissed her.

"I hear Briar in the garden," she said. "I will send her up to you. Be as merry as you please with her, and forget my words for the present."

Pauline got up in time for late dinner. She was, of course, excused wearing her dinner-blouse, and was still treated somewhat as an invalid. But on Sunday morning she was so much better that she was able to wear her white dress, and able also to join her sisters in the garden.

They all went to the pretty little church in the next village, and Miss Tredgold accompanied them.

Looking back on it afterwards, that Sunday always seemed to Pauline like an exquisite dream of peace. Her lie did not press at all against her heart. The discomfort of it was for the time in abeyance. She tried to forget Miss Tredgold's ideal girl; she was happy without knowing why. She was happy, but at the same time she was quite well aware of the fact that her happiness would come to an end on Sunday night. She was quite certain that on Monday morning her grave and terrible troubles would begin. She would have to see Nancy. She would have to decide with regard to the midnight picnic. There was no joy for Pauline in the thought of that picnic now, but she dared not stay away from it, for if she did Nancy would have her way. Nancy's temper, quick and hot as a temper could be, would blaze up. She would come to Miss Tredgold and tell her everything. If it had been awful to Pauline's imagination to think of Miss Tredgold knowing the truth before, what would it be to her now after the lie she had told?

"I must coax Nancy," thought the little girl to herself. "I must tell her that I can't go to the picnic, and I must implore her not to tell. Oh, what shall I do? How shall I persuade her?"

On Sunday morning, therefore, notwithstanding her promises, Pauline was inattentive at lessons. But Miss Tredgold was not inclined to be over-severe. The doctor had said that the child had not only been badly burnt, but had also received a nervous shock. He had further added that the more liberty she was given, and the more fresh air just at present, the better.

Accordingly Pauline was sent into the garden long before the others had finished their lessons. She presently sat down under the shade of a tree. She was not to meet Nancy till six o'clock.

By-and-by Penelope came out, saw her sister, and ran towards her.

"Have you got the thimble?" she asked.

"Of course I haven't. I don't know anything about the thimble. What do you mean?"

Alas for Pauline! Her first lie had made her second easy.

Penelope looked at her in puzzled wonder.

"I thought you did know about it," she said, disappointment stealing over her shrewd little face.

"I don't know anything about it. Don't worry me."

"You are so cross that I'm sure you have done something desperate naughty," said Penelope. "I want to find out what it is, and I don't want to stay with you. I think you are horrid."

She marched away defiantly, her squat little figure and bare legs looking so comical that Pauline burst out laughing.

"What am I coming to?" she said to herself. "This is lie number two. Oh, dear! I feel just as if a net were surrounding me, and the net was being drawn tighter each moment, and I was being dragged into a pit out of which there is no escape. What shall I do?"

Just then Mr. Dale, who seldom left the house, appeared in view. He was walking slowly, his hands thrust into his pockets, his head bent forward; he was murmuring some sentences of his beloved Virgil to himself. He took no notice of Pauline. He did not even see her. Neither did he notice the chair in which she was sitting. He came bang up against her before he knew that she was there.

"What have I done?" he exclaimed. "Oh, it is you, Pauline! How inconsiderate of you to sit like this on the lawn!"

"But we always sit on the chairs, dad," said Pauline, springing to her feet.

He forgot that he had made the remark. He laid his hand on her shoulder.

"I have been having a delightful time," he said—"truly a delightful time. All this morning I have been in contact with noble thoughts. My child, can you realize, even dimly, what it is to dip into those mines of wealth—those mines of illimitable wisdom and greatness and strength and power? Oh, the massiveness of the intellects of the old classic writers! Their lofty ideas with regard to time and eternity—where can their like be found?"

Pauline yawned.

"Are you tired?" asked her father.

"No—only worried," she answered.

She did not know why she made the latter remark; but at the same time she was perfectly well aware that anything she said to her father was safe, as he would absolutely forget it in the course of the next minute. He was roused now from his visions of the past by a certain pathos in the little face. He put his arm round the child and drew her to him.

"My dear, pretty little girl," he said.

"Am I pretty?" asked Pauline.

He gazed at her out of his short-sighted eyes.

"I think not," he said slowly. "I was imagining you were Verena, or perhaps Briar. Briar is certainly very pretty. No, Pauline, you are not pretty; you are plain. But never mind; you have perhaps got"—he put a finger on each temple—"you have perhaps got something greater."

"It doesn't matter if you are plain or not," said Pauline almost crossly, "when you are awfully worried."

"But what worries you, my child? I would not have one so young subjected to worries. My dear, is it possible that you already are perplexed with the ways of this present life? Truly, I am scarcely surprised. The life we lead in these degenerate days is so poor; the giants have left the earth, and only the pigmies are left. Don't worry about life, child; it isn't worth while."

"I am not," said Pauline bluntly. "I am worrying because——"

"Because of what, dear?"

"Because I am going to be desperately naughty."

Mr. Dale shook his head slowly.

"I wouldn't," he said. "It is very uncomfortable and wrong, and it sullies the conscience. When the conscience gets sullied the nature goes down—imperceptibly, perhaps, but still it goes down. If your worry is an affair of the conscience, take it to Him who alone can understand you."

Pauline looked at her father with awed astonishment.

"You mean God?" she said. "Will He help me?"

"Certainly He will. He is the Great Deliverer, and His strength is as immeasurable as it ever was. He gave power to the martyrs to go through the flames. He will help a little, weak girl if she asks Him. Oh, my dear, it has struck twelve! I have lost a quarter of an hour. Don't keep me another moment."

The scholar and dreamer hurried to the house. Long before he got there he had forgotten Pauline and her childish worries. She was going to be desperately naughty. He certainly no longer remembered those words.

Meanwhile the child stayed behind with her hands clasped.

"I wish he had told me more," she said to herself. "I don't believe God could put this straight."



CHAPTER XV.

THE NET.

On Monday Pauline's troubles began over again. She ought to have been very happy on this special day, for the birthday—the great, important birthday, her very own, when she would reach the completion of her fourteenth year—was near at hand. But although Pauline was perplexed and unhappy, there was nevertheless a birthday feeling in the air. In the first place, there was a great and exciting sense of mystery. The girls were seen darting quickly here and there; in every imaginable corner there were whispered consultations. Aunt Sophia, in particular, never looked at Pauline without smiling. She was kindness itself. It seemed to the poor little girl that her aunt had taken a great fancy to her. This was the case. Miss Tredgold was interested in all her nieces, but even Verena with her daintiness and pretty face, and Briar with her most charming personality, did not attract Miss Tredgold as did the blunt-looking, almost plain child who called herself Pauline.

"She has got character and independence," thought the good lady. "She will be something by-and-by. She will always be able to hold her own in the world. She is the kind of girl who could do much good. It hurt me very much to send her into Punishment Land, but she is all the better for it. Oh, yes, she must taste the rough as well as the smooth if she is to be worth anything. She will be worth a good deal; of that I am convinced."

Miss Tredgold, therefore, had compassion on Pauline's late indisposition, and made lessons as easy as possible for her. Thus Pauline had very little to do, except to think of that mystery which was growing thicker and thicker. In one way it helped her own dilemma. With her sisters walking in twos and threes all over the place, it would not be at all remarkable for her to slip down at the appointed hour to the wicket-gate. Even Penelope would not notice her, so absorbed was she in assisting Adelaide to make a special present for Pauline.

As the day advanced the little girl became terribly nervous. She felt a sense of irritation when one of her sisters looked at her, whispered to her companion, and then turned away. She would almost have preferred Miss Tredgold to be as stern as she was before. Her whole mind was in a state of tumult. She felt the net closing tighter and tighter around her. Even the birthday was scarcely interesting while such a weight rested on her heart. Miss Tredgold had said during the afternoon as they were all sitting together on the lawn:

"This is to be a great birthday. This is the very first birthday I have spent under your roof. You must all remember it as long as you live."

"Oh, can I ever forget it?" thought poor Pauline. "But Aunt Sophy little knows that I shall not remember it for its kindness and its sunshine and its presents; I shall remember it always because I am such a wicked girl."

Now as evening approached she could not help whispering to herself:

"The net is closing—closing round me. It is gathering me up into a heap. My legs and arms are tied. Soon the wicked, dreadful thing will press my head down, and I shall be powerless and lost."

She thought out this metaphor, and it seemed to haunt her footsteps.

"It is right that a girl who told a black lie should be cramped up in it," thought Pauline. "Oh, why hadn't I courage to tell Aunt Sophy the truth? She might have been angry, but in the end she would have forgiven me. I would far rather have no notice whatever taken of my birthday than be as miserable as I am now."

"That child isn't well," said Miss Tredgold to Verena, as Pauline was seen slowly creeping in a subdued sort of way in the direction of the lower shrubbery. "Why is she always stealing off by herself? I have a good mind to call her back and take her for a drive. It is a lovely evening, and a drive would do her good."

"So it would, Aunt Sophy. You know how busy all the rest of us are finishing her presents. I am sure she would love to drive with you, for I think she is getting very fond of you."

"Perhaps, my dear; but I have made up my mind not to have favorites. As long as you are all good I shall love you all.—Pauline—yes, Verena, I shall offer her a drive—Pauline, come here."

Pauline hated to be called back, but she could not do otherwise than obey. She approached lingeringly.

"Yes, Aunt Sophy," she said.

"Would you like to take a drive with me? We might go and find out how soon Peas-blossom and Lavender will be ready to come to their new home."

At another time such a request on the part of Miss Tredgold would have enraptured Pauline; but she knew that it only wanted five minutes to six, and she doubted if Nancy would consent to be kept waiting long.

"No," she answered slowly; "my head aches. Please, I would rather not take a drive."

She did not wait for Miss Tredgold's response, but continued her slow walk.

"The poor child is certainly ill," said the good lady. "If she continues to look as poorly and as sadly out of sorts next week I shall take her to the seaside."

"Will you, Aunt Sophy? How lovely! Do you know that Paulie and I have never been to the sea? We do so long to see it!"

"Well, my dear, I shall take you all presently, but I can't say when. Now, as Pauline does not want to drive with me, I shall go into the house and finish some of my arrangements."

Miss Tredgold went indoors, and Verena joined Briar and Patty, who were in a great state of excitement.

Meanwhile Pauline had reached the wicket-gate. She opened it and went out. Nancy was waiting for her. Nancy's cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. She looked as if she had been quarreling with somebody. Pauline knew that look well. Nancy's two friends Becky and Amy were standing at a little distance. There was a small governess-cart drawn up not far away, and Becky was stroking the nose of a rough little Forest pony.

"Father gave me the cart and pony this morning," said Nancy. "There's nothing he wouldn't do for me. The pony and cart aren't much, perhaps, but still it is fun to have them to fly over the place. Well, and how goes her little high-and-mightiness? Frumpy, I can see. Grumpy, I can guess. Now, is Pauline glad to see poor old Nance—eh?"

"Of course, Nancy; but I have come to say——"

"We'll have no 'buts,' darling, if you please."

"I can't come to the picnic, Nancy; I really cannot."

"How white poor little Dumpy looks! Wants some one to cheer her up, or she'll be dumped and frumped and grumped all in one. Now, darling, I'm going to put my arm round your waist. I am going to feel your little heart go pit-a-pat. You shall lean against me. Isn't that snug? Doesn't dear old Nancy count for something in your life?"

"Of course you do, Nancy. I am fond of you. I have always said so," replied Pauline.

"Then you will yield, darling, to the inevitable."

"I am yielding to it now," replied Pauline. "I am not going with you because I can't."

"And you are going with me because you must," Nancy responded. "For listen, Pauline. Although I am affectionate, I can be—oh, yes—dangerous. And if you don't come, why, I can keep my word. Wednesday is your birthday. I wonder when the crown of the day will come?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why, there always is a crown to a birthday. There is a time, either in the evening or in the morning, when the queen receives the homage of her subjects. She gets her presents, and there are pretty speeches made to her, and she has her dainty feast and her crown of flowers. Yes, that time is the crown of the day, and that is just the moment when the poor little queen shall topple down. The throne shall be knocked from under her; the presents will vanish; the sovereignty will cease to exist. Poor, poor little queen without a kingdom! How will you like it, Paulie? Do you think you could bear it? To have no kingdom and no crown and no presents and no love, and to be bitterly disgraced as well! How will you like it, Paulie?"

"I know that you can do all that you say," answered Pauline. "I know you can be dreadful, and everything is against me. You can ruin me if you like, but I want you not to do it, Nancy."

"And if you don't come with us I want to do it, dear; and I rather think that my will is stronger than yours."

"But if it kills me?"

"It won't do that, Paulie. You will feel bad, and, oh! as though somebody had crushed you; but you won't die. There's only one way out."

Pauline was silent.

"It is quite an easy way," continued Nancy. "It is easy and safe, and there's a deal of fun to be got out of it. You have got to come to the picnic. Once you are there you will enjoy yourself tremendously. I promise to get you home in the morning. You will come, and you will bring two of your sisters with you. Two will be enough. I have yielded that point. You will meet us here, at this very spot, at eleven o'clock on Wednesday night. We are going some distance away, so that no one in the neighborhood of The Dales need hear our singing and our fun and our jollity. We will come back before daybreak and deposit you just outside the wicket-gate. You may think it very unpleasant just now, and very mean and all the rest, but it is the only possible way to save yourself. You must come to the picnic, and bring two of your sisters."

"But suppose they won't come?"

"They will if you manage things properly. It needn't be Verena. I expect Verena, for all she is so soft and fair, is a tough nut to crack; but you can bring Briar and Patty. My father will be quite satisfied if three of you are present. The fact is, he is awfully hurt at the thought of your all thinking yourselves too good for us. He says that the Dales and the Kings were always friends. My father is a dear old man, but he has his cranks, and he has made up his mind that come you must, or he'll make mischief. It won't be only me; it will be my father as well. He will appear at The Dales, and if I go straight to Miss Tredgold, he will go straight to Mr. Dale. Now, what do you think of that? I am determined to have you for reasons of my own, and I shall poke up my father to do no end of mischief if you don't appear. Now don't be a goose. Get up a little dash of courage and a little dash of your old spirit and everything will be as straight as possible."

Pauline stood quite still. Nancy danced in front of her. Nancy's face was almost malicious in its glee. Pauline looked at it as a child will look when despair clutches at her heart.

"I didn't know—I couldn't guess—that you were like that," she said in a sort of whisper.

"Couldn't you, dear little duckledoms? Well, you do know it now; and you know also how to act. Don't you see by the lines round my mouth and the expression in my eyes that I can be hard as hard when I please? I am going to be very hard now. My honor is involved in this. I promised that you would be there. There are presents being bought for you. Come you must; come you shall."

Pauline stood quite silent; then she flung her arms to her sides and faced her tormentor.

"There was a time," she said slowly, "when I loved you, Nancy. But I don't love you now. By-and-by, perhaps, you will be sorry that you have lost my love, for I think—yes, I think it is the sort that doesn't come back. I don't love you to-night because you are cruel, because you have already got me into a scrape, and you want to push me into a yet deeper one. I am not the sort of girl you think me. However grand and stately and like a lady Aunt Sophia is—and compared to you and me, Nancy, she is very stately and very grand and very noble—I would not give you up. Aunt Sophy is a lady with a great brave heart, and her ideas are up-in-the-air ideas, and she doesn't know anything about mean and low and vulgar things. I'd have clung to you, Nancy, and always owned you as my friend, even if Aunt Sophy had taken me into good society. Yes, I'd have stuck to you whatever happened; but now"—Pauline pressed her hand to her heart—"everything is altered. You are cruel, and I don't love you any more. But I am in such trouble, and so completely in despair, that I will come to the picnic; and if I can bring two of the girls, I will. There is nothing more to say. You may expect us at eleven o'clock on Wednesday night."

"But there is more to say," cried Nancy.

She flew at Pauline, and before she could stop her Nancy had lifted the younger girl into her strong arms. She had not only lifted her into her arms, but she was running with her in the direction where Becky and Amy were minding the pony.

"Hurrah! I have won!" she cried. "She yields. Come and kiss her, the little duck.—Pauline, you silly, if you don't love me, I love you; and you will soon find out for yourself what a good time you are going to have, and what a goose you have made of yourself with all this ridiculous fuss. What a grand birthday you are going to have, Paulie! A birthday for a whole twenty-four hours—a whole day and a whole night! Remember, there will be presents, there will be surprises, there will be love, there will be sweetness. Trust us, you will never get into a scrape for this. Now run along home as fast as you can."

Pauline did not run. She closed the wicket-gate and walked soberly to the house. Strange as it may seem, once she had made her decision, the fact that she was to deceive her aunt, and do the thing that of all others would fill Aunt Sophia with horror, did not pain her. The conflict was over; she must rest now until the time came to go. She was a clever child, and she thought out the situation with wonderful clearness. She must go. There was no help for it. The sin must be sinned. After all, perhaps, it was not such a very great sin. Aunt Sophia would be happier if she never knew anything at all about it.

"If I go she will never know," thought the child. "Nancy is clever, and now that I have yielded to her she will not fail me. If I go it will never be discovered, and what has happened before will never be discovered; and Aunt Sophy will never have reason to distrust me, for she will never know. Yes," thought Pauline, "it is the only possible way."

She saw Penelope coming to meet her. The other girls were still busy with their birthday surprises, but Penelope had just deposited her own small and somewhat shabby present in Verena's keeping, and was now, as she expressed it, taking the air. When she saw Pauline she ran to meet her.

"I suppose you are feeling yourself monstrous 'portant, and all that sort of thing," she said.

"No, I am not," said Pauline.

Penelope gave her a quick glance out of her sharp eyes.

"Does you like me to be nursery or schoolroom child?" she asked.

"Oh, I like you to be just what you are, Pen; and I do beg of you not to worry me just now."

"You is most ungrateful. I has been spending my teeny bit of money on you. You will know what I has done on your birthday. You are going to get a most 'licious present, and it will be I who has gived it to you. Sometimes I does wish I was two years older; but Aunt Sophy has got monstrous fond of me, Paulie, and of you, too. I know it. Shall I tell you how I know it?"

"How?" asked Pauline.

"I was standing near her when you said you wouldn't go for a drive, and she gave a big sigh, just as though she was hurted. I was hurted, too, for I thought I might perhaps sit on the little back-seat and hear more'n is good for me. People always say that little girls like me hear more'n is good for them. I love—I love hearing things of that wicked sort. Well, you didn't go, and I couldn't have my nice drive on the little back-seat. But Aunt Sophy did give a pained sigh. She loves you, does Aunt Sophy. She loves me, too."

"Do you love me, Pen?" said Pauline suddenly, for it occurred to her that perhaps Penelope was the child who would have to accompany her to the midnight picnic. She knew enough of Penelope to be sure that she could be bribed. She was not so certain about the others.

"Do you love me, Pen?" she repeated.

"When you speak in that softy, sympathisy voice, I feel that I could just hug you," said Penelope.

"Then would you really help me?"

"Really and really. What am I to do? If you will whisper secrets to me, I will even forget that I am certain you know something most 'portant about that thimble, and I will cling to you like anything. You will be the oak, and I will be the ivy. It will be most lovely to be the close friend of the birthday queen. I do—oh, I do hope you are going to tell me a great secret!"

"Perhaps I am, but I can't tell you now."

"When will you tell me?"

"If I ever tell you, it will be before midday on my birthday. Now run away. Don't whisper a word of this."

"Not me," said Penelope. "I was borned to keep secrets."

She marched away in her usual stalwart fashion.

"I may have to take her with me," thought Pauline again. "If the others won't be bribed, I must fall back on her."

She felt a curious sense of relief, for of course Penelope could be bribed. A shilling would do it. Penelope would go to the end of the earth for a shilling, particularly if it was given to her all in pence. Twelve separate pence would send Penelope off her head.



CHAPTER XVI.

THE CONFERENCE.

It was late on the following evening when Pauline found herself alone with Briar and Patty. Both these little girls had plenty of character; but perhaps Patty had more of that estimable quality than her sister. They were both straightforward by nature, upright and noble, and were already benefiting by the discipline which had at last come into their lives. The glories of the birthday which was so near were already beginning to shed some of their rays over Pauline, and her sisters felt themselves quite honored by her company.

"To think," said Briar, "that you are really only Paulie! I can scarcely bring myself to believe it."

"Why so?" asked Pauline.

"In twelve hours' time—in less—you will be a queen."

"It is rather like the Lord Mayor," said Patty. "It's all very grand, but it lasts for a very short time. Aunt Sophy was telling us to-day about the Lord Mayor and the great, tremendous Show, and I began to think of Pauline and her birthday. I could not help myself. It is a pity that a birthday should only last such a very short time!"

"Yes, that is the worst of it," said Pauline. "But then it comes every year. Perhaps it is all for the best that it should have a quick come and a quick go. Of course, I shall be very happy to-morrow, but I dare say I shall be glad when the next day arrives."

"Not you," said Briar. "I have known what the next day meant, even when we had only shilling birthdays. The others used to cry out, 'Your birthday is the farthest off now.' I used to keep my head covered under the bedclothes rather than hear them say it. Adelaide and Josephine always said it. But don't let's get melancholy over it now," continued Briar in a sympathetic tone. "When you lie down to-night you won't be able to sleep much; but you will sleep like a top to-morrow night. I expect you will wake about every two minutes to-night. Oh, it is exciting the night before a birthday! Even when we had shilling birthdays I used to wake the night before every few minutes. Once I got up at four o'clock in the morning. I went out. I had a cold afterwards, and a bad sore throat, but I never told anybody how I got it. If I was excited about my poor little birthday, what will you be to-morrow?"

"I don't know," said Pauline. "Listen, girls. I am so excited in one sense that I couldn't be any more so. I am so excited that I'm not excited. Can you understand what I mean?"

"No, I'm sure I can't a bit," said Briar.

"And it's quite likely," continued Pauline, "that I shall have no sleep at all the night after my birthday."

"What do you mean now?" asked Briar.

Pauline looked mysterious. The two girls glanced at her. Suddenly Pauline put one arm around Briar's neck and the other arm round Patty's neck.

"You are the nicest of us all—that is, of course, except Verena," she said. "I have always been fonder of you two than of Adelaide or Josephine or Helen or Lucy. As to Pen, well, I don't suppose any of us feel to Pen as we do to the rest. She is so different. Yes, I love you two. I love you just awfully."

"It is sweet of you to say that; and, seeing that you are to have a birthday so soon, it makes us feel sort of distinguished," said Briar.

"How old are you, Briar?"

"I'll be thirteen next May. That's a long time off. I do wish my birthday had waited until Aunt Sophy came on the scene."

"And my birthday comes in the winter," said Patty—"near Christmas; but I dare say Aunt Sophy will give us a good time then, too."

"I do like her awfully," said Pauline. "Now, girls, I want to ask you a question. I know you won't tell, for you are not the sort to tell."

"Of course we won't tell, Paulie."

"And you love me, don't you?"

"Yes," echoed both little girls.

"This is my question. If I do something that is not just exactly absolutely right, will you still love me?"

"Why, of course. We're not so wonderfully good ourselves," said Briar.

"I know what you are thinking of," said Patty. "You are thinking of Punishment Day. But we have forgotten all about that."

"I was thinking of Punishment Day. And now I want to say something. I want to make the most tremendous confidence. I want to tell you the most tremendous secret."

"Oh!" echoed both.

"Light that candle, Briar," said Pauline.

Briar crossed the room, struck a match, lit the candle, and then turned to see what her darling Paulie wished further.

"Bring it right over here," said Pauline. "Put it on this table."

Briar did so.

"Kneel down, Briar, so that the light from the candle falls full on your face."

Briar knelt. Her eyes were beaming with happiness.

"Look at me," said Pauline.

Briar raised two honest and pretty brown eyes to her sister's face.

"I think," said Pauline slowly, "that you are the sort of girl to make a promise—a solemn, awfully solemn promise—and stick to it."

"Yes; you are right. I am made that way," said Briar proudly.

"I see you are. Patty, will you kneel so that the candle may shine on your face?"

Patty hurried to obey.

"I am made like that, too," she said. "I always was like that. When I said I wouldn't tell, you might pinch me black and blue, but it didn't change me. Pen has tried to run pins into me sometimes to make me tell. Pen is the only one who would tell when she promised not."

"I think so," said Pauline decidedly. "Pen would not do at all. Girls, I shall come to you to-morrow evening. To-morrow evening, very late, I will come to you here. Perhaps you will have gone to bed, but that won't matter. I will come to you whether you are in bed or whether you are up; and I will claim your promise. You will do what I ask, and you will never, never, never tell. You must help me. You will—oh, you will!"

"Of course," said Briar. "Darling Paulie, don't cry. Oh, how the pet is trembling! Patty, she's trembling like anything. Do kiss her and hug her, and tell her there's nothing we wouldn't do for her."

"There's nothing in all the world we wouldn't do for you," said Patty.

They both kissed her so often and with such deep affection that she found herself leaning on their innocent strength. She would not tell them yet; she would tell them just before the time to-morrow evening. Of course they would go with her. Pen would never do. It would be madness to confide in Pen.

Notwithstanding her excitement Pauline did sleep soundly that night before her birthday. No sooner had her head touched the pillow than sweet unconsciousness visited her. She slept without dreaming, and was at last awakened by the shouts of her sisters.

"Paulie, get up. It's your birthday. Oh, do dress yourself fast! There's such a lot of fun going on! We are to have a whole holiday, and Aunt Sophy is so delightful. And what do you think? She has dragged father out of his study, and he is standing in the very middle of the lawn. He has a huge, untidy-looking parcel in his hands, and he looks as if he didn't in the least know what to do with it. He is trying each moment to escape back into the house, but Aunt Sophy won't let him. She says he must not stir until you come down. Poor father does look in misery. Be quick and dress and come downstairs."

At this moment there was a shout from below, and the three girls who had summoned Pauline from the land of dreams rushed off, dashing through the house with whoops of triumph.

Pauline rose and dressed quickly. She put on the pretty pale lavender print frock that Aunt Sophia had decided she was to wear, and went downstairs. When she joined the others Mr. Dale greeted her with one of his slow, sweet smiles.

"How are you, darling?" he said. "I have a sort of idea that I am kept standing here on this lawn, exposed to the heat of a very powerful sun, on your account."

"Of course it is on Pauline's account, Henry," said Miss Sophia. "It is her birthday. Kiss me, Pauline, dear. Many happy returns of the day. Henry, give your daughter her present. She is fourteen to-day."

"Fourteen! Ah!" said Mr. Dale, "a charming age. The ancients considered a woman grown-up at fourteen."

"But no one is so silly in these days," said Miss Tredgold. "We know that a girl is never more childish than at fourteen. Henry, open that parcel and give Pauline what it contains."

Mr. Dale dropped the brown-paper parcel at his feet. He looked at it in bewilderment.

"It is heavy," he said. "I haven't the least idea what is in it."

"It is your present to your daughter."

"Ah!" said Mr. Dale, "I forgot; and I packed it myself last night. My child, I wonder if you are worthy of it."

"I don't suppose I am, father," said Pauline.

"For goodness' sake open it, Henry, and don't torture the child's feelings."

"I put it in an old bandbox," said Mr. Dale. "I couldn't find anything else. Pauline, in giving you what I am about to give you, I show a high appreciation of your character. I remember now what my present is. I had an awful night in consequence of it. I felt as though one of my limbs was being severed from my body. Nevertheless, my dear, I don't retract nor go back, for that is not my way. I give you this most noble gift with a distinct object. I have lately been examining all your foreheads. Although I have appeared to take little notice of you, I have watched you as day by day I have enjoyed the excellent food provided by your most worthy aunt. While my body was feeding, my mind was occupying itself, and I have at last come to the decision that you, my child, are the only one of my young people who has been blessed with a classical brow. As yet you have not even begun to learn the language of the ancients; but now that you have reached the mature age of fourteen, I shall be pleased to instruct you myself for one hour daily, in both that Latin and Greek which delighted our forefathers."

"But the Romans and Greeks were not our forefathers," said Miss Tredgold.

She snapped out the words quite angrily, and the look on her aunt's face caused Pauline to go closer to her father and take one of his long white hands and hold it close to her heart.

"It doesn't matter whether we are descended from them or not, does it, Padre?" she said.

"All that is noble in thought, all that is original, all that partakes of inspiration, has come down to us from the classics," said Mr. Dale. "But take your gift, Pauline. Now, my dear children, I beseech of you, don't keep me any longer from my important work."

He was striding towards the house, when Verena got in front of him, Briar stood at his left hand, Patty at his right, and Adelaide, Josephine, Lucy, Helen, and Penelope came up in the rear.

"You don't stir," they cried, "until Paulie opens her parcel."

So Pauline knelt down on the grass, untied the clumsy cord, and removed the brown paper. She then lifted the lid from a broken-down bandbox and revealed a musty, fusty tome bound in old calf.

"It is my precious annotated edition of Cicero," said Mr. Dale. "I have written your name in it—'Pauline Dale, from her affectionate father.' It is yours now, and it will be yours in the future. If you like to leave it on the shelf in my study, I shall not object, but it is yours to do what you like with."

He sighed profoundly, and turned away with his lip trembling.

"Good gracious!" Miss Tredgold was heard to exclaim. Then she spoke to Adelaide.

"Run into the house and bring out a cup of coffee. The precious man gets queerer each moment. What a present to give the child!"

Pauline raised the big book and clasped it against her neat lilac frock.

"Thank you, father," she said. "I will learn to read it. Thank you very much."

"And you don't object to its occupying its old place on my shelf?"

"No. Shall I run and put it there now?"

"Do. You are really a wise child. Sophia, as I have given Pauline her present, I presume I need not stay out any longer wasting my precious time and running the risk of sunstroke."

Miss Tredgold nodded and laughed. Adelaide appeared with the coffee. Mr. Dale drank it off at a single draught. Pauline ran into the house with the treasure which was hers and yet not hers. For surely never during his lifetime would Mr. Dale allow that special edition of Cicero out of his study. She put it gravely and quietly into its accustomed place, kissed her father, told him she appreciated his present beyond words, and then went back to her sisters and aunt, who were waiting for her.

What a day it was! What a wonderful, magnificent day! The weather was perfect; the air was sweet; the garden was full of perfume. And then the presents. Every imaginable thing that a little girl could want was poured at the feet of the birthday queen. The story-books she had longed for; the little writing-desk she had always coveted but never possessed; the workbox with its reels of colored silks, its matchless pair of scissors, its silver thimble, its odds and ends of every sort and description; the tennis-bat; the hockey-club; the new saddle that would exactly fit Peas-blossom: all these things and many more were given to Pauline. But besides the richer and more handsome presents, there were the sort of pretty things that only love could devise—that charming little pin-cushion for her dressing-table; that pen-wiper; that bag for her brush and comb; that case for her night-dress. Some of the gifts were clumsy, but all were prompted by love. Love had begun them, and gone on with them, and finished them, and Pauline laughed and had brighter eyes and more flushed cheeks each moment as the day progressed.