"I could say a very ugly word about Homer," said Miss Tredgold. "Sometimes I wish that I were a man in order that I might swear hard at you, Henry Dale. As I am a woman I must refrain. Do you know that your daughter Pauline, your daughter Briar, your daughter Patty, and your extraordinary daughter Penelope are all of them about as naughty children as they can be. Indeed, in the case of Pauline I consider her worse than naughty. What she has done I don't know, and I don't know what the others have done; but there is a weight on their minds, and those four girls must be got to confess. And you must be present, and you must speak as a father to them. Now do you understand?"

"I am to be in the schoolroom to-morrow," said Mr. Dale, "and four of my girls are turning wicked, and I am not to know what they have done. I will be in the schoolroom at nine o'clock to-morrow, Sophia. May I thank you to hand me back my blotting-pad, my pen and bottle of ink, and my beloved Homer? Take care of the volume. Take it tenderly. Put both hands under the binding. Ah! that is so. You will have the goodness to leave me now, Sophia. To-morrow morning at nine o'clock precisely."

Miss Tredgold went out of the room.

"How my poor dear sister ever brought herself to marry that man," she whispered under her breath, "I know not. But he is capable of being roused, and I rather fancy I shall manage to rouse him to-morrow."



CHAPTER XXVII.

PAULINE IN DISTRESS.

When Pauline went up to her room late that evening she gave Verena a very cold good-night. Her little fire was still burning, for nurse had taken care of it. Verena heard her lock the door. Had she not done so her sister would have gone to her, and begged and prayed, as such a sweet girl might, for the confidence of Pauline. Verena had to get into bed feeling lonely and unhappy. Just as she was doing so she heard a firm step walking down the corridor. A hand turned the handle of Pauline's door, and Verena heard Pen's voice say:

"It's me, Paulie. It's me. Let me in, Paulie."

Verena instantly opened her own door.

"Go away, Pen," she said. "Go straight back to your bed. You are not to go near Pauline to-night."

"Yes, but I want her," said Pauline, opening the door and putting out her head.

"Very well," said Verena. "You shall see her with me. I will ring the bell and ask nurse to fetch Aunt Sophy."

Pauline gave a shrill laugh.

"It isn't worth all that fuss. Go to bed, Pen. We shall have plenty of time for our chat to-morrow morning."

Penelope looked disgusted. Verena stood in the passage until her stout little figure had disappeared. She then turned, hoping that Pauline would speak to her; but Pauline had gone into her room and locked the door.

Now, Pauline Dale was at this time going through a curious phase. She was scarcely to be blamed for her conduct, for what she had lately lived through had produced a sort of numbness of her faculties, which time seemed to have no intention of restoring to her. To look at her face now no one would suppose her to be in the ordinary sense of the word an invalid; for she was rosy, her eyes were bright, her appetite was good, and she had plenty of strength. Nevertheless there was a certain part of her being which was numb and cold and half-dead. She was not frightened about anything; but she knew that she had behaved as no right-minded or honorable girl should have done. Verena's words that afternoon had roused her, and had given her a slight degree of pain. She lay down on her bed without undressing. She left the blind up so that the moon could shine through her small window, and she kept repeating to herself at intervals through the night the words that had haunted her when she was at Easterhaze: "Wash and be clean." It seemed to Pauline that the sea was drawing her. The insistent voice of the sea was becoming absolutely unpleasant. It echoed and echoed in her tired brain: "Wash—wash and be clean." After her accident she had hated the sea while she was there, but now she wanted to get back to it. She dreaded it and yet she was hungry for it.

As she lay with her eyes wide open it seemed to her that she was looking at the sea. It seemed to her, too, that she really did hear the murmur of the waves. The waves came close, and each wave as it pressed nearer and nearer to the excited child repeated the old cry: "Wash and be clean."

"Oh, if only I could get to the sea!" was her thought. She pressed her hand to that part of her forehead which felt numb and strange. All of a sudden the numbness and strangeness seemed to depart. She saw one vivid picture after another, and each picture revealed to her the sin which she had sinned and the wrong she had committed. At last she saw that fearful picture when she stood with her little sister in the White Bay, and the waves had so nearly drowned them. She sat up in bed. The idea of going straight to Aunt Sophia and of telling her everything did not occur to her. She wanted to get back to the sea. How could she manage this? She was not in the least afraid of Aunt Sophy; she was only afraid of the God whom she had offended. She got up, pushed back her black hair, tied it neatly behind her ears, and taking her little sailor-hat and her dark-blue serge jacket, she put them on. She would go back to the sea. She did not know exactly how she could manage it, but somehow she would. When she was dressed she opened a drawer. She must have money. Aunt Sophia was liberal in the matter of pocket-money, but Pauline was careless and spent hers as she got it. All she possessed now was a shilling. She put the shilling into her pocket. Turning round, she saw the flash of the gold thimble as it rested on the mantelpiece. She slipped that also into her pocket. She then opened the window, and, as she had done on a previous night long ago, she got out and let herself down to the ground. She was now out all alone about midnight. Once again the numb feeling had come back to her; nevertheless her mind was made up. She would at any cost get back to the sea.

She walked across the grass. By-and-by she found herself at the wicket-gate. When she reached the gate she had a sudden overwhelming memory of Nancy King. During the last few weeks she had forgotten Nancy. Now she thought of her. Standing with one hand on the post of the wicket-gate, she reflected on an idea which presented itself to her. If she, Pauline, was wicked—if she had been a naughty girl from the first—surely Nancy was worse! If it was necessary for Pauline to wash and be clean, it was still more necessary for Nancy. Together they could visit the seaside; together lave themselves in the waves; together reach that beautiful state where sin did not trouble.

Pauline smiled to herself. She walked through the Forest in the dead of night, and presently reached Nancy's home. Now, it would have been a very bad thing for Pauline, as it had very nearly been a bad thing for Penelope some weeks ago, had Lurcher been out. But Lurcher was ill, and had been sent to a neighboring vet.'s. And it also happened—just, as it were, in the nick of time—that Farmer King was returning very late from visiting a neighboring fair. He had been kept by a friend until past midnight, and had driven home through the woods. As Pauline got to the gate the farmer drew up his mare within a few feet of the tired girl. He saw a girl standing by the gate, and could not make out who she was or what she was doing. He said gruffly:

"You get out of this. What are you doing here at this time of night?"

Then Pauline raised a white face. He recognized the face, gave a smothered, hasty exclamation, sprang to the ground, flung the reins over the neck of the mare, and came towards the girl.

"Miss Pauline," he said, "what in the name of all that is wonderful are you doing here at this hour?"

Pauline looked full up at him.

"You said you would help me. You said you would if ever the time came. I want to be helped—oh, so badly!—and I have come."

"Because I said that?" exclaimed the farmer, his face flushing all over with intense gratification. "Then you be certain of one thing, my dear—sure and positive certain—that when Farmer King says a thing he will do it. You come straight in with me, missy—straight in with me this blessed minute."

Pauline gave him her hand. It was quite wonderful how he soothed her, how her fear seemed to drop away from her, how contented and almost happy she felt.

"You are very strong, aren't you?" she said. "You are very, very strong?"

"I should about think I am. I can lift a weight with any man in England, cut up a sheep with any man in existence, run a race with any farmer of my age. Strong! Yes, you are right there, missy; I am strong—strong as they're made."

"Then you are what I want. You will help me."

The farmer opened the hall door with his latch-key. Nancy had been in bed for an hour or more. The farmer unlocked the door which led into the kitchen.

"The parlor will be cold," he said, "and the drawing-room will be sort of musty. We don't use the drawing-room every night. But the kitchen—that will be all right. You come right into the kitchen, Miss Pauline, and then you'll tell me."

He took her into the kitchen, lit a big lamp which hung over the fireplace, and poked the ashes in the big stove.

"You do look white and trembly all over. Shall I call Nancy to see you, miss?"

"Please, please do."

Farmer King went noisily upstairs.

"Nancy!" he called to his daughter. "I say, Nancy!"

Nancy was in her first sleep. She opened her eyes at the sound of the farmer's voice, and said in a sleepy tone:

"Well, what now, dad? I wish you wouldn't call me just because you come in late."

"You get up, my girl. There's trouble downstairs. Missy has come."

"Missy? Miss Pen?"

"No, not Miss Pen; the other one—the one we love, both of us—the one who was our queen—Miss Pauline. She's downstairs, and she's shocking bad. She has come to me to help her."

"Why, of course she's bad, father," said Nancy. "Don't you know all that happened? Pauline was nearly drowned at Easterhaze, and they say she hasn't been quite, so to say, right in her head ever since. I have been nearly mad about it."

"Sane, you mean, to my way of thinking," exclaimed the farmer; "for you never said a word to me about it, eating your meals as hearty and contented as you please, buying your winter finery, and talking about going to London for Christmas. Give me a friend who will think of me when I am in trouble. But the lass knows what's what, and it isn't to you she has come; it's to me. She wants me to help her because I made her a promise, forsooth! But you come right down, for she will want a bit of cuddling from a girl like yourself. Come right down this minute and see her, for she badly wants some one to do something for her."

Now, Nancy was really fond of Pauline, notwithstanding her father's words, and she got up willingly enough and ran downstairs to the kitchen; and when she saw her little friend sitting by the fire, looking very white, her head dropped forward, and her big black eyes fixed with an almost vacant expression straight before her, a great lot of Nancy's heart did go out to the sad and unhappy girl. She rushed to her side, threw her arms round her, and hugged her over and over again.

"Come," said the farmer, "it's a bit of something to eat she wants; then to go upstairs and share your bed with you, Nance. And in the morning, why, I am at her service."

"Yes, that's what you do want, isn't it, Paulie?" said Nancy.

Pauline nodded. She felt almost incapable of speaking. So the farmer brought her food, and made her eat and drink. And then she went upstairs with Nancy, and Nancy made her he down by her side, and when they were both together in the dark, in the warm bed in the pretty room, Pauline flung her arms round Nancy and began to cry. It was really quite a long time since Pauline had cried. At first her tears came slowly and with great difficulty; but in a little they rained from her eyes more and more easily, until at last they came in torrents, and her tears hurt her and shook her little frame, and came faster, and yet faster, until from sheer exhaustion she dropped asleep. But when Pauline woke from that sleep it seemed to her that the numb part had greatly left her brain and that she could think clearly. Only, still she had no wish to go back to The Dales. She only wanted to wash and be clean.

"You are the queerest girl that ever lived," said Nancy. "You come right downstairs and have breakfast. Of course, they are sure to look for you and try to find you, but you must come straight downstairs now and hear what father has got to say."

Pauline got up willingly enough and went downstairs. There was a groaning breakfast on the board. On most occasions the farmers' servants ate below the salt, but now only the farmer and his daughter Nancy were present.

"Here's cake worth eating," said the farmer, "and new-laid eggs worth taking; and here's honey the like of which is not to be found anywhere else, even in the New Forest. And here's chicken rissoles, and here's cooked ham. Now, missy, fall to—fall to."

Pauline ate very little, and then she turned to the farmer.

"And now you want me to help you?" he said.

"I want you to take me to the seaside. I want Nancy to come, too. I want to go where the waves are high, and where I can wash and be clean."

"My word!" said the farmer, "what does the little lass say?"

"I don't want to go home. I can't go home. If I am alone with you and with Nancy I might get better. Don't let me go home."

"My lass, my lass, you have applied to Farmer King in your trouble, and Farmer King won't desert you. I have not the most remote notion what trouble it can be that worrits a poor little lass, but, such as it is, Farmer King will be your friend. There is no doubt, my dear, that when they miss you at The Dales they will come to look for you here, and what am I to do?"

"Hide me! Oh, hide me! I can't go home."

"What a lark!" cried Nancy. "We could, couldn't we, father?"

"And we won't," said the farmer, bringing his hand down with a great bang on the table. "What we do we'll do above-board. We did wrong that time in the summer when we took miss to that picnic and got her into trouble. Now we're bound to see her out of her trouble. It has to do with that night partly, hasn't it, missy?"

"I have never been happy since," said Pauline.

"Well, then, my dear, I said I would help you out if the time came, and I will. You shall stay here—I vow it—and I am just going to get on my horse Caesar, and I shall ride over to The Dales this blessed minute. You leave it to me. You leave it all to me, my dear."



CHAPTER XXVIII.

FARMER KING.

Since Pauline's illness she had very often not been down in time for breakfast. The fact, therefore, that she did not appear on this special morning caused no excitement in the mind of any one. Miss Tredgold was so much absorbed in the task which lay before her that she scarcely noticed the little girl's absence; nurse would see to her, would take her a proper meal, would do all that was necessary. Very often nurse did not disturb Pauline until long after the others had breakfasted, for the doctor had said that she ought never to be wakened when asleep, and that she ought to have as much rest and sleep as possible. So breakfast came to an end. There was a weight in the air. Now, it happened that the day was a specially fine one, for the skies, after crying so many tears, had cleared up, the sun had come out, and the few flowers that were left held up their heads gayly and tried to forget the storm through which they had lived and the winter days which were before them.

Mr. Dale had, of course, forgotten what he had promised his sister-in-law to do on the previous night. But Miss Tredgold had not the slightest idea of letting him off.

"Come, Henry," she said; "we will go into the schoolroom to prayers."

Accordingly they went, and Mr. Dale read prayers in his somewhat sleepy tones. The children, with the exception of Pauline, were all present. At last family worship was finished and the servants were allowed to leave the room. As nurse was going she looked at Verena.

"Miss Pauline is sleeping longer than usual," she said. "She asked me a few days ago never to waken her, and said she would ring her bell when she wanted breakfast or hot water. I had better find out if she is awake."

"Yes, do, nurse," said Miss Tredgold briskly; "and ask her to be quick and come downstairs. I want all the children except little Marjorie to be present."

"Oh, my dear Sophia!" said Mr. Dale at that moment, "you cannot expect me to wait here with all my morning's work neglected while one of the girls chooses to dress herself."

"Here's a very interesting paper on Plato," said Miss Tredgold suddenly, and as she spoke she handed Mr. Dale the last number of the Spectator. "I thought you might like to see it."

"Eh? What?" he cried. "An article on Plato. By whom?"

"By the great classical scholar, Professor Mahaffy," replied Miss Tredgold calmly.

Mr. Dale was in an intense state of excitement.

"When did this come?"

"On Saturday morning."

"But this is Wednesday. How is it I did not see it before?"

"To tell you the truth, Henry, I read it and kept it back on purpose. I want to keep your attention until all the family are assembled. Here is your chair, here are your spectacles, and here is the paper."

Mr. Dale took the paper, muttering to himself:

"Mahaffy—Mahaffy; one of the greatest scholars of the time;" and then he was lost to external things.

Yes, Mr. Dale of The Dales, the head of an ancient house, the father of a large family, forgot everything on earth except a certain disputed passage in which he and Professor Mahaffy diametrically disagreed. He continued to forget everything else, even when nurse rushed into the room.

"Why, she has gone!" cried the good woman. "She ain't in her bed; and what's more, she's been out of it for hours, and the window is open. Oh, whatever has come to the child? Where in the world is she?"

Miss Tredgold looked terribly startled. Verena's face turned like a sheet. Briar and Patty clasped each other's hands. Pen said to herself:

"This is the time for a good sort of child like me to do something."

Then a clatter of horse's hoofs was heard on the gravel outside, and a stoutly built, rubicund man, on a very large horse, drew rein at the front door.

"It's Farmer King!" cried Verena.

"Yes, it's Farmer King," said Pen.

"Penelope, be quiet," said her aunt.

The next moment the door was opened, and the parlor-maid said that Farmer King had come and was anxious to see Mr. Dale and Miss Tredgold.

"Show him in here," said Miss Tredgold. "Henry, have the goodness to give me that paper."

"But I—— My dear Sophia, I have not finished reading it. I don't agree a bit with Mahaffy—not a bit. He takes the text in its literal meaning. He ought to read it with the context. Now, there is not the slightest manner of doubt that Plato meant——"

"Henry! Are you mad? Give me that paper."

It is to be regretted that Miss Tredgold snatched the Spectator from Mr. Dale's unwilling hand.

"Now, Henry, wake up," she said. "Pauline is lost, and Farmer King has come to speak to us both on a matter of importance."

Just then Farmer King came into the room. Now, the Kings may have been the humble retainers of the Dales for generations, but there was not the slightest doubt that Farmer King made a far more imposing appearance at that moment than did Mr. Dale of The Dales; for Mr. Dale stood up, thin, bewildered, shivering, his mind in the past, his eyes consumed by a sort of inward fire, but with no intelligence as far as present things were concerned; and Farmer King was intensely wide awake, and, so to speak, all there.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Dale," he said. "And I beg your pardon, miss. I presume I am speaking to Miss Tredgold?"

"You are, Mr. King," said that lady.

"Good-day to you all, misses," said the farmer.

He looked round at the somewhat frightened little group of sisters in the background.

"I have come to say something," said the farmer. "It is something about Miss Pauline. It is something about myself and Nancy, and it has to do with you, sir"—here he bowed low to Mr. Dale—"and with you, madam"—his bow was not quite so reverential when he turned to the lady.

"What is it? Please speak," said Miss Tredgold. "We are very anxious about Pauline. Our nurse has just told us that she is not in her bedroom. Do you know where she is?"

"Well, madam, about half an hour ago I left Miss Pauline seated in my warm kitchen, in the company of my good daughter, Nancy, and eating as good a breakfast as I could provide for her. She did not eat much, madam, but it is there for her acceptance. The young lady is heartily welcome. She prefers us to you for the time being. She did not want you to know anything about it, but that ain't quite my way, so I came to explain."

"Please, please, Aunt Sophy, don't be too angry," here came from Verena's lips.

"Silence, Verena!" said her father.

Surely there was quite a new note in his voice! He rose; his languor left him; he came up to Farmer King and held out his hand.

"Why, good old friend," he said, "it seems ages since we met. Do you remember that day when we were boys together and went in search of robins' eggs?"

"Don't I?" said the farmer.

He gave an embarrassed laugh, which ended in a sort of roar.

"And haven't I the eggs safe still?" he said. "I have parted with many things, but not with the eggs the young squire and I took together."

"It is ages since we met," said Mr. Dale. "You are looking very well, Robert—admirably well. I am pleased to see you. Sit down, won't you? Pray sit down."

"That man is enough to turn the brain of any one," was Miss Tredgold's private ejaculation. Aloud she said:

"I presume, Farmer King, that you have not come here without a story to tell."

"That is just it, madam. And now, if I may speak, I will tell you my story."

"We are all prepared to listen," said Miss Tredgold.

"Yes, Robert, and with attention—with attention and interest," said Mr. Dale. "Why, upon my word, this is almost as good as a fresh rendering of the immortal Plato. Sit down, farmer, sit down."

The farmer did not sit down.

"It's no use mincing matters," he said, "nor walking round the bush. It is just this. If there is a family on this earth that I have been proud to have to do with, it is that of the Dales. If there were children that I loved next to my own, it was the Dales. Why, I was brought up, so to speak, to look on them as my liege lords. My mother had the old feudal principles in her, and she never went with the times. She never held that we were as good as our betters. We were good enough, straight enough, honest enough, but we hadn't the blue blood of the Dales in us. That is how I was brought up. Well, you, sir, were married, and came to live here with your good lady. It was the will of the Almighty that she should be taken, and the children were left motherless; and my little Nancy and I, we used to watch to do them a kindness. They were right pleased to come over and see us, and to ride barebacked on my two Forest ponies, and have their fun whenever they could get as far away as The Hollies. And Nancy was free to come to your house, and much she enjoyed it."

"Well, Robert, very natural—very natural indeed," said Mr. Dale.

"So I took it; so I took it."

Here the farmer flashed an angry eye in the direction of Miss Tredgold.

"But never mind," he continued. "I did not presume—far from that—far indeed from that. It pleased the Almighty to give you ten daughters, Mr. Dale, and to give me but one. And I love my one as much, perhaps, as you love the whole of your ten. But be that as it may, when Nancy went to The Dales to have her fun and her larks and her gay time, I was as pleased as Punch. And then this good lady came, and she said to herself, 'Who is Nancy King?' and the young ladies told her the plain truth; and then this good lady did not take the trouble to inquire. A farmer's daughter was only a farmer's daughter to her. Oh, I am not blaming her; but a little thought, a little less prejudice, would have prevented a lot of mischief. Anyhow, the good aunt gave the word—my girl and the young ladies were to have nothing to do with each other in the future. Mark you that, sir, when they were brought up, so to speak, together—always tumbling about in the same hay-field, and riding the same ponies, and playing the same games. It was all to end because of madam. Now, Mr. Dale, I was real mad when Nancy came and told me what had happened. My feelings were hot and strong and bitter, and I thought the treatment dealt out to my child and me none too just. So, sir, when Nancy asked me to help her, I helped with a will. When Miss Pauline came over to see us—which she did unknown to her aunt—I gave her the best of welcomes, and we started our midnight picnic for no other reason in life but to have her with us."

"When did you have your midnight picnic?" asked Miss Tredgold very gently. "When? Kindly give me the date."

The farmer looked into her face. When he saw how white she was, and when he glanced at the two little girls, Briar and Patty, his heart smote him.

"I was given over to evil feelings at that time," he said, "and I don't pretend for a moment I did right. Miss Pauline didn't want to be coaxed, but Nancy was a rare temptress. We did our best, and the children came—three of them. You want to know the date, madam. It was the date of Miss Pauline's birthday—the night after her birthday. Oh, yes, madam, we had our wild time—a right good time, too." The farmer gave a short laugh. "You thought your young ladies quite out of the reach of the influence of Farmer King and his family; but you never guessed, madam, that all through one long beautiful summer night we had revels in the woods—dancing, madam; and a picnic, no less; and the young miss crowned with flowers as queen, and given the best presents we could give her. We took a drive under the oaks and elms and beeches of the New Forest, and you never guessed, madam—never. But Miss Pauline, Miss Briar, and Miss Patty were there, and Miss Pauline was our queen. Ah! she had a gay birthday, but you ask her what sort of a birthnight she had. It is true she was queen of the day, but that was nothing to the time when she was queen of the night. Well, sir"—the farmer's eyes shone as he spoke—— "I meant it as a big joke, and I was desperately proud of myself; but I saw even then that Miss Pauline was fretting, and I spoke to her quite seriously, and I said, 'If ever the time comes when you want a friend, I am the man for your purpose. Don't you forget that; because you are a Dale and I am a King, and you Dales have always been our liege lords, so don't you forget that.' And the child, sir, she believed me. Lots of things happened afterwards, but of them I have nothing to say until last night. Miss Pauline came back to me, and she reminded me of what I had said to her that night in the woods. And, sir—and, madam—I mean to keep my promise. I came home at midnight, and there she was standing at the gate, white and slim and pretty as though she was a moonbeam. And she said, 'You promised to help me when I was in trouble, and I have come to you to get you to keep your promise.' Now, sir and madam, I have come here about that. The young lady wants to be helped. She has got a shock, and wants a bit of humoring. She says some words which have no meaning to me, but they mean something to her, and she must be humored. 'I want to wash and be clean,' she keeps saying; and she wants Nancy and me to take her away to the seaside where the waves are big and strong, and she insists on it that she will only go with Nancy and me. So, Miss Tredgold and Mr. Dale, I have come here to-day to say that we mean to take her."

"Can I see her?" asked Miss Tredgold. "I have nothing to say. Perhaps I did wrong that time. We all make mistakes sometimes. I ought to have known you better, Mr. King. But that time is over. The important thing now is to restore the balance of Pauline's mind. Can I see her?"

"You can, madam, when the right time comes; but that is not to-day, and it won't be to-morrow. This is my business now, madam, and you must leave it to me."



CHAPTER XXIX.

THE CLEANSING WATERS.

That very day Farmer King went away with his daughter and Pauline. They went to a small village called Rosestairs, not many miles from Easterhaze. The farmer was immensely proud and pleased at having the care of Pauline, and he was determined that if man could restore her to health, he would be that individual. Rosestairs was a very pretty little place, and quite sheltered. The Kings took lodgings in a tiny cottage, where they lived as plainly as people could. Here Pauline rested and took long walks, and, as she expressed it afterwards, found herself again. But although day by day the weight in her head grew less, the haunting words still clung to her: "Wash and be clean." One night they entered into her dreams, and she awoke quite early with the words hovering on her lips: "Wash, Pauline; wash and be clean." Nancy was sleeping peacefully by her side. Pauline raised her head. She felt well—absolutely well—but for those haunting words. She stole out of bed and went and stood by the window.

The sea was only a few yards off, and the waves were coming in fresh and lovely and sparkling. "Come, wash," they seemed to say, and each soft thud of a wave on the shore seemed to repeat the words.

"I will—I will; I must," thought the young girl.

She opened her trunk very softly, took out her bathing-dress, put it on, and ran down to the beach. There was no one about. In a moment she had entered the waves. She breasted them as far as her waist; she ducked and covered herself with the invigorating salt water. And as the sparkling salt water rolled over her, it seemed to her fancy that a load rolled off her mind. She felt light of heart and gay. She felt cheerful and happy. A few minutes later she was back in the cottage. Nancy turned in her sleep, started, opened her sleepy eyes, and looked at the dripping figure standing in the middle of the room.

"Why, Paulie," she cried, "what are you doing? Oh, you are dripping wet; your hair and all. What have you been at?"

"I am wet because I have washed. I have washed and I am clean. Oh, Nancy, Nancy! it is as right as possible. The terrible, haunting words have gone, and the longing for the sea has gone. I know that I am forgiven. Nancy, do you hear? I am washed, and I am clean. Oh! I know at last what it means."

"For goodness' sake take off those wet things and get back into bed and let me warm you up. You will catch your death."

"My death!" cried Pauline, "when I am so happy I scarcely know how to contain myself."

Nancy sprang out of bed, dragged Pauline towards her, and helped her to pull off her wet things. Then she wrapped her up in her warm night-dress, made her cuddle down in bed, and kissed her and hugged her.

"Oh, dear!" she said, "you are the queerest girl; but your face looks as it did long ago."

"I feel as I did long ago—or, rather, I feel different. I was a child then and did not understand much. Now, it seems to me, I understand a great deal—yes, a great deal. Oh! and there is your father in the garden. I must dress; I must go to him."

So Pauline jumped out of bed, got quickly into her clothes, and ran out to join the farmer.

"Mr. King," she cried, "I am quite well again."

"It looks like it, little missy," said the farmer.

"I am," repeated Pauline. "I am as perfectly well as a girl can be. You know how often I told you I wanted to wash and be clean. I had my wash this morning, and it was really what I did want, for that dull feeling has left my head. I know just everything, and how I behaved, and all the rest, and I am prepared to take the bitter as well as the sweet. It is very, very sweet living here with you and Nancy, and whatever happens, you will be my friends as long as I live. And it is very bitter to think that I must tell Aunt Sophia and Verena and the rest of them the whole truth; but, bitter or not, I am going to do it, and I am going back to them, for it is right. I want to go back to them this very day. May I?"

"Yes, my lass; I understand you," said the farmer gravely.

* * * * *

It was a lovely day for the time of year; although it was November, the sun shone brilliantly. Miss Tredgold stood on the lawn in front of the house and talked to Verena, who stood by her side.

"I understand all of you now, Verena," she said, "except Pauline. I never did understand her, and I sometimes think I never shall, poor child!"

"Oh, yes, you will," said Verena. "When Paulie comes back she will be as you never knew her—as she used to be, her sweetest and best. In some ways she is stronger and better and braver than any of us. I think she ought to make a splendid woman some day, for she has so much character and so much determination."

"I think I have done the rest of you good by coming here; but if I have done Pauline harm, I sometimes wonder if I can ever be happy again," said the poor lady.

"You have not done her harm. Only wait until she comes back. She is just getting the right treatment now. She felt everything so terribly that her mind was quite numb and incapable of conducting her right for a time; but wait until she returns."

"Day after day I long and hope for her return," said Miss Tredgold, "but day after day there is a fresh excuse."

"And yet you say you want her to return," said Verena. "Oh, aunty, aunty! who is this coming up the path? Here she is—Paulie herself; and Nancy is following her, and there is Farmer King. They have entered by the wicket-gate and are coming up through the plantation. Oh, look, look! And she is well. I know by the way she walks, by the way she runs, by the way she smiles. She is as well as ever she was in all her life."

"Better—far better than ever!" cried Pauline's gay and almost rollicking voice. "Here I am, stronger than ever, and quite, quite well."

The next moment Pauline's arms were flung round her aunt's neck.

"You must forgive me first of all," she said. "I have come back to confess, and I want to get my confession over. I want all the others to stand round and listen. Ah! here they come. Don't rush at me for a moment, girls. Don't hug me or do anything of that sort. Stand still and listen, listen, listen. I was rebellious, and I did wrong, and——"

"My darling," interrupted Miss Tredgold, "we know the whole story. We only want you to confess that you did wrong, and then never, never to allude to it again; for I see, Pauline, by your eyes that you mean to do right now."

"I will obey you because I love you," said Pauline.

"There, madam! I think she is pretty well restored," cried the farmer. "And she is the best young lady in the world. Nancy and I have brought her home, and now, with your permission, madam, we will take our leave."

"Nothing of the sort!" cried Miss Tredgold. "If you did wrong, Pauline, I was by no means altogether in the right. I little knew when I told you, my dears, to have nothing more to do with Farmer King and his daughter, that I was preventing your enjoying the society of a gentleman. Please shake hands with me, Mr. King."

Farmer King's face was quite pale with emotion.

"I admire you; I thank you," said Miss Tredgold. "You are a man in a thousand;" and again she held out her hand.

This time Farmer King wrung it. But he was absolutely speechless; not a single word passed his lips.

"Nancy," said Miss Tredgold, "I revoke what I said. You must come and see my girls whenever you like."

"On condition, madam," said the farmer, "that the young ladies sometimes come to see Nancy and me."

"Certainly," said Miss Tredgold; "but I also must put in a condition."

"What is that, madam?"

"That I occasionally accompany them."

But at this the farmer gave such a cheer of hearty goodwill that all the children joined in in spite of themselves.

"Was there ever anything quite so jolly in all the world?" cried Pauline. "I feel younger than ever, and jollier than ever. Here comes father, too. We are all together. Father, I am back again, and it is all owing to Farmer King and Nancy that I am cured. Whom shall we cry three cheers for? You give the word."

"Aunt Sophy, of course," cried Verena.

"Hip! hip! hurrah!" shouted the Dale family.

"And I should like to suggest a hearty cheer for my good old friend, Farmer King," said Mr. Dale.

"And for his cure," said Pauline.

And then the Dale family and the King family joined hands and shouted "Hip! hip! hurrah!" once more.

THE END.