The day before Jan had told the children that all this time they had been living in Peter's house and that she was sure Mummy would want them to be very grateful (she was careful to talk a great deal about Mummy to the children lest they should forget her); that he had been very kind to them all, and she asked if there was anything of their very own they would like to leave for Peter as a remembrance.

Tony instantly fetched the camel-corps soldier that kept guard on a chair by his cot every night; that Ayah had not been permitted to pack because it must accompany him on the voyage. It was, Jan knew, his most precious possession, and she assured him that Peter would be particularly gratified by such a gift.

Not to be outdone by her brother, little Fay demanded her beloved ball, which was already packed for the voyage in Jan's suit-case.

Peter sat at his desk staring at the absurd little toys with very kind eyes. He understood. Then he opened Jan's letter and read it through quite a number of times.

"Dear Mr. Ledgard," it ran.

"Whatever Mr. Kipling may say of the Celt, the lowland Scot finds it very difficult to express strong feeling in words. If I had tried to tell you, face to face, how sensible I am of your kindness and consideration for us during the last sad weeks—I should have cried. You would have been desperately uncomfortable and I—miserably ashamed of myself. So I can only try to write something of my gratitude.

"We have been your guests so long and your hospitality has been so untiring in circumstances sad and strange enough to try the patience of the kindest host, that I simply cannot express my sense of obligation; an obligation in no wise burdensome because you have always contrived to make me feel that you took pleasure in doing all you have done.

"I wish there had been something belonging to my sister that I could have begged you to accept as a remembrance of her; but everything she had of the smallest value has disappeared—even her books. When I get home I hope to give you one of my father's many portraits of her, but I will not send it till I know whether you are coming home this summer. Please remember, should you do so, as I sincerely hope you will, that nowhere can there be a warmer welcome for you than at Wren's End. It would be the greatest possible pleasure for the children and me to see you there, and it is a good place to slack in and get strong. And there I hope to challenge you to the round of golf we never managed during my time in India.

"Please try to realise, dear Mr. Ledgard, that my sense of your kindness is deep and abiding, and, believe me, yours, in most true gratitude,

"JANET ROSS."

For a long time Peter sat very still, staring at the cheerful, highly-coloured face painted on Fay's ball. Cigarette after cigarette did he smoke as he reviewed the experience of the last six weeks.

For the first time since he became a man he had been constantly in the society of a woman younger than himself who appeared too busy and too absorbed in other things to remember that she was a woman and he a man.

Peter was ordinarily susceptible, and he was rather a favourite with women because of his good manners; and his real good-nature made him ready to help either in any social project that happened to be towards or in times of domestic stress. Yet never until lately had he seen so much of any woman not frankly middle-aged without being conscious that he was a man and she a woman, and this added, at all events, a certain piquancy to the situation.

Yet he had never felt this with Jan.

Quite a number of times in the course of his thirty years he had fallen in love in an agreeably surface sort of way without ever being deeply stirred. Love-making was the pleasantest game in the world, but he had not yet felt the smallest desire to marry. He was a shrewd young man, and knew that marriage, even in the twentieth century, at all events starts with the idea of permanence; and, like many others who show no inclination to judge the matrimonial complications of their acquaintance, he would greatly have disliked any sort of scandal that involved himself or his belongings.

He was quite as sensitive to criticism as other men in his service, and he knew that he challenged it in lending his flat to Mrs. Tancred. But here he felt that the necessities of the case far outweighed the possibilities of misconception, and after Jan came he thought no more about it.

Yet in a young man with his somewhat cynical knowledge of the world, it was surprising that the thought of his name being coupled with Jan's never crossed his mind. He forgot that none of his friends knew Jan at all, but that almost every evening they did see her with him in the car—sometimes, it is true, accompanied by the children, but quite as often alone—and that during her visit his spare time was so much occupied in looking after the Tancred household that his friends saw comparatively little of him, and Peter was, as a rule, a very sociable person.

Therefore it came upon him as a real shock when people began to ask him point-blank whether he was engaged to Jan, and if so, what they were going to do about Tancred's children. Rightly or wrongly, he discerned in the question some veiled reflection upon Jan, some implied slur upon her conduct. He was consequently very short and huffy with these inquisitive ones, and when he was no longer present they would shake their heads and declare that "poor old Peter had got it in the neck."

If so, poor old Peter was, as yet, quite unconscious of anything of the kind.

Nevertheless he found himself constantly thinking about her. Everything, even the familiar streets and roads, served to remind him of her, and when he went to bed he nearly always dreamed about her. Absurd, inconsequent, unsatisfactory dreams they were; for in them she was always too busy to pay any attention to him at all; she was wholly absorbed by what it is to be feared Peter sometimes called "those confounded children." Though even in his dream world he was careful to keep his opinion to himself.

Why on earth should he always dream of Jan during the first part of the night?

Lalkhan could have thrown some light upon the subject. But naturally Peter did not confide his obsession to Lalkhan.

Just before she left Jan asked Lalkhan where the sahib's linen was kept, and on being shown the cupboard which contained the rather untidy little piles of sheets, pillow-cases, and towels that formed Peter's modest store of house linen, she rearranged it and brought sundry flat, square muslin bags filled with dried lavender. Lace-edged bags with lavender-coloured ribbon run through insertion and tied in bows at the two corners. These bags she placed among the sheets, much to the wonder of Lalkhan, who, however, decided that it was kindly meant and therefore did not interfere.

The odour was not one that commended itself to him. It was far too faint and elusive. He could understand a liking for attar of roses, of jessamine, of musk, or of any of the strong scents beloved by the native of India. Yet had she proposed to sprinkle the sheets with any of these essences he would have felt obliged to interfere, as the sahib swore violently and became exceedingly hot and angry did any member of his household venture into his presence thus perfumed. Even as it was he fully expected that his master would irritably demand the cause of the infernal smell that pervaded his bed; so keen are the noses of the sahibs. Whereupon Lalkhan, strong in rectitude, would relate exactly what had happened, produce one of the Jan-incriminating muslin bags, escape further censure, and doubtless be commanded to burn it and its fellows in the kitchen stove. But nothing of the kind occurred, and, as it is always easier to leave a thing where it has been placed than to remove it, the lavender remained among the sheets in humble obscurity.

The old garden at Wren's End abounded in great lavender bushes, and every year since it became her property Jan made lavender sachets which she kept in every possible place. Her own clothes always held a faint savour of lavender, and she had packed these bags as much as a matter of course as she packed her stockings. It seemed a shame, though, to take them home again when she could get plenty more next summer, so she left them in the bungalow linen cupboard. They reproduced her atmosphere; therefore did Peter dream of Jan.

A fortnight passed, and on their way to catch the homeward mail came Thomas Crosbie and his wife from Dariawarpur to stay the night. Next morning at breakfast Mrs. Crosbie, young, pretty and enthusiastic, expatiated on the comfort of her room, finally exclaiming: "And how, Mr. Ledgard, do you manage to have your sheets so deliciously scented with lavender—d'you get it sent out from home every year?"

"Lavender?" Peter repeated. "I've got no lavender. My people never sent me any, and I've certainly never come across any in India."

"But I'm convinced everything smelt of lavender. It made me think of home so. If I hadn't been just going I'd have been too homesick for words. I'm certain of it. Think! You must have got some from somewhere and forgotten it."

Peter shook his head. "I've never noticed it myself—you really must be mistaken. What would I be doing with lavender?"

"It was there all the same," Mrs. Crosbie continued. "I'm certain of it. You must have got some from somewhere. Do find out—I'm sure I'm not wrong. Ask your boy."

Peter said something to Lalkhan, who explained volubly. Tom Crosbie grinned; he understood even fluent Hindustani. His wife did not. Peter looked a little uncomfortable. Lalkhan salaamed and left the room.

"Well?" Mrs. Crosbie asked.

"It seems," Peter said slowly, "there is something among the sheets. I've sent Lalkhan to get it."

Lalkhan returned, bearing a salver, and laid on the salver was one of Jan's lavender bags. He presented it solemnly to his master, who with almost equal solemnity handed it to Mrs. Crosbie.

"There!" she said. "Of course I knew I couldn't be mistaken. Now where did you get it?"

"It was, I suppose, put among the things when poor Mrs. Tancred had the flat. I never noticed, of course—it's such an unobtrusive sort of smell...."

"Hadn't she a sister?" Mrs. Crosbie asked, curiously, holding the little sachet against her soft cheek and looking very hard at Peter.

"She had. It was she who took the children home, you know."

"Older or younger than Mrs. Tancred?"

"Older."

"How much older?"

"I really don't know," said the mendacious Peter.

"Was she awfully pretty, too?"

"Again, I really don't know. I never thought about her looks ... she had grey hair...."

"Oh!" Mrs. Crosbie exclaimed—a deeply disappointed "Oh." "Probably much older, then. That explains the lavender bags."

Silent Thomas Crosbie looked from his wife to Peter with considerable amusement. He realised, if she didn't, that Peter was most successfully putting her off the scent of more than lavender; but men are generally loyal to each other in these matters, and he suddenly took his part in the conversation and changed the subject.

Among Peter's orders to his butler that morning was one to the effect that nothing the Miss-Sahib had arranged in the bungalow was to be disturbed, and the lavender bag was returned to rejoin its fellows in the cupboard.

It was four years since Peter had had any leave, and it appeared that the lavender had the same effect upon him as upon Mrs. Crosbie. He felt homesick—and applied for leave in May.



CHAPTER XII

"THE BEST-LAID SCHEMES"

Peter had been as good as his word, and had found a family returning to India who were glad to take Ayah back to Bombay. And she, though sorry to leave Jan and the children, acquiesced in all arrangements made for her with the philosophic patience of the East. March was a cold month, and she was often rather miserable, in spite of her pride in her shoes and stockings and the warm clothes Jan had provided for her.

Before she left Jan interviewed her new mistress and found her kind and sensible, and an old campaigner who had made the voyage innumerable times.

It certainly occurred to Jan that Peter had been extraordinarily quick in making this arrangement, but she concluded that he had written on the subject before they left India. She had no idea that he had sent a long and costly cable on the subject. His friend thought him very solicitous for her comfort, but set it down entirely to her own merits and Peter's discriminating good sense.

When the day came Jan took Ayah to her new quarters in a taxi. Of course Ayah wept, and Jan felt like weeping herself, as she would like to have kept her on for the summer months. But she knew it wouldn't do; that apart from the question of expense, Hannah could never overcome her prejudices against "that heathen buddy," and that to have explained that poor Ayah was a Roman Catholic would only have made matters worse. Hannah was too valuable in every way to upset her with impunity, and the chance of sending Ayah back to India in such kind custody was too good to lose.

Meg had deferred the adoption of the musical-comedy costume until such time as she took over Ayah's duties. She in no way interfered, but was helpful in so many unobtrusive ways that Jan, while she still felt guilty in allowing her to stay at all, acknowledged she could never have got through this time without her.

Fortunately the day of Ayah's departure was fine, so that while Jan took her to her destination Meg took the children to spend the afternoon at the Zoo. To escort little Fay about London was always rather an ordeal to anyone of a retiring disposition. She was so fearless, so interested in her fellow-creatures, and so ready at all times and in all places to enter into conversation with absolute strangers, preferably men, that embarrassing situations were almost inevitable; and her speech, high and clear and carrying—in spite of the missing "r"—rendered it rarely possible to hope people did not understand what she said.

They went by the Metropolitan to Baker Street and sat on one of the small seats at right angles to the windows, and a gentleman wearing a very shiny top-hat sat down opposite to them.

He looked at little Fay; little Fay looked at him and, smiling her adorable, confident smile, leant forward, remarking: "Sahib, you wear a very high hat."

Instantly the eyes of all the neighbouring passengers were fixed upon the hat and its owner. His, however, were only for the very small lady that faced him; the small lady in a close white bonnet and bewitching curls that bobbed and fluttered in the swaying of the train.

He took off the immaculate topper and held it out towards her. "There," he said, "would you like to look at it?"

Fay carefully rubbed it the wrong way with a tentative woolly-gloved finger. "Plitty, high hat," she cooed. "Can plitty little Fay have it to keep?"

But the gentleman's admiration did not carry him as far as this. Somewhat hastily he withdrew his hat, smoothed it (it had just been ironed) and placed it on his head again. Then he became aware of the smiling faces and concentrated gaze of his neighbours; also, that the attractive round face that had given him so much pleasure had exchanged its captivating smile for a pathetic melancholy that even promised tears. He turned extremely red and escaped at the next station. Whereupon ungrateful little Fay, who had never had the slightest intention of crying, remarked loftily: "Tahsome man dawn."

When at last they reached the Zoo Meg took it upon herself to remonstrate with her younger charge.

"You mustn't ask strangers for things, dear; you really mustn't—not in the street or in the train."

"What for?" asked Fay. She nearly always said, "What for" when she meant "Why"; and it was as hard-worked a phrase as "What nelse?"

"Because people don't do it, you know."

"They do—I've heard 'em."

"Well, beggars perhaps, but not nice little girls."

"Do nasty little girls?"

"Only nasty little girls would do it, I think."

Fay pondered this for a minute, then in a regretfully reflective voice she said sadly: "Vat was a nasty, gleedy sahib in a tlain."

"Not at all," Meg argued, struggling with her mirth. "How would you have liked it if he'd asked you to give him your bonnet 'to keep'?"

Little Fay hastily put up her hands to her head to be sure her bonnet was in its place, then she inquired with great interest: "What's 'is place, deah Med?"

"Deah Med" soon found herself followed round by a small crowd of other sight-seers who waited for and greeted little Fay's unceasing comments with joyful appreciation. Such popular publicity was not at all to Meg's taste, and although the afternoon was extremely cold her cheeks never ceased to burn till she got the children safely back to the flat again. Tony was gloomy and taciturn. Nobody took the slightest notice of him. Weather that seemed to brace his sister to the most energetic gaiety only made him feel torpid and miserable. He was not naughty, merely apathetic, uninterested, and consequently uninteresting. Meg thought he might be homesick and sad about Ayah, and was very kind and gentle, but her advances met with no response.

By this time Tony was sure of his aunt, but he had by no means made up his mind about Meg.

When they got back to Kensington Meg joyously handed over the children to Jan while she retired to her room to array herself in her uniform. She was to "take over" from that moment, and approached her new sphere with high seriousness and an intense desire to be, as she put it, "a wild success."

For weeks she had been reading the publications of the P. N. E. U. and the "Child-Study Society," to say nothing of Manuals upon "Infant Hygiene," "The Montessori Method" and "The Formation of Character." Sympathy and Insight, Duty and Discipline, Self-Control and Obedience, Regularity and Concentration of Effort—all with the largest capitals—were to be her watchwords. And she buttoned on her well-fitting white linen apron (newest and most approved hospital pattern, which she had been obliged to make herself, for she could buy nothing small enough) in a spirit of dedication as sincere as that imbuing any candidate for Holy Orders. Then, almost breathlessly, she put her cap upon her flaming head and surveyed the general effect in the long glass.

Yes, it was all very satisfactory. Well-hung, short, green linen frock—was it a trifle short? Yet the little feet in the low-heeled shoes were neat as the ankles above them were slim, and one needed a short skirt for "working about."

Perhaps there was a touch of musical comedy about her appearance, but that was merely because she was so small and the cap, a muslin cap of a Quakerish shape, distinctly becoming. Well, there was no reason why she should want to look hideous. She would not be less capable because she was pleasing to the eye.

She seized her flannel apron from the bed where she had placed it ready before she went out, and with one last lingering look at herself went swiftly to her new duties.

Tea passed peacefully enough, though Fay asked embarrassing questions, such as "Why you wear suts a funny hat?"

"Because I'm an ayah," Meg answered quickly.

"Ayahs don't wear zose kind of hats."

"English ayahs do, and I'm going to be your ayah, you know."

Fay considered Meg for a minute. "No," she said, shaking her head. "No."

"Have another sponge-finger," Jan suggested diplomatically, handing the dish to her niece, and the danger was averted.

They played games with the children after tea and all went well till bed-time. Meg had begged Jan to leave them entirely to her, and with considerable misgiving she had seen Meg marshal the children to the bathroom and shut the door. Tony was asked as a favour to go too this first evening without Ayah, lest little Fay should feel lonely. It was queer, Jan reflected when left alone in the drawing-room, how she seemed to turn to the taciturn Tony for help where her obstreperous niece was concerned. Over and over again Tony had intervened and successfully prevented a storm.

Meg turned on the bath and began to undress little Fay. She bore this with comparative meekness, but when all her garments had been removed she slipped from Meg's knees and, standing squarely on the floor, announced:

"I want my own Ayah. Engliss Ayah not wass me. Own Ayah muss come bat."

"She can't, my darling; she's gone to other little girls, you know—we told you many days ago."

"She muss come bat—'jaldi,'" shouted Fay—"jaldi" being Hindustani for "quickly."

Meg sighed. "I'm afraid she can't do that. Come, my precious, and let me bathe you; you'll get cold standing there."

With a quick movement Meg seized the plump, round body. She was muscular though so small, and in spite of little Fay's opposition she lifted her into the bath. She felt Tony pull at her skirts and say something, but was too busy to pay attention.

Little Fay was in the bath sure enough, but to wash her was quite another matter. You may lead a sturdy infant of three to the water in a fixed bath, but no power on earth can wash that infant if it doesn't choose. Fay screamed and struggled and wriggled and kicked, finally slipping right under the water, which frightened her dreadfully; she lost her breath for one second, only to give forth ear-splitting yells the next. She was slippery as a trout and strong as a leaping salmon.

Jan could bear it no longer and came in. Meg had succeeded in lifting the terrified baby out of the bath, and she stood on the square of cork defying the "Engliss Ayah," wet from her topmost curl to her pink toes, but wholly unwashed.

Tony ran to Jan and under all the din contrived to say: "It's the big bath; she's frightened. Ayah never put her in the big bath."

Meg had forgotten this. The little tin bath they had brought from India for the voyage stood in a corner.

It was filled, while Fay, wrapped in a Turkish towel, sobbed more quietly, ejaculating between the gurgles: "Nasty hat, nasty Engliss Ayah. I want my own deah Ayah!"

When the bath was ready poor Meg again approached little Fay, but Fay would have none of her.

"No," she wailed, "Engliss Ayah in nasty hat not wass me. Tony wass me, deah Tony."

She held out her arms to her brother, who promptly received her in his.

"You'd better let me," he said to the anxious young women. "We'll never get her finished else."

So it ended in Tony's being arrayed in the flannel apron which, tied under his arm-pits, was not so greatly too long. With his sleeves turned up he washed his small sister with thoroughness and despatch, pointing out somewhat proudly that he "went into all the corners."



The washing-glove was very large on Tony's little hand, and he used a tremendous lot of soap—but Fay became all smiles and amiability during the process. Meg and Jan had tears in their eyes as they watched the quaint spectacle. There was something poignantly pathetic in the clinging together of these two small wayfarers in a strange country, so far from all they had known and shared in their short experience.

Meg's "nasty hat" was rakishly askew upon her red curls, for Fay had frequently grabbed at it in her rage, and the beautiful green linen gown was sopping wet.

"Engliss Ayah clying!" Fay remarked surprisedly. "What for?"

"Because you wouldn't let me bathe you," said Meg dismally. Her voice broke. She really was most upset. As it happened, she did the only thing that would have appealed to little Fay.

"Don't cly, deah Med," she said sweetly. "You sall dly me."

And Meg, student of so many manuals, humbly and gratefully accepted the task.

It had taken exactly an hour and a quarter to get Fay ready for bed. Indian Ayah used to do it in fifteen minutes.

Consistently and cheerfully gracious, Fay permitted Meg to carry her to her cot and tuck her in.

Meg lit the night-light and switched off the light, when a melancholy voice began to chant:

"My Ayah always dave me a choccly."

Now there was no infant in London less deserving of a choccly at that moment than troublesome little Fay. "Nursery Hygiene" proclaimed the undeniable fact that sweetmeats last thing at night are most injurious. Duty and Discipline and Self-Control should all have pointed out the evil of any indulgence of the sort. Yet Meg, with all her theories quite fresh and new, and with this excellent opportunity of putting them into practice, extracted a choccly from a box on the chest of drawers; and when the voice, "like broken music," announced for the third time, "My Ayah always dave me a choccly," "So will this Ayah," said Meg, and popped it into the mouth whence the voice issued.

There was a satisfied smacking and munching for a space, when the voice took up the tale:

"Once Tony had thlee——"

But what it was Tony once had "thlee" of Meg was not to know that night, for naughty little Fay fell fast asleep.

* * * * *

For a week Tony bathed his sister every night. Neither Jan nor Meg felt equal to facing and going through again the terrors of that first night without Ayah. Little Fay was quite good—she permitted Meg to undress her and even to put her in the little bath, but once there she always said firmly, "Tony wass me," and Tony did.

Then he burned his hand.

He was never openly and obstreperously disobedient like little Fay. On the whole he preferred a quiet life free from contention. But very early in their acquaintance Jan had discovered that what Tony determined upon that he did, and in this he resembled her so strongly that she felt a secret sympathy with him, even when such tenacity of purpose was most inconvenient.

He liked to find things out for himself, and no amount of warning or prohibition could prevent his investigations. Thus it came about that, carefully guarded as the children were from any contact with the fires, Tony simply didn't believe what was told him of their dangers.

Fires were new to him. They were so pretty, with their dancing flames, it seemed a pity to shut them in behind those latticed guards Auntie Jan was so fond of. Never did Tony see the fires without those tiresome guards and he wanted to very much.

One afternoon just before tea, while Meg was changing little Fay's frock, he slipped across to the drawing-room where Auntie Jan was busy writing a letter. Joy! the guard was off the fire; he could sit on the rug and watch it undisturbed. He made no noise, but knelt down softly in front of it and stretched out his hands to the pleasant warmth. It was the sort of fire Tony liked to watch, red at the heart, with little curling flames that were mirrored in the tiled hearth.

Jan looked up from her writing and saw him there, saw also that there was no guard, but, as little Fay had not yet come, thought Tony far too sensible to interfere with the fire in any way. She went on with her writing; then when she looked again something in the intentness of his attitude caused her to say: "Be sure you don't get too near the fire, Tony; it hurts badly to be burned."

"Yes, Auntie Jan," Tony said meekly.

She wrote a few lines more, looked up, and held her breath. It would have been an easy matter even then to dash across and put on the guard; but in a flash Jan realised that to let Tony burn himself a little at that moment might save a very bad accident later on. There was nothing in his clothes to catch alight. His woollen jersey fitted closely.

Exactly as though he were going to pick a flower, with curved hand outstretched Tony tried to capture and hold one of the dancing flames. He drew his hand back very quickly, and Jan expected a loud outcry, but none came. He sat back on the hearth-rug and rocked his body to and fro, holding the burnt right hand with his left, but he did not utter a sound.

"It does hurt, doesn't it?" said Jan.

He started at the quiet voice and turned a little puckered face towards her. "Yes," he said, with a big sigh; "but I know now."

"Come with me and I'll put something on it to make it hurt less," said Jan, and crossed to the door.

"Hadn't we better," he said, rather breathlessly, "put that thing on for fear of Fay?"

Jan carefully replaced the "thing" and took him to her room, where she bandaged the poor little hand with carron-oil and cotton-wool. The outer edge was scorched from little finger to wrist. She made no remark while she did it, and Tony leaned confidingly against her the while.

"Is that better?" she asked, when she had fastened the final safety-pin in the bandage. There was one big tear on Tony's cheek.

"It's nice and cool, that stuff. Why does it hurt so, Auntie Jan? It looks so kind and pretty."

"It is kind and pretty, only we mustn't go too near. Will you be sure and tell Fay how it can hurt?"

"I'll tell her," he promised, but he didn't seem to have much hope of the news acting as a deterrent.

When at bed-time Jan announced that Tony could not possibly bathe Fay because he mustn't get his hand wet or disturb the dressing, she and Meg tremblingly awaited the awful fuss that seemed bound to follow.

But Fay was always unexpected. "Then Med muss wass me," she remarked calmly. The good custom was established and Meg began to perk up again.



CHAPTER XIII

THE WHEELS OF CHANCE

Meg was out walking with the children in Kensington Gardens, and Hannah was paying the tradesmen's books. It was the only way to make Hannah take the air, to send her, as she put it, "to do the messages." She liked paying the books herself, for she always suspected Jan of not counting the change.

Jan was alone in the flat and was laying tea for the children in the dining-room when "ting" went the electric bell. She opened the door to find upon the threshold an exceedingly tall young man; a well-set-up, smart young man with square shoulders, who held out his hand to her, saying in a friendly voice: "You may just happen to remember me, Miss Ross, but probably not. Colonel Walcote's my uncle, and he's living in your house, you know. My name's Middleton ... I hope you remember me, for I've come to ask a favour."

As he spoke he gave Jan his card, and on it was "Captain Miles Middleton, R. H. A.," and the addresses of two clubs.

She led him to the little drawing-room, bracing herself the while to be firm in her refusal if the Walcotes wanted the house any longer, good tenants though they were.

She was hopelessly vague about her guest, but felt she had met him somewhere. She didn't like to confess how slight her recollection was, for he looked so big and brown and friendly it seemed unkind.

He sat down, smoothed his hat, and then with an engaging smile that showed his excellent teeth, began: "I've come—it sounds rather farcical, doesn't it—about a dog?"

"A dog?" Jan repeated vaguely. "What dog?"

"Well, he's my dog at present, but I want him to be your dog—if you'll have him."

"You want to give me a dog—but why? Or do you only want me to keep him a bit for you?"

"Well, it's like this, Miss Ross; it would be cheek to ask you to keep a young dog, and when you'd had all the trouble of him and got fond of him—and you'll get awfully fond of him, if you have him—to take him away again. It wouldn't be fair, it really wouldn't ... so...."

"Wait a bit," said the cautious Jan. "What sort of a dog is he ... if it is a he...."

"He's a bull-terrier...."

"Oh, but I don't think I'm very fond of bull-terriers ... aren't they fierce and doesn't one always associate them with public-houses? I couldn't have a fierce dog, you know, because of the two children."

"They're always nice with children," Captain Middleton said firmly. "And as for the pothouse idea—that's quite played out. I suppose it was that picture with the mug and the clay pipe. He'd love the children; he's only a child himself, you know."

"A puppy! Oh, Captain Middleton, wouldn't he eat all our shoes and things and tear up all the rugs?"

"I think he's past that, I do really—he'll be a year old on Monday. He'll be a splendid watchdog, and he's not a bit deaf—lots of 'em are, you know—and he's frightfully well-bred. Just you look at the pedigree ..." and Captain Middleton produced from his breast-pocket a folded foolscap document which he handed to Jan.

She gazed at it with polite interest, though it conveyed but little to her mind. The name "Bloomsbury" seemed to come over and over again. There were many dates and other names, but "Bloomsbury" certainly prevailed, and it was evident that Captain Middleton's dog had a long pedigree; it was all quite clearly set down, and, to Jan, very bewildering.

"His points are on the back page," Captain Middleton said proudly, "and there isn't a single one a perfect bull-terrier ought to have that William Bloomsbury hasn't got."

"Is that his name?"

"Yes, but I call him William, only he is of the famous Bloomsbury strain, you know, and one can't help being a bit proud of it."

"But," Jan objected, "if he's so well-bred and perfect, he must be valuable—so why should you want to give him to me?"

"I'll explain," said Captain Middleton. "You see, ever since they've been down at Wren's End, my aunt kept him for me. He's been so happy there, Miss Ross, and grown like anything. We're stationed in St. John's Wood just now, you know, and he'd be certain to be stolen if I took him back there. And now my aunt's coming to London to a flat in Buckingham Gate. Now London's no life for a dog—a young dog, anyway—he'd be miserable. I've been down to Wren's End very often for a few days' hunting, and I can see he's happy as a king there, and we may be ordered anywhere any day ... and I don't want to sell him ... You see, I know if you take him you'll be good to him ... and he is such a nice beast."

"How do you know I'd be good to him? You know nothing about me."

"Don't I just! Besides, I've seen you, I'm seeing you now this minute ... I don't want to force him on you, only ... a lady living alone in the country ought to have a dog, and if you take William you won't be sorry—I can promise you that. He's got the biggest heart, and he's the nicest beast ... and the most faithful...."

"Are you sure he'll be quite gentle with the children?"

"He's gentle with everybody, and they're well known to be particularly good with children ... you ask anyone who knows about dogs. He was given me when he was three weeks old, and I could put him in my pocket."

Captain Middleton was rather appealing just then, so earnest and big and boyish. His face was broad though lean, the features rather blunt, the eyes set wide apart; clear, trustworthy, light-blue eyes. He looked just what he was—a healthy, happy, prosperous young Englishman without a real care in the world. After all, Jan reflected, there was plenty of room at Wren's End, and it was good for the children to grow up with animals.

"I had thought of an Airedale," she said thoughtfully, "but——"

"They're good dogs, but quarrelsome—fight all the other dogs round about. Now William isn't a fighter unless he's unbearably provoked, then, of course, he fights to kill."

"Oh dear!" sighed Jan, "that's an awful prospect. Think of the trouble with one's neighbours——"

"But I assure you, it doesn't happen once in a blue moon. I've never known him fight yet."

"I'll tell you what, Captain Middleton; let me keep him for the present, till you know where you're going to be stationed, and then, if you find you can have him, he's there for you to take. I'll do my best for him, but I want you to feel he's still your dog...."

"It's simply no end good of you, Miss Ross. I'd like you to have him though ... May I put it this way? If you don't like him, find him a nuisance or want to get rid of him, you send for me and I'll fetch him away directly. But if you like him, he's your dog. There—may I leave it at that?"

"We'll try to make him happy, but I expect he'll miss you dreadfully.... I know nothing about bull-terriers; do they need any special treatment?"

"Oh dear, no. William's as strong as a young calf. Just a bone occasionally and any scraps there are. There's tons of his biscuits down there ... only two meals a day and no snacks between, and as much exercise as is convenient—though, mind you, they're easy dogs in that way—they don't need you to be racing about all day like some."

The present fate of William Bloomsbury with the lengthy and exalted pedigree being settled, Jan asked politely for her tenants, Colonel and Mrs. Walcote, heard that it had been an excellent and open season, and enjoyed her guest's real enthusiasm about Wren's End.

After a few minutes of general conversation he got up to go. She saw him out and rang up the lift, but no lift came. She rang again and again. Nothing happened. Evidently something had gone wrong, and she saw people walking upstairs to the flats below. Just as she was explaining the mishap to her guest, the telephone bell sounded loudly and persistently.

"Oh dear!" she cried. "Would you mind very much stopping a young lady with two little children, if you meet them at the bottom of the stairs, and tell her she is on no account to carry up little Fay. It's my friend, Miss Morton; she's out with them, and she's not at all strong; tell her to wait for me. I'll come the minute I've answered this wretched 'phone."

"Don't you worry, Miss Ross, I'll stop 'em and carry up the kiddies myself," Captain Middleton called as he started to run down, and Jan went back to answer the telephone.

He ran fast, for Jan's voice had been anxious and distressed. Five long flights did he descend, and at the bottom he met Meg and the children just arrived to hear the melancholy news from the hall porter.

Meg always wheeled little Fay to and from the gardens in the funny little folding "pram" they had brought from India. The plump baby was a tight fit, but the queer little carriage was light and easily managed. The big policeman outside the gate often held up the traffic to let Meg and her charges get across the road safely, and she would sail serenely through the avenue of fiercely panting monsters with Tony holding on to her coat, while little Fay waved delightedly to the drivers. That afternoon she was very tired, for it had started to rain, cold, gusty March rain. She had hurried home in dread lest Tony should take cold. It seemed the last straw, somehow, that the lift should have gone wrong. She left the pram with the porter and was just bracing herself to carry heavy little Fay when this very tall young man came dashing down the staircase, saw them and raised his hat. "Miss Morton? Miss Ross has just entrusted me with a message ... that I'm to carry her niece upstairs," and he took little Fay out of Meg's arms.

Meg looked up at him. She had to look up a long way—and he looked down into a very small white face.

The buffeting wind that had given little Fay the loveliest colour, and Tony a very pink nose, only left Meg pallid with fatigue; but she smiled at Captain Middleton, and it was a smile of such radiant happiness as wholly transfigured her face. It came from the exquisite knowledge that Jan had thought of her, had known she would be tired.

To be loved, to be remembered, to be taken care of was to Meg the most wonderful thing in the world. It went to her head like wine.

Therefore did she smile at Captain Middleton in this distracting fashion. It started tremblingly at the corners of her mouth, and then—quite suddenly—her wan little face became dimpled and beseeching and triumphant all at once.

It had no connection whatsoever with Captain Middleton, but how was he to know that?

It fairly bowled him, middle stump, first ball.

No one had ever smiled at him like that before. It turned him hot and cold, and gave him a lump in his throat with the sheer heartrending pathos of it. And he felt an insane desire to lie down and ask this tiny, tired girl to walk upon him if it would give her the smallest satisfaction.

The whole thing passed in a flash, but for him it was one of those illuminating beams that discovers a hitherto undreamed-of panorama.

He caught up little Fay, who made no objection, and ran up all five flights about as fast as he had run down. Jan was just coming out of the flat.

"Here's one!" he cried breathlessly, depositing little Fay. "And now I'll go down and give the little chap a ride as well."

He met them half-way up. "Now it's your turn," he said to Tony. "Would you like to come on my back?"

Tony, though taciturn, was not unobservant. "I think," he said solemnly, "Meg's more tired nor me. P'raps you'd better take her."

Meg laughed, and what the rain and wind could not do, Tony managed. Her cheeks grew rosy.

"I'm afraid I should be rather heavy, Tony dear, but it's kind of you to think of it."

She looked up at Captain Middleton and smiled again. What a kind world it was! And really that tall young man was rather a pleasant person. So it fell out that Tony was carried the rest of the way, and he had a longer ride than little Fay; for his steed mounted the staircase soberly, keeping pace with Meg; they even paused to take breath on the landings. And it came about that Captain Middleton went back into the flat with the children, showing no disposition to go away, and Jan could hardly do less than ask him to share the tea she had laid in the dining-room.

There he got a shock, for Meg came to tea in her cap and apron.

Out of doors she wore a long, warm coat that entirely covered the green linen frock, and a little round fur hat. This last was a concession to Jan, who hated the extinguisher. So Meg looked very much like any other girl. A little younger, perhaps, than any young woman of twenty-five has any business to look, but pretty in her queer, compelling way.

That she looked even prettier in her uniform Captain Middleton would have been the first to allow; but he hated it nevertheless. There seemed to him something incongruous and wrong for a girl with a smile like that to be anybody's nursemaid.

To be sure, Miss Ross was a brick, and this queer little servant of hers called her by her Christian name and contradicted her flatly twice in the course of tea. Miss Morton certainly did not seem to be downtrodden ... but she wore a cap and an apron—a very becoming Quakerish cap ... without any strings ... and—"it's a d——d shame," was the outcome of all Captain Middleton's reflections.

"Would the man never go?" Jan wondered, when after a prolonged and hilarious tea he followed the enraptured children back to the drawing-room and did tricks with the fire-irons.

Meg had departed in order to get things ready for the night, and he hung on in the hope that she would return. Vain hope; there was no sign of her.

He told the children all about William Bloomsbury and exacted promises that they would love him very much. He discussed, with many interruptions from Fay, who wanted all his attention, the entire countryside round about Wren's End; and, at last, as there seemed really no chance of that extraordinary girl's return, he heaved his great length out of his chair and bade his hostess a reluctant farewell several times over.

In the passage he caught sight of Meg going from one room to another with her arms full of little garments.

"Ah," he cried, striding towards her. "Good night, Miss Morton. I hope we shall meet again soon," and he held out his hand.

Meg ignored the hand, her own arms were so full of clothes: "I'm afraid that's not likely," she said, with unfeeling cheerfulness. "We all go down to the country on Monday."

"Yes, yes, I know. Jolly part of the world it is, too. I expect I shall be thereabouts a good deal this summer, my relations positively swarm in that county."

"Good-bye," said Meg, and turned to go. Jan stood at the end of the passage, holding the door open.

"I say, Miss Morton, you'll try and like my William, won't you?"

"I like all sensible animals," was Meg's response, and she vanished into a bedroom.



CHAPTER XIV

PERPLEXITIES

"Don't you think it is very extraordinary that I have never had one line from Hugo since the letter I got at Aden?" asked Jan.

It was Friday evening, the Indian mail was in, and there was a letter from Peter—the fourth since her return.

"But you've heard of him from Mr. Ledgard," Meg pointed out.

"Only that he had gone to Karachi from Bombay just before Fay died—surely he would see papers there. It seems so heartless never to have written me a line—I can't believe it, somehow, even of Hugo—he must be ill or something."

"Perhaps he was ashamed to write. Perhaps he felt you would simply loathe him for being the cause of it all."

"I did, I do," Jan exclaimed; "but all the same he is the children's father, and he was her husband—I don't want anything very bad to happen to him."

"It would simplify things very much," Meg said dreamily.

Jan held up her hand as if to ward off a blow.

"Don't, Meg; sometimes I find myself wishing something of the kind, and I know it's wrong and horrible. I want as far as I can to keep in the right with regard to Hugo, to give him no grievance against me. I've written to that bank where he left the money, and asked them to forward the letters if he has left any address. I've told him exactly where we are and what we propose to do. Beyond the bare facts of Fay's death—I told him all about her illness as dispassionately as I could—I've never reproached him or said anything cruel. You see, the man is down and out; though Mr. Ledgard always declared he had any amount of mysterious wires to pull. Yet, I can't help wondering whether he is ill somewhere, with no money and no friends, in some dreadful native quarter."

"What about the money in the bank, then? Did you use it?"

Jan blushed. "No, I couldn't bear to touch his money ... Mr. Ledgard said it was idiotic...."

"So it was; it was Fay's money, not his. For all your good sense, Jan, sometimes you're sentimental as a schoolgirl."

"I daresay it was stupid, and I didn't dare to tell Mr. Ledgard I'd left it," Jan said humbly; "but I felt that perhaps that money might help him if things got very desperate; I left it in his name and a letter telling him I had done so ... I didn't give him any money...."

"It was precisely the same thing."

"And he may never have got the letter."

"I hope he hasn't."

"Oh, Meg, I do so hate uncertainty. I'd rather know the worst. I always have the foreboding that he will suddenly turn up at Wren's End and threaten to take the children away ... and get money out of me that way ... and there's none to spare...."

"Jan, you've got into a thoroughly nervous, pessimistic state about Hugo. Why in the world should he want the children? They'd be terribly in his way, and wherever he put them he'd have to pay something. You know very well his people wouldn't keep them for nothing, even if he were fool enough (for the sake of blackmailing you) to threaten to place them there. His sisters wouldn't—not for nothing. What did Fay say about his sisters? I remember one came to the wedding, but she has left no impression on my mind. He has two, hasn't he?"

"Yes, but only one came, the Blackpool one. But Fay met both of them, for she spent a week-end with each, with Hugo, after she was married."

"Well, and what did she say?"

Jan laughed and sighed: "She said—you remember how Fay could say the severest things in the softest, gentlest voice—that 'for social purposes they were impossible, but they were doubtless excellent and worthy of all esteem and that they were exactly suited to the milieu in which they lived.'"

"And where do they live?"

"One lives at Blackpool—she's married to ... I forget exactly what he is—but it's something to do with letting houses. They're quite well off and all her towels had crochet lace at the ends. Fay was much impressed by this, as it scratched her nose. They also gave you 'doylies' at afternoon tea and no servant ever came into the room without knocking."

"Any children?"

"Yes, three."

"And the other sister?"

"She lives at Poulton-le-Fylde, and her husband had to do with a newspaper syndicate. Quite amusing he was, Fay says, but very shaky as to the letter 'H.'"

"Would they like the children?"

"They might, for they've none of their own, but they certainly wouldn't take them unless they were paid for, as they were not well off. They were rather down on the Blackpool sister, Fay said, for extravagance and general swank."

"What about the grandparents?"

"In Guernsey? They're quite nice old people, I believe, but curiously—of course I'm quoting Fay—comatose and uninterested in things, 'behindhand with the world,' she said. They thought Hugo very wonderful, and seemed rather afraid of him. What he has told them lately I don't know. He wrote very seldom, they said; but I've written to them, saying I've got the children and where we shall be. If they express a wish to see the children I'll ask them to Wren's End. If, as would be quite reasonable, they say it's too far to come—they're old people, you know—I suppose one of us would need to take them over to Guernsey for a visit. I do so want to do the right thing all round, and then they can't say I've kept the children away from their father's relations."

"Scotch people always think such a lot about relations," Meg grumbled. "I should leave them to stew in their own juice. Why should you bother about them if he doesn't?"

"They're all quite respectable, decent folk, you know, though they mayn't be our kind. The father, I fancy, failed in business after he came back from India. Fay said he was very meek and depressed always. I think she was glad none of them came to the wedding except the Blackpool sister, for she didn't want Daddie to see them. He thought the Blackpool sister dreadful (he told me afterwards that she 'exacerbated his mind and offended his eye'), but he was charming to her and never said a word to Fay."

"I don't see much sign of Hugo and his people in the children."

"We can't tell, they're so little. One thing does comfort me, they show no disposition to tell lies; but that, I think, is because they have never been frightened. You see, everyone bowed down before them; and whatever Indian servants may be in other respects, they seem to me extraordinarily kind and patient with children."

"Jan, what are your views about the bringing up of children?... You've never said ... and I should like to know. You see, we're both"—here Meg sighed deeply and looked portentously grave—"in a position of awful responsibility."

They were sitting on each side of the hearth, with their toes on the fender. Meg had been sewing at an overall for little Fay, but at that moment she laid it on her knee and ran her hands through her cropped hair, then about two inches long all over her head, so that it stood on end in broken spirals and feathery curls above her bright eyes. In the evening the uniform was discarded "by request."

Jan looked across at her and laughed.

So funny and so earnest; so small, and yet so great with purpose.

"I don't think I've any views. R. L. S. summed up the whole duty of children ages ago, and it's our business to see that they do it—that's all. Don't you remember:

A child should always say what's true, And speak when he is spoken to, And behave mannerly at table: At least as far as he is able.

It's no use to expect too much, is it?"

"If you expect to get the second injunction carried out in the case of your niece you're a most optimistic person. For three weeks now I've been perambulating Kensington Gardens with those children, and I have never in the whole course of my life entered into conversation with so many strangers, and it's always she who begins it. Then complications arise and I have to intervene. I don't mind policemen and park-keepers and roadmen, but I rather draw the line at idly benevolent old gentlemen who join our party and seem to spend the whole morning with us...."

"But, Meg, that never happens when I'm with you. I confess I've left you to it this last week...."

"And what am I here for except to be left to it—I don't mean that anyone's rude or pushing—but Miss Tancred is so friendly, and I'm not dignified and awe-inspiring like you, you great big Jan; and the poor men are encouraged, directly and deliberately encouraged, by your niece. I never knew a child with such a continual flow of conversation."

"Poor Meg," said Jan, "you won't have much more of it. Little Fay is a handful, I confess; but I always feel it must be a bit hard to be hushed continually—and just when one feels particularly bright and sparkling, to have all one's remarks cut short...."

"You needn't pity that child. No amount of hushing has any effect; you might just as well hush a blackbird or a thrush. Don't look so worried, Jan. Did Mr. Ledgard say anything about Hugo in that letter to-night?"

"Only that he was known to have left Karachi in a small steamer going round the coast, but after that nothing more. Mr. Ledgard has a friend in the Police, and even there they've heard nothing lately. I think myself the Indian Government wants to lose sight of Hugo. He's inconvenient and disgraceful, and they'd like him blotted out as soon as possible."

"What else does Mr. Ledgard say? He seems to write good long letters."

"He is coming home at the end of April for six months."

"Oh ... then we shall see him, I suppose?"

"I hope so."

Meg looked keenly at Jan, who was staring into the fire, her eyes soft and dreamy; and almost as if she was unconsciously thinking aloud, she said: "I do hope, if Hugo chooses to turn up, he'll wait till Mr. Ledgard is back in England."

"You think he could manage him?"

"I know he could."

"Then let us pray for his return," said Meg.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven.

"Bed-time," said Meg, "but I must have just one cigarette first. That's what's so lovely about being with you, Jan—you don't mind. Of course I'd never do it before the children."

"You wouldn't shock them if you did. Fay smoked constantly."

Meg lit her cigarette and clearly showed her real enjoyment. She had taken to it first when she was about fifteen, as she found it helped her to feel less hungry. Now it had become as much a necessity to her as to many men, and the long abstinence of term-time had always been a penance.

She made some good rings, and, leaning forward to look through them at Jan, said: "By the way, I must just tell you that for the last three afternoons we've met that Captain Middleton in the Gardens."

"Well?"

"And he talks everlastingly about his dog—that William Bloomsbury creature. I know all the points of a bull-terrier now—'Well-set head gradually tapering to muzzle, which is very powerful and well-filled up in front of the eyes. Nose large and black. Teeth dead-level and big' ... oh! and reams more, every bit of him accurately described."

"I'm a little afraid of those teeth so 'dead-level and big'—I foresee trouble."

"Oh, no," said Meg easily. "He's evidently a most affectionate brute. That young man puzzles me. He's manifestly devoted to the dog, but he's so sure he'd be stolen he'd rather have him away from him down at Wren's End than here with him, to run that risk."

"Surely," said Jan, "Kensington Gardens are some distance from St. John's Wood."

"So one would think, but the rich and idle take taxis, and he seems to think he can in some way insure the welfare of his dog through the children and me."

"And what about the old gentlemen? Do they join the party as well?"

"Oh, dear no; no old gentlemen would dare to come within miles of us with that young man in charge of little Fay. He's like your Mr. Ledgard—very protective."

"I like him for being anxious about his dog, but I'm not quite so sure that I approve of the means he takes to insure its happiness."

"I didn't encourage him in the least, I assure you. I pointed out that he most certainly ought not to be walking about with a nurse and two children. That the children without the nurse would be all right, but that my being there made the whole thing highly inexpedient, and infra dig."

"Meg!... you didn't!"

"I did, indeed. There was no use mincing matters."

"And what did he say?"

"He said, 'Oh, that's all bindles'—whatever that may mean."

"You mustn't go to the Gardens alone any more. I'll come with you to-morrow, or, better still, we'll all go to Kew if it's fine."

"I should be glad, though I grudge the fares; but you needn't come. I know how busy you are, with Hannah away and so much to see to—and what earthly use am I if I can't look after the children without you?"

"You do look after the children without me for hours and hours on end. I could never trust anyone else as I do you."

"I am getting to manage them," Meg said proudly; "but just to-day I must tell you—it was rather horrid—we came face to face with the Trents in the Baby's Walk. Mrs. Trent and Lotty, the second girl, the big, handsome one—and he evidently knows them...."

"Who evidently knows them?"

"Captain Middleton, silly! (I told you he was with us, talking about his everlasting dog)—and they greeted him with effusion, so he had to stop. But you can imagine how they glared at me. Of course I walked on with Tony, but little Fay had his hand—I was wheeling the go-cart thing and she stuck firmly to him, and I heard her interrupting the conversation all the time. He followed us directly, I'll say that for him, but it was a bad moment ... You see, they had a right to glare...."

"They had nothing of the kind. I wish I got the chance of glaring at them. Daddie saw Mrs. Trent; he explained everything, and she said she quite understood."

"She would, to him, he was so nice always; but you see, Jan, I know what she believes and what she has said, and what she will probably say to Captain Middleton if she gets the chance."

Meg's voice broke. "Of course I don't care——"

She held her tousled head very high and stuck out her sharp little chin.

"My dear," said Jan, "what with my gregarious niece and my too-attractive nurse, I think it's a good thing we're all going down to Wren's End, where the garden-walls are high and the garden fairly large. Besides all that, there will be that dog with the teeth 'dead-level and big.'"

"Remember," said Meg. "He treated me like a princess always."



CHAPTER XV

WREN'S END

It stands just beyond the village of Amber Guiting, on the side furthest from the station, which is a mile from the village.

"C. C. S. 1819" is carved above the front door, but the house was built a good fifty years previous to that date.

One Charles Considine Smith, who had been a shipper of sherry in Billiter Street, in the City of London, bought it in that year from a Quaker called Solomon Page, who planted the yew hedge that surrounds the smooth green lawn seen from the windows of the morning-room. There was a curious clause attached to the title-deeds, which stipulated that no cats should be kept by the owner of Wren's End, lest they should interfere with the golden-crested wrens that built in the said yew hedge, or the brown wrens building at the foot of the hedges in the orchard. Appended to this injunction were the following verses:

If aught disturb the wrens that build, If ever little wren be killed By dweller in Wren's End—

Misfortunes—whence he shall not know— Shall fall on him like noiseless snow, And all his steps attend.

Peace be upon this house; and all That dwell therein good luck befall, That do the wrens befriend.

Charles Considine Smith faithfully kept to his agreement regarding the protection of the wrens, and much later wrote a series of articles upon their habits, which appeared in the North Cotswold Herald. He seems to have been on friendly terms with Solomon Page, who, having inherited a larger property in the next county, removed thence when he sold Wren's End.

In 1824 Smith married Tranquil Page, daughter of Solomon. She was then thirty-seven years old, and, according to one of her husband's diaries, "a staid person like myself." She was twenty years younger than her husband and bore him one child, a daughter also named Tranquil.

She, however, appears to have been less staid than her parents, for she ran away before she was twenty with a Scottish advocate called James Ross.

The Smiths evidently forgave the wilful Tranquil, for, on the death of Charles, she and her husband left Scotland and settled with her mother at Wren's End. She had two children, Janet, the great-aunt who left Jan Wren's End, and James, Jan's grandfather, who was sent to Edinburgh for his education, and afterwards became a Writer to the Signet. He married and settled in Edinburgh, preferring Scotland to England, and it was with his knowledge and consent that Wren's End was left to his sister Janet.

Janet never married. She was energetic, prudent, and masterful, having an excellent head for business. She was kind to her nephews and nieces in a domineering sort of way, and had always a soft place in her heart for Anthony, though she regarded him as more or less of a scatter-brain. When she was nearly eighty she commanded his little girls to visit her. Jan was then fourteen and Fay eleven. She liked them because they had good manners and were neither of them in the least afraid of her. And at her death, six years later, she left Wren's End to Jan absolutely—as it stood; but she left her money to Anthony's elder brother, who had a large family and was not particularly well off.

That year was a good artistic year for Anthony, and he spent over five hundred pounds in—as he put it—"making Jan's house habitable."

This proved not a bad investment, for they had let it every winter since to Colonel Walcote for the hunting season, as three packs of hounds met within easy reach of it; and although the stabling accommodation at Wren's End was but small, plenty of loose boxes were always obtainable from Farmer Burgess quite near.

Amber Guiting is a big village, almost a little town. It possesses an imposing main street wherein are several shops, among them a stationer's with a lending library in connection with Mudie's; a really beautiful old inn with a courtyard; and grave-looking, dignified houses occupied by the doctor, a solicitor, and several other persons of acknowledged gentility.

There were many "nice places" round about, and altogether the inhabitants of Amber Guiting prided themselves, with some reason, on the social and aesthetic advantages of their neighbourhood. Moreover, it is not quite three hours from Paddington. You catch the express from the junction.

Notwithstanding all these agreeable circumstances, William Bloomsbury was very lonely and miserable.

All the friends he knew and loved had gone, leaving him in the somewhat stepmotherly charge of a caretaker from the village, who was supposed to be getting the house ready for its owner. To join her came Hannah—having left her young ladies with an "orra-buddy" in the flat. And after Hannah came the caretaker-lady did not stop long, for their ideas on the subject of cleanliness were diametrically opposed. Hannah was faithful and punctual as regarded William's meals; but though his body was more comfortable than during the caretaker's reign, his heart was empty and hungry, and he longed ardently for social intercourse and an occasional friendly pat.

Presently in Hannah's train came Anne Chitt, a meek young assistant from the village, who did occasionally gratify William's longing for a little attention; but so soon as she began to pat him and say he was a good dog, she was called away by Hannah to sweep or dust or wash something. In William's opinion the whole house was a howling wilderness where pails of water easily upset, and brooms that fell upon the unsuspecting with resounding blows lay ambushed in unexpected places.

Men and dogs alike abhor "spring-cleaning," and William's heart died within him.

There came a day, however, when things were calmer. The echoing, draughty house grew still and warm, and a fire was lit in the hall. William lay in front of it unmolested; but he felt dejected and lonely, and laid his head down on his crossed paws in patient melancholy.

Late in the afternoon, there came a sound of wheels in the drive. Hannah and Anne Chitt, decorous in black dresses and clean aprons, came into the hall and opened the front door, and in three minutes William knew that happier times were in store for him. The "station-fly" stopped at the door, and regardless of Hannah's reproving voice he rushed out to welcome the strangers. Two children, nice children, who appeared as glad to see him as he was to see them, who wished him many happy returns of his birthday—William had forgotten it was his birthday—and were as lavish with pats and what little Fay called "stlokes" as Hannah had been niggardly. There were also two young ladies, who addressed him kindly and seemed pleasantly aware of his existence, and William liked young ladies, for the three Miss Walcotes had thoroughly spoiled him. But he decided to attach himself most firmly to the children and the very small young lady. Perhaps they would stay. In his short experience grown people had a cruel way of disappearing. There was that tall young man ... William hardly dared let himself think about that tall young man who had allowed him to lie upon his bed and was so kind and jolly. "Master" William had called him. Ah, where was he? Perhaps he would come back some day. In the meantime here were plenty of people to love. William cheered up.



He wished to ingratiate himself, and proceeded to show off his one accomplishment. With infinite difficulty and patience the Miss Walcotes had taught him to "give a paw"; so now, on this first evening, William followed the children about solemnly offering one paw and then the other; a performance which was greeted with acclamation.

When the children went to the bathroom he somehow got shut outside. So he lay down and breathed heavily through the bottom of the door and varied this by thin, high-pitched yelps—which were really squeals, and very extraordinary as proceeding from such a large and heavy dog.

"William wants to come in," Tony said. He still always accompanied his sister to the bath.

Meg was seized with an inspiration. "I know why," she exclaimed. "He expects to see little Fay in the big bath."

Fay looked from Meg to her brother and from her brother to Meg.

Another dismal squeal from under the door.

"Does he tluly espect it?" she asked anxiously.

"I think so," Meg said gravely, "and we can't let him in if you're going to be washed in the little bath; he'd be so disappointed."

The little bath stood ready on its stand. Fay turned her back upon it and went and looked over the edge of the big bath. It was a very big bath, white and beautiful, with innumerable silvered handles that produced sprays and showers and waves and all sorts of wonders. An extravagance of Anthony's.

"Will William come in, too?" she asked.

"No; he'd make such a mess; but he'd love to see you. We'll all bathe William some other time."

More squeals from outside, varied by dolorous snores.

"Let him in," said little Fay. "I'll show him me."

Quick as thought Meg lifted her in, opened the door to the delighted William, who promptly stood on his hind legs, with his front paws on the bath, and looked over the edge at little Fay.

"See me swim," she exclaimed proudly, sitting down in the water, while William, with his tongue hanging out and a fond smile of admiration on his foolish countenance, tried to lick the plump pink shoulders presented to his view. "This is a muts nicer baff than the nasty little one. I can't think what you bringed it for, deah Med."

"Deah Med" and Tony nodded gaily to one another.

Hannah had made William sleep in the scullery, which he detested. She put his basket there and his blanket, and he was warm enough, but creature comforts matter little to the right kind of dog. It's human fellowship he craves. That night she came to fetch him at bed-time, and he refused point-blank to go. He put his head on Meg's knee and gazed at her with beseeching eyes that said as plainly as possible: "Don't banish me—where you go I go—don't break my heart and send me away into the cold."

Perhaps the cigarette smoke that hung about Meg gave him confidence. His master smelt like that. And William went to bed with his master.

"D'you think he might sleep in the dressing-room?" Meg asked. "I know how young dogs hate to be alone at night. Put his basket there, Hannah—I'll let him out and see to him, and you could get him first thing in the morning."

Hannah gave a sniff of disapproval, but she was always very careful to do whatever Meg asked her at once and ungrudgingly. It was partly an expression of her extreme disapproval of the uniform. But Meg thought it was prompted entirely by Hannah's fine feeling, and loved her dearly in consequence.

Nearly all the bedrooms at Wren's End had dressing-rooms. Tony slept in Jan's, with the door between left open. Fay's little cot was drawn up close to Meg's bed. William and his basket occupied the dressing-room, and here, also, the door was left open.

While Meg undressed, William was quite still and quiet, but when she knelt down to say her prayers he was overcome with curiosity, and, getting out of his basket, lurched over to her to see what she was about. Could she be crying that she covered her face? William couldn't bear people to cry.

He thrust his head under her elbow. She put her arm round his neck and he sat perfectly still.

"Pray for your master, William," Meg whispered.

* * * * * * * *

"I like to look at it," said Tony.

"Oh, London may be very gay, but it's nothing to the countryside," sang Meg.

"What nelse?" inquired little Fay, who could never be content with a mere snatch of song.

"Oh, there's heaps and heaps of nelse," Jan answered. "Come along, chicks, we'll go and see everything. This is home, you know, where dear Mummy wanted you to be."

It was their first day at Wren's End, and the weather was kind. They were all four in the drive, looking back at the comfortable stone-fronted Georgian house. The sun was shining, a cheerful April sun that had little warmth in it but much tender light; and this showed how all around the hedges were getting green; that buds were bursting from brown twigs, as if the kind spring had covered the bare trees with a thin green veil; and that all sorts of green spears were thrusting up in the garden beds.

Down the drive they all four ran, accompanied by a joyfully galumphing William, who was in such good spirits that he occasionally gave vent to a solemn deep-chested bark.

When they came to the squat grey lodge, there was Mrs. Earley standing in her doorway to welcome them. Mrs. Earley was Earley's mother, and Earley was gardener and general factotum at Wren's End. Mrs. Earley looked after the chickens, and when she had exchanged the news with Jan, and rather tearfully admired "poor Mrs. Tancred's little 'uns," she escorted them all to the orchard to see the cocks and hens and chickens. Then they visited the stable, where Placid, the pony, was sole occupant. In former years Placid had been kept for the girls to drive in the governess-cart and to pull the heavy lawn-mower over the lawns. And Hannah had been wont to drive him into Amesberrow every Sunday, that she might attend the Presbyterian church there. She put him up at a livery-stable near her church and always paid for him herself. Anthony Ross usually had hired a motor for the summer months. Now they would depend entirely on Placid and a couple of bicycles for getting about. All round the walled garden did they go, and Meg played horses with the children up and down the broad paths while Jan discussed vegetables with Earley. And last of all they went to the back door to ask Hannah for milk and scones, for the keen, fresh air had made them all hungry.

Refreshed and very crumby, they were starting out again when Hannah laid a detaining hand on Jan's arm: "Could you speak a minute, Miss Jan?"

The children and Meg gone, Hannah led the way into the kitchen with an air of great mystery; but she did not shut the doors, as Anne Chitt was busy upstairs.

"What is it, Hannah?" Jan asked nervously, for she saw that this summons portended something serious.

"It's about Miss Morton I want to speak, Miss Jan. I was in hopes she'd never wear they play-acting claes down here ..." (when Hannah was deeply earnest she always became very Scotch), "but it seems I hoped in vain. And what am I to say to ither folk when they ask me about her?"

"What is there to say, Hannah, except that she is my dear friend, and by her own wish is acting as nurse to my sister's children?"

"I ken that; I'm no sayin' a word against that; but first of all she goes and crops her hair—fine hair she had too, though an awfu-like colour—and not content with flying in the face of Providence that way, she must needs dress like a servant. And no a weiss-like servant, either, but one o' they besoms ye see on the hoardings in London wha act in plays. Haven't I seen the pictures mysel'? 'The Quaker Gerrl,' or some such buddy."

"Oh, I assure you, Hannah, Miss Morton in no way resembles those ladies, and I can't see that it's any business of ours what she wears. You know that she certainly does what she has undertaken to do in the best way possible."

"I'm no saying a word against her wi' the children, and there never was a young lady who gave less trouble, save in the way o' tobacco ash, and was more ready to help—but yon haverals is very difficult to explain. You may understand, Miss Jan. I may say I understand—though I don't—but who's to make the like o' that Anne Chitt understand? Only this morning she keeps on at me wi' her questions like the clapper o' a bell. 'Is she a servant? If she's no, why does she wear servants' claes? Why does she have hair like a boy? Has she had a fever or something wrong wi' her heid? Is she one of they suffragette buddies and been in prison?'—till I was fair deeved and bade the lassie hold her tongue. But so it will be wherever Miss Morton goes in they fantastic claes. Now, Miss Jan, tell me the honest truth—did you ever see a self-respecting, respectable servant in the like o' yon? Does she look like any servant you've ever heard tell of out of a stage-play?"

"Not a bit, Hannah; she looks exactly like herself, and therefore not in the least like any other person. Don't you worry. Miss Morton requires no explanation. All we must do is to see that she doesn't overwork herself."

"Then ye'll no speak to her, Miss Jan?"

"Not I, Hannah. Why should I dictate to her as to what she wears? She doesn't dictate to me."

This was not strictly true, for Meg was most interfering in the matter of Jan's clothes. Hannah shook her head. "I thocht it my duty to speak, Miss Jan, and I'll say no more. But it's sheer defiance o' her Maker to crop her heid and to clothe herself in whim-whams, when she could be dressed like a lady; and I'm real vexed she should make such an object of herself when she might just be quite unnoticeable, sae wee and shelpit as she is."

"I'm afraid," said Jan, "that Miss Morton will never be quite unnoticeable, whatever she may wear. But don't let us talk about it any more. You understand, don't you, Hannah?"

When Jan's voice took that tone Hannah knew that further argument was unavailing.

Jan turned to go, and saw Tony waiting for her in the open doorway. Neither of them had either heard or seen him come.

Quite silently he took her hand and did not speak till they were well away from the house. Meg and little Fay were nowhere in sight. Jan wondered how much he had heard.

"She's a very proud cook, isn't she?" he said presently.

"She's a very old servant," Jan explained, "who has known me all my life."

"If," said Tony, as though after deep thought, "she gets very chubbelsome, you send for me. Then I will go to her and say 'Jao!'" Tony followed this up by some fluent Hindustani which, had Jan but known it, seriously reflected on the character of Hannah's female ancestry. "I'll say 'Jao!'," he went on. "I'll say it several times very loud, and point to the door. Then she'll roll up her bedding, and you'll give her money and her chits, and she will depart."

They had reached a seat. On this Jan sank, for the vision of Tony pointing majestically down the drive while little Hannah staggered into the distance under a rolled-up mattress, was too much for her.

"But I don't want her to go," she gasped. "I love her dearly."

"She should not speak to you like that; she scolded you," he said firmly. "She is a servant ... She is a servant?" he added doubtfully.

"How much did you hear of what she said? Did you understand?"

"I came back directly to fetch you, I thought she sounded cross. Mummy was afraid when people were cross; she liked me to be with her. I thought you would like me to be with you. If she was very rude I could beat her. I beat the boy—not Peter's boy, our boy—he was rude to Mummy. He did not dare to touch me because I am a sahib ... I will beat Hannah if you like."

Tony stood in front of Jan, very earnest, with an exceedingly pink nose, for the wind was keen. He had never before said so much at one time.

"Shall I go back and beat her?" he asked again.

"Certainly not," Jan cried, clutching Tony lest he should fly off there and then. "We don't do such things here at home. Nobody is beaten, ever. I'm sure Peter never beats his servants."

"No," Tony allowed. "A big sahib must not strike a servant, but I can, and I do if they are rude. She was rude about Meg."

"She didn't mean to be rude."

"She found fault with her clothes and her hair. She is a very proud and impudent cook."

"Tony dear, you really don't understand. She wasn't a bit rude. She was afraid other people might mistake Meg for a servant. She was all for Meg—truly she was."

"She scolded you," he rejoined obstinately.

"Not really, Tony; she didn't mean to scold."

Tony looked very hard at Jan.

In silence they stared at one another for quite a minute. Jan got up off the seat.

"Let's go and find the others," she said.

"She is a very proud cook," Tony remarked once more.

Jan sighed.

* * * * *

That night while she was getting ready for bed Tony woke up. His cot was placed so that he could see into Jan's room, and the door between was always left open. She was standing before the dressing-table, taking down her hair.

Unlike the bedrooms at the flat, the room was not cold though both the windows were open. Wren's End was never cold, though always fresh, for one of Anthony's earliest improvements had been a boiler-house and central heating, with radiators set under the windows, so that they could always stand open.

Jan had not put on her dressing-gown, and her night-dress had rather short, loose sleeves that fell back from her arms as she raised them.

He watched the white arm wielding the brush with great pleasure; he decided he liked to look at it.

"Auntie Jan!"

She turned and flung her hair back from her face in a great silver cloud.

"You awake, sonny! Did I make a noise?"

"No, I just woke. Auntie Jan, will Daddie ever come here?"

"I expect so."

"Well, listen. If he does, he shan't take your things, your pretty twinkly things. I won't let him."

Jan stood as if turned to stone.

"He took Mummy's. I saw him; I couldn't stop him, I was so little. But she said—she said it twice before she went away from that last bungalow—she said: 'Take care of Auntie Jan, Tony; don't let Daddie take her things.' So I won't."

Tony was sitting up. His room was all in darkness; two candles were lit on Jan's dressing-table. He could see her, but she couldn't see him.

She came to him, stooped over him, and laid her cheek against his so that they were both veiled with her hair. "Darling, I don't think poor Daddie would want to take my things. You must try not to think hardly of Daddie."

Tony parted the veil of hair with a gentle hand so that they could both see the candles.

"You don't know my Daddie ... much," he said, "do you?"

Jan shuddered.

"I saw him," he went on in his queer little unemotional voice. "I saw him take all her pretty twinkly things; and her silver boxes. I'm glad I sleep here."

"Did she mind much?" Jan whispered.

"I don't know. She didn't see him take them, only me. She hadn't come to bed. She never said nothing to me—only about you."

"I don't expect," Jan made a great effort to speak naturally, "that Daddie would care about my things ... It's different, you see."

"I'm glad I sleep here," Tony repeated, "and there's William only just across the passage."



CHAPTER XVI

"THE BLUDGEONINGS OF CHANCE"

They had been at Wren's End nearly three weeks, and sometimes Jan wondered if she appeared to Tony as unlike her own conception of herself as Tony's of his father was unlike what she had pictured him.

She knew Hugo Tancred to be dishonest, shifty, and wholly devoid of a sense of honour, but she had up till quite lately always thought of him as possessing a lazy sort of good-nature.

Tony was changing this view.

He was not yet at all talkative, but every now and then when he was alone with her he became frank and communicative, as reserved people often will when suddenly they let themselves go. And his very simplicity gave force to his revelations.

During their last year together in India it was evident that downright antagonism had existed between Hugo Tancred and his little son. Tony had weighed his father and found him wanting; and it was clear that he had tried to insert his small personality as a buffer between his father and mother.

Jan talked constantly to the children of their mother. Her portraits, Anthony's paintings and sketches, were all over the house, in every variety of happy pose. One of the best was hung at the foot of Tony's cot. The gentle blue eyes seemed to follow him in wistful benediction, and alone in bed at night he often thought of her, and of his home in India. It was, then, quite natural that he should talk of them to this Auntie Jan who had evidently loved his mother well; and from Tony Jan learned a good deal more about her brother-in-law than she had ever heard from his wife.