"My dear Pennie,—Dickie got up and had chicken for dinner to-day, and was very frackshus. Ambrose is in bed still. He has Guy Manring read aloud to him, and he will toss his arms out of bed at the egsiting parts; so mother says she must leave off. David and I have lessons. David said yesterday he would rather have meesles than do his sums, so Miss Grey said he was ungrateful. I never play with the dolls now. If you were here we could play their having meesles, but it is no good alone. Baby had the meesles worst of all. Doctor Banks comes every day. He has a new grey horse. Have you been to see old Nurse lately? and have you seen Kettles? Dickie sends you these sugar kisses she made herself. She burnt her fingers and screamed for nearly an hour.—Your loving sister, Nancy Hawthorne."

Pennie answered these letters fully, and moreover, in case she might forget anything, she kept a diary, and wrote something in it at the end of each day. Sometimes there was so little to put down that she had to make some reflections, or copy a piece of poetry to fill it up; but it was a comfort to her to think that some day she should read it over with Nancy and Ambrose.

Meanwhile, this visit of Pennie's, which was to her a kind of exile, was a very different matter to Miss Unity. Day by day Pennie's comfort, Pennie's improvement, Pennie's pleasure filled her thoughts more and more, and it became strange to think of the time when the little pink-chintz room had been empty.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

KETTLES AGAIN.

Pennie sat one afternoon sewing wearily a way at a long seam. Sometimes she looked at the clock, sometimes out of the window, and sometimes dropped her work into her lap, until Miss Unity gave a grave look, and then she took it up and plodded on again.

For Miss Unity had discovered another point in which Pennie needed improvement. Her sewing was disgraceful! Now was the moment to take it in hand, for she had no lessons to learn and a great deal of spare time which could not be better employed; so it was arranged that one hour should be spent in "plain needlework" every afternoon.

"Every gentlewoman, my dear, should be apt at her needle," said Miss Unity with quiet firmness. "It is a branch of education as important in its way as any other, and I should grieve if you were to fail in it."

"But it does make me ache all over so," said poor Pennie.

"My dear Pennie, that must be fancy. Surely it is much more fatiguing to sit stooping over your writing so long, yet I never hear you complain."

"Well, but I like it, you see," answered Pennie, "so I suppose that's why I don't ache."

"It is neither good for you nor profitable to others," said Miss Unity seriously. "You may dislike your needle, but you cannot deny that it is more useful than your pen."

So Pennie submitted, and argued no more. With a view to making the work more attractive, her godmother gave her a new work-box with a shiny picture of the Cathedral on the lid. Every afternoon, with this beside her, Pennie, seated stiffly in a straight chair with her shoulders well pressed up against the back, passed an hour of great torture, which Miss Unity felt sure was of immense benefit to her.

The room in which they sat looked out into the Close. It increased Pennie's misery this afternoon to see how bright and pleasant everything was outside, how the sunlight played about the carved figures on the west front of the Cathedral, how the birds darted hither and thither, and how the fallen leaves danced and whirled in the breeze. Everything was gay and active, while she must sit fastened to that dreadful chair, and push her needle in and out of the unyielding stuff.

First the back of her neck ached, so that she felt she must poke her head out, and Miss Unity looking up, said, "Draw in your chin, my dear." Then she felt that she must at any cost kick out her legs one after the other, and Miss Unity said, "Don't fidget, my dear. A lady always controls her limbs." It was wonderful to see how long her godmother could sit quite still, and to hear her thimble go "click, click," so steadily with never a break. It was as constant as the tick of the clock on the mantel-piece. Would that small hand never reach the hour of three?

Nurse's proverb of a "watched kettle never boils" came into Pennie's mind, and she resolved not to look at the clock again until the hour struck. The word "kettle" made her think of Kettles and of Nancy's last letter, and she wondered whether Miss Unity would go to the College that afternoon, as she had half promised. Those thoughts carried her a good way down the seam, and meanwhile the hands of the clock crept steadily on until the first stroke of three sounded deeply from the Cathedral. Pennie jumped up, threw her work on the table, and stretched out her arms.

"Oh how glad I am!" she cried, spreading out her cramped fingers one by one. "And now, may we go and see old Nurse?"

Miss Unity looked up from her work, hesitating a little. Pennie was always making her do things at odd hours, upsetting the usual course of events, and introducing all sorts of disturbing ideas.

"Well, dear," she said, "the morning is our time for walking, isn't it?"

"But this morning it rained," said Pennie; "and now look, only look, dear Miss Unity, how beautiful it is—do let us go."

She went close to her godmother and put her arm coaxingly round her neck. Miss Unity gave in at once.

"Well, then, we will go," she said, rising to look out of the window. "But it's very damp, Pennie. Put on goloshes, and a waterproof, for I think we shall have more rain."

Nothing could have shown Pennie's influence more strongly than Miss Unity's consenting to leave the house just after it had rained, or just before it was going to rain. Damp was dreadful, and mud was a sort of torture, but it had become worse than either to deny Pennie a pleasure, and they presently set out for the College shrouded in waterproofs, though the sun was now shining brightly.

Old Nurse was at home, and received them with great delight. Miss Unity and she had so much to say to each other about the measles at Easney, and other matters, that Pennie began to fear it might be difficult to get in a word upon any subject more interesting to herself. She was quite determined, however, to do it if possible, and the thought of how bold Nancy would be in like circumstances gave her courage. She would be bold too when the moment came, and she sat watching for it, her eyes fixed on Nurse's face, and a sentence all ready to thrust in at the first crevice in the conversation.

At last it came.

"Does Kettles' mother still come and scrub for you?" she asked, shooting out the sentence so suddenly that Miss Unity started.

"Lor', now, Miss Pennie, what a memory you have got to be sure!" exclaimed old Nurse with sincere admiration. "To think of your remembering that! No, she doesn't, poor soul, and I begin to doubt if she ever will again."

"Why?" asked Pennie breathlessly.

"She's been down with rheumatic fever these three weeks," said Nurse, shaking her head regretfully. "It's a poor woman who lives close by, Miss,"—turning to Miss Unity—"a very sad case."

"She knows," interrupted Pennie, for she thought it a great waste of time to explain matters all over again.

"My dear," corrected Miss Unity, "let Mrs Margetts speak."

"I run over to see her sometimes," continued old Nurse, "and take her a morsel of something, but it beats me to understand how those people live. There's five children, and the only person earning anything, laid on her back."

"Don't they get parish relief?" inquired Miss Unity with a look of distress. "They ought to have an allowance from the sick fund. Who visits them?"

"It's my belief," said old Nurse lowering her voice, "that no one ever goes nigh them at all. You see, Miss, the husband takes more than is good for him, and then he gets vi'lent and uses bad language. Of course the ladies who visit don't like that."

"I can quite understand it," said Miss Unity, drawing herself up.

"Of course you can, Miss," said old Nurse soothingly. "Now I don't mind him at all myself. I don't take any count of what he says, and I always think 'hard words break no bones;' but it's different for such as you."

"Who looks after the poor thing while she's so ill and helpless?" asked Miss Unity, taking out her purse.

"That's the wonder of it," said Nurse. "The eldest's a girl of Miss Pennie's age, but not near so big. That child would shame many grown-up people, Miss, by the way she carries on. Nurses her mother and looks after the children, (there's a baby in arms), and she's on her feet from morning till night. If it wasn't for Kettles they'd all have been in the workhouse long ago."

Miss Unity here offered some money, but Nurse shook her head sagely.

"No use to give 'em money, Miss. He'd get hold of it and drink it in no time."

"Well, you must spend it for the poor woman in the way you think best," said Miss Unity, "and let me know when you want more."

Pennie had listened eagerly to every word. Here indeed was news of Kettles and her family at last. How interested Nancy would be!

"Oh!" she exclaimed, taking her godmother's hand, "do let me go to see them with Nurse and take them the things she buys."

But to this Miss Unity would not listen for a moment. She would not even consider such a thing possible. All she would promise was that they would soon come again to the College and hear from Mrs Margetts how the poor woman was getting on, and with this Pennie was obliged to be contented.

Miss Unity herself was strangely stirred and interested by what she had been told. The story of Kettles and her mother seemed to cast a different light on Anchor and Hope Alley, that "scandal to Nearminster," as the dean had called it. She had always considered it the abode of outcasts and wickedness, but surely it could not be right that these people should remain uncared for and uncomforted in sickness and want. They were surrounded by clergymen, district visitors, schools, churches, societies of all sorts established on purpose for their help, and yet here was Kettles' mother three weeks down with the rheumatism, and only a little child to look after her. What did it mean?

And then, Miss Unity went on to think, her mind getting tangled with perplexity, what of their spiritual privileges? The great Cathedral lifted its spire and pointed heavenwards in vain for them, so near, yet so very far-off. The peace and rest of its solemn silence, the echo of its hymn and praise were useless; it was an unknown land to Anchor and Hope Alley. They were as much shut out from all it had to give as those dusky inhabitants of another country with whose condition Nearminster had lately been concerned. Pennie's words occurred to Miss Unity. "I know Anchor and Hope Alley, and that makes it so much nicer." She looked down at her side—where was Pennie?

Now while Miss Unity had been walking along in silence, her mind full of these thoughts and her eyes turned absently away from outward things, Pennie had been sharply observant of all that was going on in the High Street through which they were passing. Nothing escaped her, and the minute before Miss Unity noted her absence she had caught sight of a familiar figure in the distance, and had dashed across the road without a thought of consequences. When her godmother's startled glance discovered her she was standing at the entrance of Anchor and Hope Alley, and by her side was a figure of about her own height.

And what a figure! Three weeks of nursing, scrubbing, minding children and running errands had not improved poor Kettles' appearance. The same old bonnet, which Pennie remembered, hung back from her head, but it was more crushed and shapeless; the big boots had large holes in them, and the bony little hand, which clasped a bottle to her chest, was more like a black claw than ever. When Miss Unity reached them the children were staring at each other in silence, Pennie rather shy, and Kettles with a watchful glimmer in her eyes as though prepared to defend herself if necessary. Miss Unity took Pennie's hand.

"My dear," she said breathlessly, "how could you? I was so alarmed."

"This is Kettles," was Pennie's answer, "and she says her mother isn't any better."

"Don't you belong to the Provident Club?" asked Miss Unity, with a faint hope that Nurse might have been wrong.

"No, 'um," said Kettles, looking up at the strange lady.

"Nor the Clothing Club, nor the Coal Club? Does nobody visit your mother?" asked Miss Unity again.

"Nobody don't come 'cept Mrs Margetts from the College," said Kettles. "Father says—"

"Oh, never mind that!" said Miss Unity hastily, "we don't want to know."

"Please let her talk," put in Pennie beseechingly. "Father says," continued Kettles, her sharp eyes glancing rapidly from one face to the other, "as how he won't have no 'strict ladies in his house; nor no pa'sons nuther," she added.

As these last dreadful words passed Kettles' lips the dean, rosy and smiling, went by on the other side arm in arm with another clergyman. Could he have heard them? He gave a look of surprise at the group as he took off his hat. Poor Miss Unity felt quite unnerved by this unlucky accident, and hardly knew what to say next.

"But—" she stammered, "that isn't kind or—or nice, of your father, when they want to come and see you and do you good."

"Father says he doesn't want doing good to," said Kettles, shutting her lips with a snap.

Miss Unity felt incapable of dealing further with Kettles' father. She changed the subject hurriedly.

"What have you in that bottle?" she asked. "It would be better to spend your money on bread."

"Oils to rub mother with," answered Kettles with a pinched smile; then with a business-like air she added, "I can't stop talking no longer, she's alone 'cept the children. If the baby was to crawl into the fire she couldn't move to stop him, not if he was burnt ever so."

Without further leave-taking she dived down the dark alley at a run, her big boots clattering on the flag-stones.

Pennie felt very glad to have met and talked to Kettles at last, and as she and her godmother went on, she made up her mind to write to Nancy that very night and tell her all about it; also to write a long description of the meeting in her diary. She was just putting this into suitable words when Miss Unity spoke.

"I have thought of something, Pennie, that would be nice for you to do for that little girl—Keturah her name is, I think."

"She's never called by it," said Pennie. "Don't you think Kettles suits her best, and it's far easier to say."

"Not to me!" answered Miss Unity. "I do not like the name at all. But what I want to suggest is this; you are anxious to do something for her, are you not?"

"I told you about it, you know," said Pennie seriously. "Nancy and I mean to collect for some boots and stockings. Did you see her boots? I should think they must have been her father's, shouldn't you?"

"I don't wish to think about her father in any way," said Miss Unity with a slight shudder, "but I should like to do something for the poor mother and the little girl. Now it seems to me that we could not do better than make her a set of underlinen. I would buy the material, Betty would cut out the clothes from patterns of yours, and you and I would make them. This would give you an object for your needlework, and you would not find it so wearisome perhaps."

She spoke quite eagerly, for she felt that she had hit upon an excellent scheme which would benefit both Pennie and Keturah. It was new and interesting, besides, to take an independent step of this kind instead of subscribing to a charity, as she had hitherto done when she wished to help people.

It may be questioned whether Pennie looked upon the plan with equal favour, but she welcomed it as a sign that Miss Unity was really beginning to take an interest in Kettles. She would have preferred the interest to show itself in any other way than needlework, but it was much better than none at all, and, "I should have to work anyway," she reflected.

"I don't see why, Pennie," said her godmother hesitatingly, "we should not buy the material this afternoon."

Pennie could see no reason against it, in fact it seemed natural to her that after you had thought of a thing you should go and do it at once. To Miss Unity, however, used to weigh and consider her smallest actions, there was something rash and headlong in it.

"Perhaps we had better think it over and do it to-morrow," she said, pausing at the door of a linen-draper's shop.

"Kettles wants clothes very badly," said Pennie, "and I shall be a long while making them. I should think we'd better get it now. But shall you go to Bolton's?" she added; "mother always goes to Smith's."

"Bolton's" was a magnificent place in Pennie's eyes. It was the largest shop in the High Street, and she had heard her mother call it extravagantly dear. Miss Unity, however, would not hear of going anywhere else. She had always dealt at Bolton's; they supplied the materials for the Working Societies and the choristers' surplices, and had always given satisfaction. So Pennie, with rather an awed feeling, followed her godmother into the shop, and was soon much interested in her purchases; also in the half-confidential and wholly respectful remarks made from time to time across the counter by Mrs Bolton, who had bustled forward to serve them. Her husband was a verger at the Cathedral, and this justified her in expressing an interest from a discreet distance in all that went on there.

"Quite a stir in the town since the bishop's sermon, Miss," she remarked as she placed a pile of calico on the counter. "I think this will suit your purpose—if not too fine."

"I was thinking of unbleached," said Miss Unity, "such as we use for the Working Societies. Yes, it was a very fine sermon."

Mrs Bolton retired into the back of the shop, and reappeared with a boy carrying another large bale.

"This will be the article then," she said, unrolling it, "and certainly more suitable too. Yes, there's nothing talked of now but the missions. Is he a coloured gentleman, do you know, Miss, or does the climate produce that yellow look he has? Six yards, and some Welsh flannel. Thank you."

It was rather alarming to Pennie to see such quantities of calico measured off without shape or make, and to think how far her needle would have to travel before it took the form of clothes for Kettles. She sat soberly eyeing it, and following the rapid course of Mrs Bolton's scissors.

"I wish I could work as fast as she cuts," she thought to herself, "they'd be ready in no time."

"You'll no doubt be present at the Institute on Friday, Miss," resumed Mrs Bolton after the flannel was disposed of. "I'm told the dissolving views will be something quite out of the common. This is a useful width in tape."

"I will take two pieces of the narrow, thank you," said Miss Unity, "and that will be all. Yes, I think perhaps I may go."

"What did she mean by dissolving views?" asked Pennie on the way home.

"They are coloured pictures, my dear;" said her godmother after some consideration, "which fade imperceptibly one into the other."

"Are they like a magic lantern?" continued Pennie. "What are the pictures about?"

"Various subjects," answered Miss Unity; "but these will represent scenes from the Karawayo Islands. There is to be a missionary address."

"Haven't we done a lot this afternoon?" said Pennie, as they turned into the Close. "Lots we never meant to do."

It was true indeed as far as Miss Unity was concerned; she had seldom spent such an afternoon in her life. She had been taken out for a walk in the mud, with rain threatening; she had talked in the open High Street, under the very eye of the dean, with a little vagrant out of Anchor and Hope Alley; she had of her own accord, unadvised and unassisted, formed an original plan, and not only formed it, but taken the first step towards carrying it out. Miss Unity hardly knew herself and felt quite uncertain what she might do next, and down what unknown paths she might find herself hurrying. In spite, however, of some fatigue and a sense of confusion in the head, she sat down to tea in a cheerful and even triumphant spirit.

Pennie, too, had a great deal to think over after she had written to Nancy, and made a careful entry in her diary. It had been such a nice afternoon, and it came just when she had been feeling a little discontented and tired of Nearminster. There were the dissolving views, too.

Did Miss Unity mean to take her to the Institute on Friday? Pennie had been to very few entertainments. The circus at Easney, and the fair at Cheddington made up her experience, and she thought she should like to go very much. The address would not be very interesting if it were like the bishop's sermon, but the pictures fading one into the other had a beautiful sound; and then it was to be in the evening, which would involve stopping up late, and this was in itself agreeable and unusual. She went to sleep with this on her mind, and it was the first thing she thought of in the morning.

When she entered the breakfast-room her godmother was reading a note.

"Pennie, my dear," she said, "here is a very kind invitation from the deanery. We are asked to go there to tea, and afterwards to see the dissolving views at the Institute."

Pennie sat down very soberly at the table. All the pleasure to be got out of the dissolving views would be spoilt if they were to be preceded by such a trial.

"You will like that, won't you?" said Miss Unity anxiously.

"I'd much rather be going alone with you," said Pennie.

"That's very nice of you," answered Miss Unity with a gratified smile; "but I expect some of the Merridew girls are going too, and I know it is natural for you to enjoy being with your young friends."

"They're not exactly friends, you see," said Pennie thoughtfully; "although, of course, I do know them, because I see them every week at the dancing. But there's nothing we care to talk about."

"That will come in time," said Miss Unity encouragingly.

Pennie did not contradict her, but she felt sure in her own mind that it would never come, and she now looked forward to Friday with very mixed feelings. "I only hope I shall have tea in the school-room," she said to herself, "because then I sha'n't see the dean."

But things turned out unfortunately, for when Miss Unity and Pennie, in their best dresses, arrived on Friday evening at the deanery they were both shown into the drawing-room. There were a good many guests assembled, and two of the girls were there, but the first person who caught Pennie's eye was the dean himself, standing on the rug, coffee-cup in hand, smiling and talking. She shrank into the background as much as she could, and sat down by Sabine Merridew in the shelter of a curtain, hoping that no one would notice her in this retired position.

And at first this seemed likely, for everyone had a great deal to say to each other, and there was a general buzz of conversation all over the room. Pennie soon grew secure enough to listen to what the dean was saying to Miss Unity, who had taken a seat near him. He stood before her with upraised finger, while she, fearful of losing a word, neglected her tea and refused any kind of food, gazing at him with rapt attention.

This missionary address at the Institute, he was telling her, was an idea of his own. He wanted to keep up the impression made by the bishop's sermon. "That, my dear Miss Unity," he said, "is our great difficulty—not so much to make the impression as to keep it up. To my mind, you know, that's a harder matter than just to preach one eloquent sermon and go away. The bishop's lighted the torch and we must keep it burning—keep it burning—"

"Sabine," said Mrs Merridew, raising her voice, "has Penelope any cake?"

The dean caught the name at once.

"What!" he said, looking round, "is my old friend Miss Penelope there?"

The dreaded moment had come. How Pennie wished herself anywhere else!

"And how," said the dean, gently stirring his coffee and preparing to be facetious—"how does that long job of needlework get on, Mrs Penelope?"

Did he mean Kettles' clothes? Pennie wondered. How could he know?

"I've only just begun," she answered nervously, twisting her hands together.

There was such a general sound of subdued laughter at this from the guests, who had all kept silence to listen to the dean's jokes, that Pennie saw she had said something silly, though she had no idea what it could be. All the faces were turned upon her with smiles, and the dean, quite ignorant of the misery he was causing her, drank up his coffee well pleased.

"And so," he continued, as he put down his cup, "you're going to see the dissolving views. And are you as much interested in the Karawayo missions as my young folks?"

Poor Pennie! She was a rigidly truthful child, and she knew there could be only one answer to this question. Miss Unity had told her that the Merridew girls were very much interested, whereas she knew she was not interested at all. Deeply humiliated, and flushing scarlet, she replied in a very small voice, "No."

The dean raised his eyebrows.

"Dear me, dear me!" he said, pretending to be shocked. "How's this, Miss Unity? We must teach your god-daughter better."

Pennie felt she could not bear to be held up to public notice much longer. The hot tears rose in her eyes; if the dean asked her any more questions she was afraid she should cry, and that, at her age, with everyone looking at her, would be a lasting disgrace.

At this moment sympathy came from an unexpected quarter. A hand stole into hers, and Sabine's voice whispered:

"Don't mind. I don't care for them either."

It was wonderfully comforting. Pennie gulped down her tears and tried to smile her thanks, and just then general attention was turned another way. Some one asked Dr Merridew if he were going to the Institute that evening.

"I'm extremely sorry to say no," he replied, his smiles disappearing, and his lips pursed seriously together. "Important matters keep me at home. But I much regret it."

All the guests much regretted it also, except Pennie, who began to feel a faint hope that she might after all enjoy herself if the dean were not going too.

The party set out a little later to walk to the Institute, which was quite a short distance off.

"May I sit by you?" asked Pennie, edging up to her newly-found friend, Sabine.

She was a funny little girl, rather younger than Nancy, with short black curls all over her head, and small twinkling eyes. Pennie had always thought she liked her better than the others, and now she felt sure of it.

"Do you like dissolving views or magic lanterns best?" she went on.

"Magic lanterns much," said Sabine promptly. "You see dissolving views are never funny at all. They're quite serious and teachy."

"What are they about?" asked Pennie.

"Oh! sunsets, and palm-trees, and natives, and temples, and things like that," said Sabine. "I don't care about them at all, but Joyce likes them, so perhaps you will."

"Why do you come, if you don't like them?" asked Pennie.

"Because it's my turn and Joyce's," said Sabine. "We always go to things in twos; there are six of us, you see."

"So there are of us," said Pennie, "only Baby doesn't count because she's too young to go to things. There isn't often anything to go to in Easney, but when there is we all five go at once. Dickie wouldn't be left out for anything."

By the time the Institute was reached they had become quite confidential, and Pennie had almost forgotten her past sufferings in the pleasure of finding a companion nearer her own age than Miss Unity. She told Sabine all about her life at home, the ages of her brothers and sisters, and their favourite games and pets.

She was indeed quite sorry when the missionary began his address, and they were obliged to be silent and listen to him, for she would have been more interested in continuing the conversation. It was, however, so pleasant to have found a friend that other things did not seem to matter so much; even when the dissolving views turned out to be dull in subject though very dazzling in colour she bore the disappointment calmly, and that evening she added in her diary, "By this we see that things never turn out as we expect them to."

Miss Unity might have said the same. It was strange to remember how she had dreaded Pennie's visits, for now it was almost equally dreadful to think of her going home. Little by little something had sprung up in Miss Unity's life which had been lying covered up and hidden from the light for years. Pennie's unconscious touch had set it free to put forth its green leaves and blossoms in the sunshine. How would it flourish without her?



CHAPTER NINE.

DR. BUDGE.

We must now leave Pennie at Nearminster for a while and return to Easney, where things had been quite put out of their usual order by the arrival of the measles. The whole house was upset and nothing either in nursery or school-room went on as usual, for everything had to give way to the invalids.

There was always someone ill. First Dickie, who took it "very hard," Nurse said. Then just as she was getting better the baby sickened, and before anxiety was over about her, Ambrose began to complain and shortly took to his bed. Only Nancy and David showed no signs of it, and to their great annoyance had to continue their lessons as usual, and share in none of the privileges of being ill.

They were particularly jealous of Ambrose, who seemed to have all manner of treats just now—mother reading aloud to him the sort of books he liked best, cook making jellies for him, and Nurse constantly to be met on the stairs carrying something very nice on a tray. Nancy and David not only felt themselves to be of no importance at all, but if they made the least noise in the house they were at once sharply rebuked. They began to think it was their turn to be petted and coaxed, and have everyone waiting on them; but to their own disappointment and the relief of the household their turn never came, and they remained in the most perfect health.

Perhaps Ambrose, in spite of all his privileges, did not feel himself much to be envied. It was nice, of course, to have mother reading Ivanhoe aloud, and to be surrounded by attention, and for everyone to be so particularly kind, but there were other things that were not nice. It was not nice to have such bad headaches, or to lie broad awake at night and feel so hot, and try in vain to find a cool place in bed. And it was not nice to have such funny dreams, half awake and half asleep, in which he was always fighting or struggling with something much stronger than himself.

Through all these conflicts he had a confused sense that if he overcame his enemy his father would trust him again, for since the adventure of the crock the vicar's words had always been on Ambrose's mind. He had been continually on the look-out for some great occasion in which he might prove that he was trustworthy, and now that he was feverish and ill this idea haunted him in all sorts of strange shapes. Sometimes it was a tall black knight in mailed armour, with whom he must fight single-handed; sometimes a great winged creature covered with scales; sometimes a swift thing like a lizard which he tried to catch and could not, and which wearied him by darting under rocks and through crevices where he could not follow.

But whatever shape they took, in one respect Ambrose's dreams were always alike—he was never successful. Always striving, and pursuing, and fighting, and never victorious, it was no wonder that he was worn out and quite exhausted when morning came. As he got better, and the fever left him, the dreams left him too, but the idea that had run through them was still there, and he thought about it a great deal.

What could he do to make his father trust him? He pondered over this question in his own mind without talking of it to anyone. If Pennie had been there he could have told her about it, but he knew Nancy would only laugh, so he kept it to himself and it got stronger every day. This was partly because he had so much more time than usual on his hands, before he was considered quite well enough to go into the school-room and employ himself with the others. He was allowed, however, to sit up and to read as many story-books as he liked. They were full of stirring adventure and hairbreadth escape. It was quite a common everyday thing in them for a boy to save a person's life and risk his own. Why could not something of the same nature happen at Easney?

Certainly it was a very quiet place, with no wild animals or dangerous mountains, but still there might be a chance even at Easney of doing something remarkable. Dickie might tumble into a pond and he might save her life—only there was no water deep enough to drown her, and if there were he could not swim. Or the house might catch fire. That would do better. It would be in the night, and Ambrose would be the only one awake, and would have to rouse his father, who slept at the other end of the house. He would wrap himself in a blanket, force his way through smothering smoke and scorching flames, cross over burning planks with bare feet, climb up a blazing flight of stairs just tottering before they fell with a crash, and finally stand undismayed at his father's side. Then he could say quietly, "Father, the house is on fire, but do not be alarmed;" and his father would soon put everything right. After which he would turn to Ambrose and say, "My son, you have saved our lives by your courage and presence of mind. Henceforth I know that I can trust you."

How easy and natural all this seemed in fancy!

It was late in October when the doctor paid his last visit to the Vicarage and declared everyone to be quite well again, but he advised change of air for Dickie, who did not get very strong. Shortly afterwards, therefore, it was settled that she and the baby should go away for a month with Mr and Mrs Hawthorne. This would leave only Ambrose, Nancy, and David at home with Miss Grey, and the nursery would be empty, which seemed a very strange state of things. But there was something else settled which was stranger still to Ambrose, and he hardly knew if he liked or dreaded it. He was to go every morning to learn Latin with Dr Budge.

Although it was strange, it was not a new idea, only it had been talked of so long that he had come to feel it would never really happen. He knew how vexed his father was that he could not give more regular time and attention to teaching him Latin. When he knocked at the study door with his books under his arm, it often happened that the vicar would be full of other business, and say, "I can't have you this morning, Ambrose, we must do double another day." But when the next time came it was often the same thing over again, so that Ambrose's Latin did not get on much.

Lately his father had said more often than ever, "I really will try to arrange with Dr Budge," and now it had actually been done.

Now Dr Budge was an old book-worm, supposed to be engaged in writing some mighty and learned work, who lived in a cottage on the Nearminster road. The children knew it and its owner very well, for it was not more than half a mile from the rectory, and they passed it whenever they drove into Nearminster. Its casement window was generally open, so that they could see him bending over his papers with his greenish wig pushed back from his forehead, and his large nose almost touching the top of his pen. The doctor was a tall, portly person with a red face, and had the air of being deeply occupied with some inward subject, so that he could spare no attention to outward things.

When he came to see their father, to whom he paid long visits, the children never expected him to notice them, or even to know them apart from each other, though he must have seen them so often. If the doctor ventured on a name it was always the wrong one, and lately he seemed to think it best to call them all "David," which saved trouble and which no one thought of correcting.

And now he was to be Ambrose's master. There was something rather awful in it, though at the same time there was a good deal to be proud of in having a master all to one's self. Ambrose wondered what Pennie would think of it, and wished she were at home that he might hear her opinion.

"Of course he'll call you 'David,'" said Nancy, "and I should think he'd often forget you're in the room at all. Wouldn't that be fun?"

"Father's going to take me to see him to-morrow," said Ambrose. "Perhaps if he says very plainly 'This is my son Ambrose,' Dr Budge will remember."

"Not a bit likely," said Nancy. "He met me in the garden the last time he was here, and said, 'How are you, David?' Now you know I'm not a bit like David. I don't believe he sees us at all when he looks at us."

"I think," said Ambrose, "that when people are very wise and know a great deal, that perhaps they always get like that."

"Then I like silly people best," said Nancy; but I don't believe that's true. Father's as wise as he can be, and he always knows people apart, and calls them by their right names.

On their way to the doctor's house the next day the vicar told Ambrose that it was a great honour and advantage to have such a master as Dr Budge.

"I hope you will always remember," he said, "that he is a great scholar and a very wise man, and that it is extremely kind of him to be willing to teach a little boy like you. It is out of friendship for me that he does it, and I think I can trust you to do your best, and at any rate not to give him more trouble than you need."

The word "trust" caught Ambrose's attention, and while his father went on talking he began to make all sorts of resolutions in his own mind. In this way he might show him what he could do, and regain his good opinion. He saw himself working so hard, and learning so fast, that Dr Budge would be struck with amazement. Nothing would be too difficult, no lesson too long. By the time they reached the doctor's gate Ambrose was master of the Latin tongue, and receiving praise and admiration from all his relations.

But now he had to come back to reality and to face his new master, who was a very solid fact, and he walked in by his father's side rather soberly. Everything was quite new and strange, for he had never been inside the cottage before.

They were shown straight into the study where the doctor sat at work. It was a long low room with a window at each end, one of which looked into the road and one into the little garden. The walls were lined with shelves, but there was not nearly enough room in them for the books, which had overflowed everywhere, on the table, on the chairs, on the window-seat, and on the floor, where they stood in great piles on each side of the doctor. He seemed to be quite built in with books as he sat at his writing, and rose from among them with difficulty to greet his visitors, stumbling as he advanced to shake hands.

Ambrose noticed with awe that he looked bigger indoors, and that his head almost touched the low ceiling when he stood upright.

"This is Ambrose," said the vicar, "your future pupil."

Ambrose held out his hand, but the doctor took no notice of it. He put one large finger under the boy's chin and turned his face upwards.

"Shall we make a scholar of you?" he asked in a deep voice.

Ambrose blinked helplessly up into the broad face so high above him, as much dazzled and confused as though he had been trying to stare at the sun.

His father laughed. "You will find him very ignorant, I fear," he said; "but I think he will be industrious."

"We shall see, we shall see," said the doctor, and his small eyes twinkled kindly. "By the way," he said, suddenly turning from Ambrose and lifting a great volume from the pile on the floor, "here is the passage I spoke of the other day."

They both bent over the book with such earnest attention that Ambrose knew they would say nothing more about him for some time. Much relieved, he edged himself on to the corner of a chair that was not quite covered with books and papers, and looked round him.

Many curious things caught his eye, huddled together without any order on the mantel-piece, and among the books on the window-seat—fossils and odd-looking shells, cobwebby bottles, in which floated strange objects without shape or make. Splendid things for a museum, thought Ambrose, as his eyes roved among them, but how dusty and untidy, and no labels. How careful he and David had been to keep their museum neat and well arranged! The poor museum! Since the unlucky venture with the crock there had not been one single curiosity added to it. Disgrace seemed to hang over it, and it was seldom spoken of among the children at all.

Dr Budge's curiosities brought all this back to Ambrose's mind, and he quite longed to dust and label them for him. He might be a very learned man, but he certainly was not an orderly one.

Coming to this conclusion, he turned his eyes to the window and discovered something there which interested him still more, for in a wicker cage above the doctor's head there was a lively little jackdaw. He was a smart active bird with glossy plumage, and looked strangely out of place amongst the quiet old brown books and dusty objects in the room. Ambrose gazed at him with satisfaction. He had a jackdaw at home, and when he saw this one he felt at once that he and his future master would have one thing in common if they both liked jackdaws. The bird's presence made him feel less shy and strange, so that Dr Budge was no longer quite such an awful person, and when he said good-bye he was able to look up at him of his own accord.

After this the day soon came when father, mother, Dickie, baby, and nurse were all driven off to the station with their boxes, and parcels, and bundles of shawls. Added to these, all sorts of toys were handed in at the last moment, which could not be packed, and which Dickie refused to leave behind. She had been allowed to have her own way more than ever since her illness, and now when she wanted to take all sorts of unreasonable things no one liked to oppose her. The black kitten was to go also, she had settled, but it was nowhere to be found when the party was starting, David having wisely shut it up in the museum. Andrew drove off quickly to catch the train, and the last to be seen of Dickie was a kicking struggling form in Nurse's arms, and a face heated with anger.

The house seemed strangely dull and empty when they were really gone, but perhaps Ambrose felt it least, for he had his new lessons to fill his thoughts, and his mind was firmly fixed on making wonderful progress before his father came back.

After one or two lessons, however, this did not seem such a very easy thing to do, for he soon began to find out how very little he knew, and to have a dim idea that there was an enormous quantity to learn.

What a wonderful lot Dr Budge must know, and he seemed to be always learning more! When he was not actually occupied with Ambrose's lessons he was so entirely taken up with his own writing that Nancy's remark was perhaps true—he had forgotten his pupil altogether!

And yet, when Ambrose said the lesson he had prepared, or ventured to ask some question about the exercise he was doing, Dr Budge's mind came back at once from its own pursuits. He gave the most earnest attention to Ambrose's little difficulties, and did not rest till he was sure that they were cleared away; then he took up his squeaking quill-pen again, gave a push to his wig, and scribbled away harder than ever.

During these hours of study the jackdaw's presence was a relief both to Ambrose and his master, though in a different way. As he sat opposite the cage, with one elbow on the table and his head resting on his hand, Ambrose would raise his eyes from his grammar to the wicker cage with a feeling of sympathy. He and Jack were both shut up in cages, only that Jack had no Latin to learn.

But the doctor went further than this. Sometimes he came to a stand-still in his writing, murmured to himself, frowned, walked heavily up and down the room, but found no way out of the difficulty. Then, as a last resource, he would open the door of Jack's cage and invite him to perch on his finger. Jack would step jauntily down, raising all the grey feathers on his head till it was twice its usual size. Absently, but with great tenderness, the doctor would scratch it with one large forefinger; then, suddenly, the word or sentence he sought returning to his mind, he would bundle Jack into his cage, snatch up his pen, and begin to write furiously. Jack never failed to repay him by a vicious dig at his hand, which was sometimes successful, but this the doctor never seemed to notice.

"Though," thought Ambrose as he watched all this in silence, "it must hurt him, because I know how hard jackdaws peck."

He would have liked a little conversation on the subject with his master, for he felt that though he did not know much Latin, he could hold his own about jackdaws. There had been many at the Vicarage, which had all come to unexpected or dreadful ends, and Ambrose was thoroughly acquainted with their ways and habits.

But he was still far too much in awe of Dr Budge to venture on any subject apart from his lessons, and he contented himself with watching him and his bird with the closest interest.

They were an odd pair of friends. One so trim and neat, with such slender legs and such a glossy black toilette; the other so crumpled and shabby, with no regard for appearances at all, and his clothes never properly brushed. As he held himself upright on the doctor's finger, the jackdaw had the air of considering himself far the superior being.

Things went on in this way for about a fortnight, and Ambrose felt quite as strange and far-away from Dr Budge as the day he had begun his lessons, when something happened which changed his ideas very much.

One morning, arriving at his usual hour with his books under his arm, and his exercise carefully written out, he was surprised to find the study empty. The doctor's chair was pushed back from the table as though he had risen hastily, and his pen was lying across his paper, where it had made a great blot of ink.

Lifting his eyes to the cage in the window, Ambrose saw that that was empty also; the little door was open, and there was no smart, active figure within. What did it all mean? While he was wondering, the doctor came slowly into the room with a troubled frown on his brow.

He greeted Ambrose, and sat down in his usual seat, but there was evidently something amiss with him, although he was as attentive as ever to his pupil's needs. Ambrose noticed, however, that when he had done saying his lessons, and had an exercise to write by himself, Dr Budge could not settle down as usual to his own work. After a short time he began to sigh and fidget, and then took his usual heavy walk up and down the room, stopping from force of habit at the jackdaw's cage, and half raising his hand as though to invite him to come out. When he had seen this several times, Ambrose longed to ask, "Is the jackdaw lost?" for he now began to feel sure this was the case. It was quite natural, he thought; jackdaws always did get lost, and he knew what a trouble it was sometimes to get them back. If the doctor would only talk about it he might be able to help him, but he had not the courage to open the subject himself.

So he went on with his lessons in silence, but by the time the hour came for him to go away, he had said the words over so often to himself that they seemed to come out without any effort of his own.

"Please, sir, have you lost the jackdaw?"

The doctor looked across the table. There was Ambrose's eager little face all aglow with sympathy and interest.

"I'm afraid so," he answered. "And what I fear is, that he has flown out of the window into the road. There is no trace of him in the garden."

"Was his wing cut?" inquired Ambrose, drawing nearer and looking up at the empty cage.

The doctor shook his head.

"Then, you see," said Ambrose gravely and instructively, "it'll be much more difficult to find him. He can fly ever so far, and even if he wanted to get back he might lose his way. Jackdaws always ought to have their wings cut."

"Ought they?" said the doctor humbly. He and his pupil seemed to have changed places. It was now Ambrose who took the lead, for he felt himself on firm ground.

"We lost two that hadn't got their wings cut," he continued, "so now we always cut their wings."

The doctor listened with the greatest respect, and seemed to weigh the matter in his mind. Then he said rather uncertainly:

"But how about the cats?"

Ambrose admitted that danger, but was still sure of his first point. It was best to cut a jackdaw's wing.

"I wonder," he said, looking at the other window, "if you're quite sure he's not in the garden. P'r'aps he's up in some tree."

The doctor shook his head.

"The garden has been thoroughly searched," he said. "There are very few trees there."

"Might I look?" asked Ambrose eagerly. Dr Budge meekly led the way into his little garden. Certainly there was not much room in it for the jackdaw to hide, and it only needed a glance to see that he was not there. The only possible place was in a large old medlar-tree which stood in the middle of the grass plot, with a wooden bench and table under it. It was nearly bare of leaves now, and a few sparrows were hopping about in its branches. Ambrose turned his eyes to the roof of a barn which ran along one side of the garden.

"P'r'aps he's flown over into the farm-yard," he said.

"I sent there early this morning," replied the doctor dejectedly, "and no one had seen the bird."

Big and learned as he was, he looked so cast, down that Ambrose forgot that he had ever been afraid of him, and only desired to give him comfort and help.

"Does he know the garden well?" he asked.

Dr Budge nodded. "His cage has often hung in the medlar-tree in the summer," he said, "when I've been sitting out here."

"Let's hang it there now," said Ambrose, "and p'r'aps if he gets hungry he'll come back to where he's been fed."

The doctor seemed a little cheered by this suggestion, and with Ambrose's help the cage was soon fixed in a good position in the medlar-tree, where the jackdaw could not fail to see it if he came back. All his favourite delicacies in the shape of food were then placed in it, and by this time it was long past Ambrose's usual hour for going home.

As they said good-bye, Dr Budge's eyes rested on him with a new expression. Ambrose felt sure he would never mistake him for David again, and would have confidence in his opinion for the future, at any rate about jackdaws. All the way home his mind was busy with plans for getting back the lost bird.



CHAPTER TEN.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

Ambrose told the story of the doctor's jackdaw at dinner-time to Miss Grey, Nancy, and David, who were all very much interested. The two latter began at once to recall memories of all the jackdaws who had lived at the Vicarage.

"Do you remember the one which flew away in the gale?" said Nancy. "David doesn't, of course. The wind blew the roof right off his house in the night, and we never saw him again."

"The next one was the one which swallowed a thimble," said David—"and died. And then mother said we mustn't have any more jackdaws. I remember that one."

"No," corrected Nancy, "that wasn't the next. The next was the one which got away for three days, and then the postman brought it back. Then came the one that swallowed the thimble, and then, the day after mother had said we were not to have another there came a strange one to Andrew's cottage, and he brought it here for us."

There was a little dispute about the order in which the jackdaws came, which led the conversation quite away from the doctor's loss. But after dinner, when the children were in the garden, Ambrose began to talk of it again.

"I wish," he said to David, "we could think of a way to help him to get it back."

David did not answer at first. He was looking at Andrew, who was sweeping the path at a little distance. Swish, swish, went his broom to right and left amongst the yellow leaves, leaving a bare space in the middle.

"Let's ask Andrew," said David suddenly.

Fortunately Andrew was in a good temper, and though he did not leave off sweeping he listened to the story with attention.

"We want your advice," said Ambrose when he had done.

Andrew stopped his broom for an instant, took off his tall black hat, and gazed into its depths silently.

"I should try a call-bird, master," he said as he put it on again.

"A call-bird?" repeated both the boys together.

Andrew nodded.

"Put a similar bird in a cage near to where t'other one used to be," he said, "and like enough it'll call the old un back."

The boys looked at him with admiration. They had a hundred questions to ask about call-birds, and Andrew's experience of them, but they soon found that it was of no use to try to make him talk any more. Andrew had said his say, and now he wanted to get on with his work.

"Isn't that a splendid thought?" said Ambrose as he and David turned away. "I shall take Jack over with me to-morrow morning in a basket, and put him into Dr Budge's cage."

"How do you suppose he'll call him back?" said David, who had become deeply interested. "P'r'aps he'll be miles and miles away."

"Well, if he can't hear he won't come," answered Ambrose; "but he may be quite near home, and only have lost his way."

"May I go with you?" was David's next question.

Ambrose hesitated. He felt that he would much rather have the whole thing in his own hands.

"You might let me help to carry him as far as the gate," pursued David. "After all, it was me that thought of asking Andrew."

"Well, then," said Ambrose, "you can ask Miss Grey if you may. But you won't want to come further than the gate?" he added in a warning tone.

David could readily promise that, for he was a good deal afraid of Dr Budge; and he ran off at once to get Miss Grey's consent.

This having been given, the two boys set off together the next morning, with Jack in a basket between them making hard angry pecks at the side of it the whole way.

They could see the doctor's cottage for some distance before they reached it, and presently the doctor himself came out and stood at the gate.

"When he sees the basket," remarked David, "he'll think we've found his jackdaw, or p'r'aps he'll think we're bringing him a new one. Won't he be disappointed?"

"I sha'n't give him time to think," said Ambrose. "I shall say, 'I've brought a call-bird,' directly I get to him."

David thought it would have been more to the purpose to say, "We've brought a call-bird," but he did not wish to begin a dispute just then, so he let the remark pass.

"Do you suppose," he said, "that he knows what a call-bird is?"

Ambrose gave a snort of contempt.

"Why, there's not a single thing he doesn't know," he answered. "He knows everything in the world."

David's awe increased as they got nearer to the cottage and Dr Budge, who stood with his hands in the pockets of his flannel dressing-gown watching their approach.

"You'd better go back now," said Ambrose when they were quite close. "I'll take the basket."

But David was not going to give up his rights, and he held firmly on to his side of the handle.

"You said I might carry it to the gate," he replied firmly; and thus, both the boys advancing, the basket was set down at the doctor's feet.

"It's a call-bird," said Ambrose very quickly, without waiting to say good-morning, while David fixed his broadest stare on the doctor's face to see the effect of the words.

Doctor Budge looked down at the basket, in which Jack now began to flutter restlessly, and then at the two boys.

"A call-bird, eh?" he said. "And what may a call-bird be?"

Ambrose felt that David was casting a glance of triumph at him. Dr Budge evidently did not know everything in the world. He wished David would go away, but in spite of the sharp nudge he had given him when they put the basket down, he showed no sign of moving. The meaning of the call-bird was soon made clear to the doctor, who listened attentively and said it seemed a very good idea, and that he was much obliged to them for telling him of it.

"It was Andrew who told us," broke in David, speaking for the first time. "We didn't either of us know it before."

"You'd better go home now," said Ambrose, who saw that David did not mean to notice any hints; "you'll be late for Miss Grey."

He took up the basket and gave his brother a meaning look. David's face fell. He would have liked to see Jack put into the cage, but he had promised not to want to go in. As he turned away rather unwillingly the doctor's voice fell on his ear.

"No," it said. "David shall stay too and help. I will ask Miss Grey to excuse him if he is late."

Very soon the two boys, with Dr Budge looking seriously on, had taken Jack out of his basket and put him, in spite of pecks and struggles, into the wicker cage. When this was hung in the medlar-tree just above the bench, he became more composed, and seemed even proud of his new position, but stood in perfect silence, turning his cold grey eye downwards on the doctor and the boys.

"He doesn't look as if he meant to call," remarked David, "but I daresay he'll wait till we're gone."

Although they were all unwilling to leave the jackdaw alone, it did not seem to be of any use to stay there looking at him any longer. The doctor and Ambrose therefore went indoors to their books, and David ran quickly home to his lessons. But it was harder work than usual to attend to Latin verbs and declensions, and Ambrose wondered if Dr Budge's thoughts were as much with the jackdaw as his own.

The window looking into the garden had been left a little open so that any unusual noise could be plainly heard in the room, but for some time only the squeak of the doctor's pen broke the silence. Ambrose began to despair. It would be very disappointing to find that the call-bird was a failure, and very sad for the doctor to be without a jackdaw. Should he give him his? He was fond of his jackdaw, but then he had other pets, and the doctor was so lonely. He had only old brown books and curiosities to bear him company.

Just as he was turning this over in his mind, there came a sudden and angry cawing noise from the garden. Ambrose looked up and met the doctor's eye; without a word they both started up and made for the garden.

There was such a noise that the medlar-tree seemed to be full of jackdaws engaged in angry dispute, but when they got close under it, they found that there were only two. Ambrose's bird stood in the wicker cage, making himself as tall and upright as he could, with all the feathers on his head proudly fluffed up. He was uttering short self-satisfied croaks, which seemed to add to the rage of the other bird perched on a bough immediately above him. With his wings outspread, his head flattened, and his beak wide open, he seemed beside himself with fury at finding the stranger in his house. Screaming and scolding at the top of his voice, he took no notice of Ambrose, who ran out before the doctor and jumped up on the bench under the tree.

"Isn't it splendid?" he cried, looking back at his master. "He's come back you see, and isn't he cross? Shall I try to get him down?"

In his excitement he spoke just as he would have done to David or Nancy.

"No, no," said the doctor hastily, his face redder than usual, and putting his hand on Ambrose's shoulder, "he doesn't know you, you'd scare him away. Let me come."

He mounted on the bench beside Ambrose and stretched his arm up through the boughs of the tree.

"He knows my voice," he said. "Come, then, Jack."

Jack's only reply was an angry hiss, and a peck delivered at the doctor's hand with the whole force of his body.

"You see he knows me," said the doctor smiling, "he always does that. He's a little out of temper just now."

"Hadn't you better throw a duster over his head?" said Ambrose eagerly; "that's a very good way to catch them."

"If he'd only let me scratch his poll," said the doctor, "he'd be all right directly, but I can't get at him."

They were now joined by the doctor's housekeeper, who came out with her arms folded in her apron to see what was going on. She stood looking at the doctor's vain exertions a moment, and then said:

"Best take away t'other, master, he'll never come to ye else."

"Why, I wonder we never thought of that!" said the doctor at once, lifting the cage off the bough. "I'm much obliged to you, Mrs Gill. Perhaps you'd kindly take it indoors out of sight, and then we'll try again."

Mrs Gill departed with the care, and the doctor once more reached up his hand to the jackdaw.

"Come, then, Jack," he said in a soothing tone.

The bird hesitated a moment, and then, to Ambrose's great excitement, stepped on to the offered finger, and allowed himself to be drawn down from the tree. After this, his cage being brought out with no signs of the stranger, and some choice morsels of food placed in it, he showed no more bad temper, but marched in at the door, and began to eat greedily.

The doctor breathed a sigh of relief at this happy ending, and Ambrose, with his own jackdaw in the basket again, stood by with a proud smile on his face.

"Wasn't it a good plan?" he said. "And now you'll cut his wing, won't you? else p'r'aps he'll get away again."

"We shall see, we shall see," said Dr Budge, reaching up to hang the cage on its old nail in the window. "At any rate I am very much obliged to you, and to David, and to Andrew—a friend in need is a friend indeed."

It was wonderful, Ambrose thought on his way home, that Dr Budge had remembered three names and got them all right. Nancy came running to meet him at the white gate.

"Well," she cried, "has he come back?"

"It's all right," said Ambrose, "and Dr Budge is very much obliged to us."

He spoke importantly, which was always trying to Nancy.

"Do you suppose," she continued, "that the doctor's jackdaw really heard yours call, or would he have come back anyway?"

It struck Ambrose for the first time that his own jackdaw had not made a single sound before the other one had returned. If he had called, it would certainly have been heard through the open window of the study.

"Did you hear him call?" persisted Nancy. "Because if you didn't, I don't believe he had anything to do with it, and you might just as well have left him at home."

Ambrose walked on very fast into the house, but there was no escape from Nancy, who kept pace with him, insisting on a reply. The only one he had to give was a very frequent one on such occasions:

"How silly you are, Nancy!" And he began to feel the gravest doubts as to whether his jackdaw had really been of use.

Be this as it might, there was no doubt at all that Dr Budge was really grateful, and as the days went on Ambrose began to like his master more and more, and to feel quite at home with him. He seemed, since the recovery of the jackdaw, to be much less absent-minded, and looked at Ambrose now as though he were a boy and not a volume. Ambrose felt the difference in the gaze which he often found kindly fixed on him, and it made him think that he would like to ask Dr Budge's help in other matters than lessons.

This was on his mind more strongly than usual one particular morning when he had been to Dr Budge for about three weeks. Instead of opening his books at once and setting to work as usual, he rested his elbow on the top of the pile, gazed earnestly at his master, and presently gave a deep sigh. Dr Budge was writing busily, and at first was quite ignorant of the gaze, but at the sigh he looked up.

"Anything the matter, Ambrose?" he asked. "N-no," answered Ambrose. "There's nothing the matter exactly, only to-day's mother's birthday."

"Well, there's nothing to look mournful about in that, is there?" asked the doctor kindly. "Your mother will be home again soon, won't she?"

Ambrose looked down at his Latin grammar and got rather red.

"I was thinking," he said, "that we meant to open the museum to-day, and now it can't ever be opened."

"How's that?" asked the doctor.

This question was hard to answer all at once, but it led to others until the whole unlucky history of the crock and Miss Barnicroft's money, and the failure of the museum, was unfolded. It took a very long time, but as he went on Ambrose found it easier to talk about than he could have supposed. The doctor was an admirable listener. He said almost nothing, but you could see by his face, and the way in which he nodded at the right places, that he was taking it all in. He did not seem surprised either at anything in the affair, and treated it all with great gravity, though from time to time his eyes twinkled very kindly.

"And so," he said when Ambrose had finished, "the museum's never been opened?"

"Never really opened," said Ambrose, "and we wanted mother to do it on her birthday. The worst of it is," he added more shyly, "that father said he couldn't trust me any more. I mind that more than anything. It doesn't so much matter for David, because he's such a little boy, but I'm the eldest next to Pennie."

"But all this was some time ago," said the doctor. "Have you been careful to be quite obedient ever since it happened?"

Ambrose thought a moment.

"I think so," he said. "You see there hasn't been much to be obedient about, only just little everyday things which don't make any difference."

"You want something hard to do, eh?" asked the doctor.

Ambrose nodded.

"There's nothing much harder to learn than obedience, my boy," said the doctor, looking kindly at him. "It takes most of us all our lives to learn it. Latin's much easier."

"But," said Ambrose with an uneasy wriggle, "being obedient doesn't show. I want something to show father."

Dr Budge looked absently out of the window a moment, and Ambrose began to be afraid that he had forgotten all about the subject. But he suddenly looked round and said:

"Better is he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city."

Seeing Ambrose's puzzled stare he continued:

"You see we must remember that the best and most useful things do not always make the most noise in the world. The man who rules his spirit to obedience does not do anything that 'shows' at all. Very often no one knows what he has done. The man who takes the city does it with noise and tumult, and gets fame and praise. Yet of those two the first perhaps does the harder thing, and may be more useful to his fellow-creatures. And it is just the little common things which come every day and don't show that we must be careful about, because they keep us ready to obey in a great thing if we are called to do it. So if I were you, Ambrose," said the doctor, smiling very kindly as he ended this speech, "I would be careful about the things that don't show. Your father will know then that he can trust you, though you may think they are too little and common to make any difference."

Ambrose had never heard Dr Budge say so much before on any subject, and indeed he was generally rather sparing of his words. It was all the more flattering, therefore, that he should take all this trouble, and he had looked so very kind while he was talking that Ambrose said to himself, "I'm very glad we got his jackdaw back."

He went home full of the best resolutions possible, which he carried out so well for the next few days that Nancy asked in surprise: "Why are you so good?" feeling sure that something must have happened.

Dr Budge said nothing more about the museum or anything approaching it for some days, and Ambrose thought he had forgotten all about it. He was quite startled, therefore, when his master, suddenly leaning forward over his desk, said one morning:

"I suppose you and David still want to fill the museum?"

"Oh, yes," he replied, "of course we do!"

"Well, then," said Dr Budge, "I want to go to the chalk-pit beyond Rumborough to-morrow, and if you were both to go with me we might find something that would do for it."

Ambrose was speechless. He stared at the doctor's kind red face almost as though he was frightened at the proposal.

"I could give you some fossils of my own," said the doctor, glancing round at his dusty treasures, "but it would be better to find something for yourselves. You could learn a little by doing that."

"Would you really take us?" said Ambrose; "how awfully kind of you!" He spoke under his breath, for it seemed too good to be true.

"You see," said the doctor, "one good turn deserves another. You and David helped me to find Jack, so it is only fair that I should help you to fill the museum. If we get on well you can open it when your mother comes home, instead of on her birthday. Wouldn't that be a good plan?"

Ambrose hardly knew how he got over the road between the doctor's cottage and the Vicarage that day, he was in such haste to tell the wonderful news to David. They went up after dinner to the deserted museum, and looked at it with fresh interest. It was dim and dusty now, but how different it would be when it was filled with all the really valuable objects they would find with the doctor's help! Did it want any more shelves? they wondered. David had put up so many that there was hardly a bare space left on the walls, and it was decided that for the present no more should be added.

"But I'll tell you what," said David, "we'll get a mop, and a pail, and a scrubbing-brush, and give it a regular good clean out. Then it'll be quite ready."

The afternoon was spent happily in this way, Nancy looking wistfully in at the door and longing to assist. As usual, however, she was not allowed any part in the affairs of the museum, and after a few jeering remarks she went slowly down-stairs.

"It is dull," she said to herself, "now Pennie isn't at home."

Poor Nancy felt this more and more as the days went on. No Pennie, no one in the nursery, and the boys entirely engaged in their new pursuit. It was very dull. She would willingly have taken an interest in the museum too, and when she heard that the boys were to go with the doctor to the chalk-pit, she felt her lot was hard indeed. It was so exactly what she would have liked, and yet because she was a girl she might have no part in it. When they came home, full of importance and triumph, with some ugly-looking stones and some very long names to write on the labels, she followed them into the school-room.

"I wish I could go next time," she said, for the doctor had promised another expedition soon. "I'm sure Dr Budge would like me to, and I could find things every bit as well as you could."

"Dr Budge wouldn't want to teach girls," said David. "He teaches us jology. Girls needn't know anything about jology."

"I don't want to," said Nancy frankly, "but I should love to go to the chalk-pit with that funny old Dr Budge."

"Well," said David decidedly, "you can't have anything to do with the museum. It's always been mine and Ambrose's. If we get a nice lot of things," he added in a satisfied voice, "we mean to open it on the day mother comes back."

"Oh dear me," exclaimed Nancy, "how I wish Saturday would come! Pennie and I shall have lots to talk about then, which you don't know anything about."

For it had been settled that Pennie was to return from Nearminster on Saturday, and Nancy, feeling herself left outside all that was going on, longed eagerly for the day. She would then have someone to talk to all to herself, and there would also be lots to hear about Kettles. Pennie certainly wrote long letters, but Nancy thought them not to be compared to conversations, and she had so many questions to ask that were too small to be written. Above all, there were the boots and stockings to be bought. She would not do this alone, though when she passed the village shop and saw them hanging up it was very hard to help going in. So the time went on, very slowly for Nancy just now, but at last the week ended and Saturday came.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

KETURAH.

The house at Easney was merrier and more noisy than it had been for some time on the day of Pennie's return, but the house at Nearminster went back at once to its old gravity and silence. Had it always been so still and quiet? Miss Unity wondered. If so, she had never noticed it until Pennie had come and gone. Now it seemed so strange and unaccustomed that it made her quite restless and unable to settle down to her usual morning employments. She tried them one after another in vain. It was of no use. She could neither add up her accounts, nor read her newspaper, nor do her wool-work with the least satisfaction.

Almost without knowing it she went aimlessly into her bed-room, and from there into the little pink-chintz room which had been Pennie's. Betty had already made it so neat and trim that it looked forlornly empty with no signs of its late owner. So Miss Unity thought at first, but glancing round it she saw that careless Pennie had left her thimble on the table, and one of her dancing shoes in a corner.

Miss Unity picked up the thimble and fitted it absently on to the top of her own finger. How Pennie had disliked sewing, and dancing too, and how very very glad she had been to go home that morning! How she had flung herself upon Nancy and smothered her with kisses; how happy and smiling her face had looked as she drove away from the door, talking so eagerly to her sister that she had almost forgotten to wave a last good-bye to Miss Unity at the window.

"Well, it was natural, I would not have it otherwise," said Miss Unity to herself as she finished her reflections; "it is right that the child should love her home best."

But she sighed as she went back to the sitting-room and took up her work again. Opposite to her was the high-backed chair in which Pennie had spent so many weary hours, bending with a frown over Kettles' garments. But the chair was empty, and there was something in the way it stood which so annoyed Miss Unity that she pushed it up against the wall almost impatiently. Then her eye fell on a pile of white clothes neatly folded on a side-table. Pennie had finished them all, and Miss Unity had promised that she and Nancy should come over and present them to Kettles before long. From this her thoughts went on to Kettles herself, and Anchor and Hope Alley. At this moment Betty appeared at the door with a face full of woe.

"I've just had an accident, Miss," she said.

Betty's accidents usually meant broken china, but this time it was something worse. She had sprained her wrist badly.

"You must go at once to the doctor, Betty," said Miss Unity, looking nervously at the swollen member; "and, oh dear me! it's your right one isn't it?"

"Yes, Miss, worse luck," said Betty.

"We must have someone in," continued Miss Unity still more nervously; "you ought not to use it, you know, for a long time."

"I don't want no strangers, Miss," said Betty with a darkening face, "they break more than they make. I can make shift, I daresay, with my left hand."

"Now you know that's quite out of the question, Betty," said her mistress, doing her best to speak severely, "you couldn't lift a saucepan, or even make a bed. You must certainly have someone. Some nice respectable char-woman."

"There's ne'er a one in the town," said Betty, "as you'd like to have in the house. I know what they are—a lazy gossiping set."

Miss Unity rose with decision.

"I shall go and ask Mrs Margetts at the College to tell me of someone trustworthy," she said, "and I do beg, Betty, that you will go at once to the doctor."

But though she spoke with unusual firmness Miss Unity was inwardly very much disturbed, and she quite trembled as she put on her bonnet and started off to see old Nurse. For Betty, like many faithful old servants, was most difficult to manage sometimes. She had ruled Miss Unity's house single-handed so long that she could not endure the idea of help, or "strangers in the kitchen," as she called it. Miss Unity had never dared to suggest such a thing until now, and she felt very doubtful as to its success, for she foresaw little peace in the house for some time to come. Complaints, quarrels, changes, wounded feelings on Betty's part, and so on; a constant worry in the air which would be most distressing to anyone of an orderly and quiet mind. Poor Miss Unity sighed heavily as she reached the College and climbed Nurse's steep staircase.

Nurse was full of sympathy, but before she could bring her mind to the question of charwomen she had to go over all her experience of sprains and what was best for them—how some said this, and some said exactly the opposite, and how she herself, after trying all the remedies, had finally been cured by some stuff which folks called a quack medicine, but she thought none the worse of it for that. Miss Unity sat patiently and politely listening to all this, and at last gently repeated:

"And do you know of a respectable woman, Mrs Margetts, who would come in and help Betty for a time?"

Nurse shook her head. "There's no one, I'm afraid, Miss, not one that Betty would like to have. You see she's rather particular, and if a person isn't just so, as one might say, it puts her out."

Miss Unity knew that only too well.

"I must have someone," she said; "you see Betty will be helpless for some time; she can't do much with one hand."

Nurse nodded, and pursed up her lips in deep thought.

"You wouldn't like a little gal, Miss?" she asked suddenly.

"A little girl!" repeated Miss Unity in some dismay.

"I was thinking p'r'aps that it wouldn't put Betty about so much," continued Nurse. "You see she could make a girl do things her way where she couldn't order about a grown woman, and really there's some girls of fourteen or so'll do as much work, and do it most as well with someone to look after 'em."

"But," said Miss Unity, "don't they break things dreadfully?"

Nurse laughed. "Why there's all sorts, Miss," she said. "Some are naturally neat-handed and sharp. It's the dull stupid ones that has the heavy hands in general."

"Well," said Miss Unity hesitatingly, "supposing Betty should like the idea—do you know of one who could come?"

She had a sort of feeling that Nurse was thinking of Kettles, so that her answer was hardly a surprise.

"There's the little girl Miss Pennie was so set on. She could come, for her mother's about again now, and a decent woman she is, though she's so badly off."

A month ago the bare idea of having anyone from Anchor and Hope Alley into her house would have been impossible to Miss Unity; but Pennie had made her so familiar with the name and affairs of Kettles, and she had taken so much interest in making her clothes, that it no longer seemed so strange. Still, what would Betty say? A girl out of Anchor and Hope Alley, who had never been in a decent house before! It was surely too bold a step.

"You see, Miss," went on Nurse, "it isn't as if you wanted her to wait on you, or to open the door or such like. All she's got to do is to help Betty below stairs, and to make beds, and so on. She'll soon learn, and I'll be bound she'll answer better than a char-woman."

Miss Unity took her departure with this bold idea becoming more and more fixed in her mind. There was a great deal in what Nurse had said, if she could only induce Betty to look at it in the same way; and above all how delighted Pennie would be, when she next came, to find Kettles not only wearing the clothes she had made; but actually established in the house. It all seemed to fit in so well that Miss Unity gathered courage. She had come out that morning feeling depressed and worried, and as though everything would go wrong; but now, as she turned into the Close, wondering how she should best open the subject to Betty, she was quite stirred and interested.

Betty had come back from the doctor with her arm in a sling. She was to keep it as still as possible, and on no account to try to use it.

"So you see, Betty," said Miss Unity earnestly, "the importance of having someone to help you in your work."

"Yes, Miss," said Betty, with suspicion in every feature, and quite prepared to object to any person her mistress had secured.

"And I have made up my mind," went on Miss Unity, "not to have a char-woman."

"Ho, indeed, Miss!" said Betty, still suspicious.

"I know you object to them," said her mistress, "and Mrs Margetts advises me to try a little girl she knows, who lives near here."

If possible she would avoid the mention of Anchor and Hope Alley.

"It's for you to please yourself, Miss," said Betty stiffly.

"Of course it would be an immense advantage to the girl to be under a competent servant like yourself, for although she's intelligent she has never been in service before. Miss Pennie was very much interested in her," added Miss Unity as an afterthought.

If Betty had a soft corner in her heart for anyone but her mistress it was for Pennie. She did not at all approve of Miss Unity's taking up with these new fancies, but to please Pennie she would put up with a good deal. It was with something approaching a smile that she said:

"Oh, then, it's the little girl out of Anchor and Hope Alley, isn't it, Miss? Her as Miss Pennie made the clothes for and used to call Kettles?"

"Well," said Miss Unity reluctantly, "I am sorry to say she does live there, but Mrs Margetts knows her mother well, and she's a very deserving woman. We sha'n't call the girl Kettles—her name is Keturah. You'll have to teach her, you know, Betty," she added apologetically.

As to that, Betty had no objection. She had a deal rather, she said, have a girl who knew nothing and was willing to learn, than one who had got into wrong ways and had to be got out of them. In short, she was quite ready to look with favour on the idea, and to Miss Unity's great surprise it was settled without further difficulty that Kettles was to come on trial.

With her usual timidity, however, she now began to see the other side of the question, and to be haunted by all sorts of misgivings. When she woke in the middle of the night dreadful pictures presented themselves of Kettles' father stealing upstairs with a poker in his hand in search of the plate-basket. She could hear the dean saying when the theft was discovered:

"Well, Miss Unity, what can you expect if you will have people in your house out of Anchor and Hope Alley?"

It would no doubt be a dreadful risk, and before she went to sleep again she had almost decided to give up the plan altogether. But morning brought more courage, and when she found Betty ready to propose that the girl should come that very day she could not draw back.

"I can soon run her up a cotton frock, and she can have one of my aprons, and there's all her other clothes nice and ready," said Betty in a business-like tone.

So Kettles came, newly clothed from top to toe and provided with plenty of good advice by old Nurse. At first Miss Unity hardly knew she was in the house, for Betty kept her strictly in the background, and hurried her away into corners whenever her mistress appeared in the kitchen. Judging, however, from the absence of complaint that things were going on well, she at last ventured to inquire how Betty liked her new help.

"She's a sharp little thing, Miss," said Betty. "Of course she's strange to the ways of a house, coming from where she does. But she's willing, that's the great thing."

"Can the child read and write?" was Miss Unity's next question.

But Betty seemed to think she had nothing whatever to do with this part of Kettles' education.

"I'm sure I don't know, Miss," she said. "I've enough to do to teach her to sweep a room properly."

Upon inquiry it was found that Kettles did not even know her letters.