Our 'stratagem'—I have always liked the word, ever since I read Tales of a Grandfather, which I thought a great take-in, as it's just a history book, neither more nor less, and the only exciting part is when you come upon stratagems—succeeded. As we got close up to the parrot's house, next door to Mother Wylie's, you understand, and, of course, next door to the invisible princess's, we heard a sound. It was a sort of rather angry squeak or croak, but loud enough to be an excuse for our stopping short and looking up.

And then, as we still did not speak, Master Poll, his round eyes glaring at us, I felt certain, was forced to open the conversation.

'Pretty Poll,' he began, of course. 'Pretty Poll.'

'All right,' I called back. 'Good morning, Pretty Poll. A fine day.'

'Wants his dinner,' he went on. 'I say, wants his dinner.'

'Really, does he?' I said, in a mocking tone, which he understood, and beginning to get angry—just what I wanted.

'Naughty boy! naughty boy!' he screeched, very loudly. Pete and I grinned with satisfaction!



CHAPTER VI

MARGARET

THERE'S an old proverb that mamma has often quoted to us, for she's awfully keen on our all being 'plucky,' and, on the whole, I think we are—

'Fortune favours the brave.'

I have sometimes thought it would suit Peterkin to turn it into 'Fortune favours the determined.' Not that he's not 'plucky,' but there's nothing like him for sticking to a thing, once he has got it into his head. And certainly fortune favoured him at the time I am writing about. Nothing could have suited us better than the parrot's screeching out to us 'naughty boy, naughty boy.'

I suppose he had been taught to say it to errand-boys and boys like that who mocked at him. But we did not want to set up a row, so I replied gently—

'No, no, Polly, good boys. Polly shall have his dinner soon.'

'Good Polly, good Polly,' he repeated with satisfaction.

And then—what do you think happened? The door-window of the drawing-room of the next house, the house, was pushed open a little bit, and out peeped a child's head, a small head with smooth short dark hair, but a little girl's head. We could tell that at once by the way it was combed, or brushed, even if we had not seen, as we did, a white muslin pinafore, with lace ruffly things that only a girl would wear. My heart really began to beat quite loudly, as if I'd been running fast—we had been so excited about her, you see, and afterwards Pete told me his did too.

The only pity was, that she was up on the drawing-room floor. We could have seen her so much better downstairs. But we had scarcely time to feel disappointed.

When she saw us, and saw, I suppose, that we were not errand-boys or street-boys, she came out a little farther. I felt sure by her manner that she was alone in the room. She looked down at us, looked us well over for a moment or two, and then she said—

'Are you talking to the parrot?'

She did not call out or speak loudly at all, but her voice was very clear.

'Yes,' Peterkin replied. As he had started the whole business I thought it fair to let him speak before me. 'Yes, but he called out to us first. He called us "naughty boys."'

'I heard him,' said the little girl, 'and I thought perhaps you were naughty boys, teasing him, you know, and I was going to call to you to run away. But—' and she glanced at us again. I could see that she wanted to go on talking, but she did not quite know how to set about it.

So I thought I might help things on a bit.

'Thank you,' I said, taking off my cap. 'My little brother is very interested in the parrot. He seems so clever.'

At another time Pete would have been very offended at my calling him 'little,' but just now he was too eager to mind, or even, I daresay, to notice.

'So he is,' said the little girl. 'I could tell you lots about him, but it's rather tiresome talking down to you from up here. Wait a minute,' she added, 'and I'll come down to the dining-room. I may go downstairs now, and nurse is out, and I'm very dull.'

We were so pleased that we scarcely dared look at each other, for fear that somehow it should go wrong after all. We did glance along the terrace, but nobody was coming. If only her nurse would stay out for ten minutes longer, or even less.

We stood there, almost holding our breath. But it was not really—it could not have been—more than half a minute, before the dark head and white pinafore appeared again, this time, of course, on the ground floor; the window there was a little bit open already, to air the room perhaps.

We would have liked to go close up to the small balcony where she stood, but we dared not, for fear of the nurse coming. And the garden was very tiny, we were only two or three yards from the little girl, even outside on the pavement.

She looked at us first, looked us well over, before she began to speak again. Then she said—

'Have you been to see the parrot already?'

'Oh yes,' said Peterkin, in his very politest tone, 'oh yes, thank you.' I did not quite see why he said 'thank you.' I suppose he meant it in return for her coming downstairs. 'I've been here two, no, three times, and Giles,' he gave a sort of nod towards me, 'has been here two.'

'Is your name Giles?' she asked me. She had a funny, little, rather condescending manner of speaking to us, but I didn't mind it somehow.

'Yes,' I replied, 'and his,' and I touched Pete, 'is "Peterkin."'

'They are queer names; don't you think so? At least,' she added quickly, as if she was afraid she had said something rude, 'they are very uncommon. "Giles" and "Perkin."'

'Not "Perkin,"' I said, "Peterkin."'

'Oh, I thought it was like a man in my history,' she said, 'Perkin War—something.'

'No,' said Peterkin, 'it isn't in history, but it's in poetry. About a battle. I've got it in a book.'

'I should like to see it,' she said. 'There's lots of my name in history. My name is Margaret. There are queens and princesses called Margaret.'

Pete opened his mouth as if he was going to speak, but shut it up again. I know what he had been on the point of saying,—'Are you a princess?' 'a shut-up princess?' he would have added very likely, but I suppose he was sensible enough to see that if she had been 'shut-up,' in the way he had been fancying to himself, she would scarcely have been able to come downstairs and talk to us as she was doing. And she was not dressed like the princesses in his stories, who had always gold crowns on and long shiny trains. Still, though she had only a pinafore on, I could see that it was rather a grand one, lots of lace about it, like one of Elf's very best, and though her hair was short and her face small and pale, there was something about her—the way she stood and the way she spoke—which was different from many little girls of her age.

Peterkin took advantage very cleverly of what she had said about his name.

'I'll bring you my poetry-book, if you like,' he said. 'It's a quite old one. I think it belonged to grandmamma, and she's as old as—as old as—' he seemed at a loss to find anything to compare poor grandmamma to, till suddenly a bright idea struck him—'nearly as old as Mrs. Wylie, I should think,' he finished up.

'Oh,' said Margaret, 'do you know Mrs. Wylie? I've never seen her, but I think I've heard her talk. Her house is next door to the parrot's.'

'Yes,' said I, 'but I wonder you've never seen her. She often goes out.'

'But—' began the little girl again, 'I've been—oh, I do believe that's my dinner clattering in the kitchen, and nurse will be coming in, and I've never told you about the parrot. I've lots to tell you. Will you come again? Not to-morrow, but on Wednesday nurse is going out to the dressmaker's. I heard her settling it. Please come on Wednesday, just like this.'

'We could come a little earlier, perhaps,' I said.

Margaret nodded.

'Yes, do,' she replied, 'and I'll be on the look-out for you. I shall think of lots of things to say. I want to tell you about the parrot, and—about lots of things,' she repeated. 'Good-bye.'

We tugged at our caps, echoing 'good-bye,' and then we walked on towards the farther-off end of the terrace, and when we got there we turned and walked back again. And then we saw that we had not left the front of Margaret's house any too soon, for a short, rather stout little woman was coming along, evidently in a hurry. She just glanced at us as she passed us, but I don't think she noticed us particularly.

'That's her nurse, I'm sure,' said Peterkin, in a low voice. 'I don't think she looks unkind.'

'No, only rather fussy, I should say,' I replied.

We had scarcely spoken to each other before, since bidding Margaret good-bye. Pete had been thinking deeply, and I was waiting to hear what he had to say.

'I wonder,' he went on, after a moment or two's silence,—'I wonder how much she knows?'

'Why?' I exclaimed. 'What do you think there is to know?'

'It's all very misterous, still,' he answered solemnly. 'She—the little girl—said she had lots to tell us about the parrot and other things. And she didn't want her nurse to see us talking to her. And she said she could come downstairs now, but, I'm sure, they don't let her go out. She wouldn't be so dull if they did.'

'Who's "they"?' I asked.

'I don't quite know,' he replied, shaking his head. 'Some kind of fairies. P'raps it's bad ones, or p'raps it's good ones. No, it can't be bad ones, for then they wouldn't have planned the parrot telling us about her, so that we could help her to get free. The parrot is a sort of messenger from the good fairies, I believe.'

He looked up, his eyes very bright and blue, as they always were when he thought he had made a discovery, or was on the way to one. And I, half in earnest, half in fun, like I'd been about it all the time, let my own fancy go on with his.

'Perhaps,' I said. 'We shall find out on Wednesday, I suppose, when we talk more to Margaret. We needn't call her the invisible princess any more.'

'No, but she is a princess sort of little girl, isn't she?' he said, 'though her hair isn't as pretty as Blanche's and Elf's, and her face is very little.'

'She's all right,' I said.

And then we had to hurry and leave off talking, for we had been walking more slowly than we knew, and just then some big clock struck the quarter.

I think, perhaps, I had better explain here, that none of us—neither Margaret, nor Peterkin, nor I—thought we were doing anything the least wrong in keeping our making acquaintance a secret. What Margaret thought about it, so far as she did think of that part of it, you will understand as I go on; and Pete and I had our minds so filled with his fairies that we simply didn't think of anything else.

It was growing more and more interesting, for Margaret had something very jolly about her, though she wasn't exactly pretty.

I can't remember if it did come into my mind, a very little, perhaps, that we should tell somebody—mamma, perhaps, or Clement—about our visits to Rock Terrace even then. But if it did, I think I put it out again, by knowing that Margaret meant it to be a secret, and that, till we saw her again, and heard what she was going to tell us, it would not be fair to mention anything about it.

We were both very glad that Wednesday was only the day after to-morrow. It would have been a great nuisance to have had to wait a whole week, perhaps. And we were very anxious when Wednesday morning came, to see what sort of weather it was, for on Tuesday it rained. Not very badly, but enough for nurse to tell Peterkin that it was too showery for him to come to meet me, and it would not have been much good if he had, as we couldn't have spoken to Margaret.

Nor could we have strolled up and down the terrace or stood looking at the parrot, even if he'd been out on the terrace, which he wouldn't have been on at all on a bad day—if it was rainy. It would have been sure to make some of the people in the houses wonder at us; just what we didn't want.

But Wednesday was fine, luckily, and this time I got off from school to the minute without any one or anything stopping me.

I ran most of the way to the corner of Lindsay Square, all the same; and I was not too early either, for before I got there I saw Master Peterkin's sturdy figure steering along towards me, not far off. And when he got up to me I saw that he had a small brown-paper parcel under his arm, neatly tied up with red string.

He was awfully pleased to see me so early, for his round face was grinning all over, and as a rule it was rather solemn.

'What's that you've got there?' I asked.

He looked surprised at my not knowing.

'Why, of course, the poetry-book,' he said. 'I promised it her, and I've marked the poetry about "Peterkin." It's the Battle of Blen—Blen-hime—mamma said, when I learnt it, that that's the right way to say it; but Miss Tucker' ('Miss Tucker' was Blanche's and the little ones' governess) 'called it Blennem, and I always have to think when I say it. I wish they didn't call him "little Peterkin," though,' he went on, 'it sounds so babyish.'

'I don't see that it matters, as it isn't about you yourself,' I said. 'I'd forgotten all about it; I think it's rather sharp of you to have remembered.'

'I couldn't never forget anything I'd promised her,' said Pete, and you might really have thought by his tone that he believed he was the prince going to visit the Sleeping Beauty—after she'd come awake, I suppose.

We did not need to hurry; we were actually rather too early, so we went on talking.

'How about the flowers we meant to get for her?' I said suddenly.

'I didn't forget about them,' he answered, 'but we didn't promise them, and I thought it would be better to ask her first. She might like chocolates best, you know.'

'All right,' I said, and I thought perhaps it was better to ask her first. You see, if she didn't want her nurse to know about our coming to see her it would have been tiresome, as, of course, Margaret could not have told a story.

There she was, peeping out of the downstairs window already when we got there. And when she saw us she came farther out, a little bit on to the balcony. It was a sunny day for winter, and besides, she had a red shawl on, so she could not very well have caught cold. It was a very pretty shawl, with goldy marks or patterns on it. It was like one grandmamma had been sent a present of from India, and afterwards Margaret told me hers had come from India too. And it suited her, somehow, even though she was only a thin, pale little girl.

She smiled when she saw us, though she did not speak till we were near enough to hear what she said without her calling out. And when we stopped in front of her house, she said—

'I think you might come inside the garden. We could talk better.'

So we did, first glancing up at the next-door balcony, to see if the parrot was there.

Yes, he was, but not as far out as usual, and there was a cloth, or something, half-down round his cage, to keep him warmer, I suppose.

He was quite silent, but Margaret nodded her head up towards him.

'He told me you were coming,' she cried, 'though it wasn't in a very polite way. He croaked out—"Naughty boys! naughty boys!"'

We all three laughed a little.

'And now,' Margaret went on, 'I daresay he won't talk at all, all the time you are here.'

'But will he understand what we say?' asked Peterkin, rather anxiously.

Margaret shook her head.



'I really don't know,' she replied. 'We had better talk in rather low voices. I don't think,' she went on, almost in a whisper, 'that he is fairy enough to hear if we speak very softly.'

Peterkin gave a sort of spring of delight.

'Oh!' he exclaimed, 'I am so glad you think he is fairyish, too.'

'Of course I do,' said she; 'that's partly what I wanted to tell you.'

We came closer to the window. Margaret looked at us again in her examining way, without speaking, for a minute, and before she said anything, Pete held out his brown-paper parcel.

'This is the poetry-book,' he said, 'and I've put a mark in the place where it's about my name.'

He pulled off his cap as he handed the packet to her, and stood with his curly wig looking almost red in the sunlight, though it was not very bright.

'Put it on again,' said Margaret, in her little queer way, meaning his cap. 'And thank you very much, Perkin, for remembering to bring it. I think I should like to call you "Perkin," if you don't mind. I like to have names of my own for some people, and I really thought yours was Perkin.'

I wished to myself she would have a name of her own for me, but I suppose she thought I was too big.

'I think you are very nice boys,' she went on, 'not "naughty" ones at all; and if you will promise not to tell any one what I am going to tell you, I will explain all I can. I mean you mustn't tell any one till I give you leave, and as it's only about my own affairs, of course you can promise.'

Of course we did promise.

'Listen, then,' said Margaret, glancing up first of all at the parrot, and drawing back a little into the inside of the room. 'You can hear what I say, even though I don't speak very loudly, can't you?'

'Oh yes! quite well,' we replied.

'Well, then, listen,' she repeated. 'I have no brothers or sisters, and Dads and Mummy are in India. I lived there till about three years ago, and then they came here and left me with my grandfather. That's how people always have to do who live in India.'

'Didn't you mind awfully?' I said. 'Your father and mother leaving you, I mean?'

'Of course I minded,' she replied. 'But I had always known it would have to be. And they will come home again for good some day; perhaps before very long. And I have always been quite happy till lately. Gran is very good to me, and I'm used to being a good deal alone, you see, except for big people. I've always had lots of story books, and not very many lessons. So, after a bit, it didn't seem so very different from India. Only now it's quite different. It's like being shut up in a tower, and it's very queer altogether, and I believe she's a sort of a witch,' and Margaret nodded her head mysteriously.

'Who?' we asked eagerly.

'The person I'm living with—Miss Bogle—isn't her name witchy?' and she smiled a little. 'No, no, not nurse,' for I had begun to say the word. 'She is only rather a goose. No, this house belongs to Miss Bogle, and she's quite old—oh, as old as old! And she's got rheumatism, so she very seldom goes up and down stairs. And nurse does just exactly what Miss Bogle tells her. It was this way. Gran had to go away—a good way, though not so far as India, and he is always dreadfully afraid of anything happening to me, I suppose. So he sent me here with nurse, and he told me I would be very happy. He knew Miss Bogle long ago—I think she had a school for little boys once; perhaps that was before she got to be a witch. But I've been dreadfully unhappy, and I don't know what's going to happen to me if I go on like this much longer.'

She stopped, out of breath almost.

'Do you think she's going to enchanter you?' asked Peterkin, in a whisper. 'Do you think she wasn't asked to your christening, or anything like that?'

Margaret shook her head again.

'Something like that, I suppose,' she replied. 'She looks at me through her spectacles so queerly, you can't think. You see, I was ill at Gran's before I came here: not very badly, though he fussed a good deal about it. And he thought the sea-air would do me good. But I've often had colds, and I never was treated like this before—never. For ever so long, she,' and Margaret nodded towards somewhere unknown, 'wouldn't let me come downstairs at all. And then I cried—sometimes I roared, and luckily the parrot heard, and began to talk about it in his way. And you see it's through him that you got to know about me, so I'm sure he's on the other side, and knows she's a witch, but——'



CHAPTER VII

THE GREAT PLAN

AT that moment the clock—a clock somewhere near—struck. Margaret started, and listened,—'One, two, three.' She looked pleased.

'It's only a quarter to one,' she said. 'Half-an-hour still to my dinner. What time do you need to get home by?'

'A quarter-past will do for us,' I said.

'Oh, then it's all right,' she replied. 'But I must be quick. I want to know all that the parrot told you.'

'It was more what he had said to Mrs. Wylie,' I explained, 'copying you, you know. And, at first, she called you "that poor child," and told us she was so sorry for you.'

'But now she won't say anything. She pinched up her lips about you the other day,' added Peterkin.

Margaret seemed very interested, but not very surprised.

'Oh, then, Miss Bogle is beginning to bewitch her too,' she said. 'Nurse is a goose, as I told you. She just does everything Miss Bogle wants. And if it wasn't for the parrot and you,' she went on solemnly, 'I daresay when Gran comes home he'd find me turned into a pussy-cat.'

'Or a mouse, or even a frog,' said Peterkin, his eyes gleaming; 'only then he wouldn't know it was you, unless your nurse told him.'

'She wouldn't,' said Margaret, 'the witch would take care to stop her, or to turn her into a big cat herself, or something. There'd be only the parrot, and Gran mightn't understand him. It's better not to risk it. And that's what I'm planning about. But it will take a great deal of planning, though I've been thinking about it ever since you came, and I felt sure the good fairies had sent you to rescue me. When can you come again?'

'Any day, almost,' said Pete.

'Well, then, I'll tell you what. I'll be on the look-out for you passing every fine day about this time, and the first day I'm sure of nurse going to London again—and I know she has to go once more at least—I'll manage to tell you, and then we'll fix for a long talk here.'

'All right,' I said, 'but we'd better go now.'

There was a sound of footsteps approaching, so with only a hurried 'good-bye' we ran off.

We did not need to stroll up and down the terrace to-day, as we knew Margaret's nurse was away; luckily so, for we only just got home in time by the skin of our teeth, running all the way, and not talking.

I wish I could quite explain about myself, here, but it is rather difficult. I went on thinking about Margaret a lot, all that day; all the more that Pete and I didn't talk much about her. We both seemed to be waiting till we saw her again and heard her 'plans.'

And I cannot now feel sure if I really was in earnest at all, as she and Peterkin certainly were, about the enchantment and the witch. I remember I laughed at it to myself sometimes, and called it 'bosh' in my own mind. And yet I did not quite think it only that. After all, I was only a little boy myself, and Margaret had such a common-sensical way, even in talking of fanciful things, that somehow you couldn't laugh at her, and Pete, of course, was quite and entirely in earnest.

I think I really had a strong belief that some risk or danger was hanging over her, and I think this was natural, considering the queer way our getting to know her had been brought about. And any boy would have been 'taken' by the idea of 'coming to the rescue,' as she called it.

There was a good deal of rather hard work at lessons just then for me. Papa and mamma wanted me to get into a higher class after Christmas, and I daresay I had been pretty idle, or at least taking things easy, for I was not as well up as I should have been, I know. So Peterkin and I had not as much time for private talking as usual. I had often lessons to look over first thing in the morning, and as mamma would not allow us to have candles in bed, and there was no gas or electric light in our room, I had to get up a bit earlier, when I had work to look over or finish. And nurse was very good about that sort of thing: there was always a jolly bright fire for me in the nursery, however early I was.

Our best time for talking was when Peterkin came to meet me. But we had two or three wet days about then. And Margaret did not expect us on rainy days, even if Pete had been allowed to come, which he wasn't.

It was, as far as I remember, not till the Monday after that Wednesday that we were able to pass along Rock Terrace. And almost before we came in real sight of her, I felt certain that the little figure was standing there on the look-out.

And so she was—red shawl and white pinafore, and small dark head, as usual.

We made a sort of pretence of strolling past her house at first, but we found we didn't need to. She beckoned to us at once, and just at that moment the parrot, who was out in his balcony, most luckily—or cleverly, Peterkin always declares he did it on purpose—screeched out in quite a good-humoured tone—

'Good morning! good morning! Pretty Poll! Fine day, boys! Good morning!'

'Good morning, Poll,' we called out as we ran across the tiny plot of garden to Margaret.

'I'm so glad you've come,' she said, 'but you mustn't stop a minute. I've been out in a bath-chair this morning—I've just come in; and now I'm to go every day. It's horrid, and it's all nonsense, when I can walk and run quite well. It's all that old witch. I'm going again to-morrow and Wednesday; but I'm going to manage to make it later on Wednesday, so that you can talk to me on the Parade. Nurse is going to London all day on Wednesday, but I'm to go out just the same, for the bath-chair man is somebody that Miss Bogle knows quite well. So if you watch for me on the Parade, between the street close to here,' and she nodded towards the nearest side of Lindsay Square, 'and farther on that way,' and now she pointed in the direction of our own house, 'I'll look out for you, and we can have a good talk.'

'All right,' we replied. 'On Wednesday—day after to-morrow, if it's fine, of course.'

'Yes,' she said; 'though I'll try to go, even if it's not very fine, and you must try to come. I know now why nurse has to go to London. It's to see her sister, who's in an hospital, and Wednesday's the only day, and she's a dressmaker—that's why I thought nurse had to go to a dressmaker's. I'm going on making up my plans. It's getting worse and worse. After I've been out in the bath-chair, Miss Bogle says I'm to lie down most of the afternoon! Just fancy—it's so dreadfully dull, for she won't let me read. She says it's bad for your eyes, when you're lying down. Unless I do something quick, I believe she'll turn me into a—oh! I don't know what,' and she stopped, quite out of breath.

'A frog,' said Peterkin. He had enchanted frogs on the brain just then, I believe.

'No,' said Margaret, 'that wouldn't be so bad, for I'd be able to jump about, and there's nothing I love as much as jumping about, especially in water,' and her eyes sparkled with a sort of mischief which I had seen in them once or twice before. 'No, it would be something much horrider—a dormouse, perhaps. I should hate to be a dormouse.

'You shan't be changed into a dormouse or—or anything,' said Peterkin, with a burst of indignation.

'Thank you, Perkins,' Margaret replied; 'but please go now and remember—Wednesday.'

We ran off, and though we thought we had only been a minute or two at Rock Terrace, after all we were not home much too early.

'We must be careful on Wednesday,' I said. 'I'm afraid my watch is rather slow.'



'Dinner isn't always quite so pumptual on Wednesdays,' said Pete, 'with its being a half-holiday, you know.'

It turned out right enough on Wednesday.

Considering what a little girl she was then—only eight and a bit—Margaret was very clever with her plans and settlings, as we have often told her since. I daresay it was with her having lived so much alone, and read so many story-books, and made up stories for herself too, as she often did, though we didn't know that then.

We had no difficulty in finding her bath-chair, and the man took it quite naturally that she should have some friends, and, of course, made no objection to our walking beside her and talking to her. He was a very nice kind sort of a man, though he scarcely ever spoke. Perhaps he had children of his own, and was glad for Margaret to be amused. He took great care of the chair, over the crossing the road and the turnings, and no doubt he had been told to be extra careful, but as Miss Bogle had no idea that Margaret knew a creature in the place I don't suppose 'the witch' had ever thought of telling him that he was not to let any one speak to her.

It was a very fine day—a sort of November summer, and when you were in the full sunshine it really felt quite hot. There were bath-chairs standing still, for the people in them to enjoy the warmth and to stare out at the sea.

Margaret did not want to stare at it, and no more did we. But it was more comfortable to talk with the chair standing still; for though to look at one going it seems to crawl along like a snail, I can tell you to keep up with it you have to step out pretty fast, faster than Peterkin could manage without a bit of running every minute or so, which is certainly not comfortable, and faster than I myself could manage as well as talking, without getting short of breath.

So we were very glad to pull up for a few minutes, though we had already got through a good deal of business, as I will tell you.

Margaret had made up her mind to run away! Fancy that—a little girl of eight!

Pete and I were awfully startled when she burst out with it. She could stand Miss Bogle and the dreadful dulness and loneliness of Rock Terrace no longer, she declared, not to speak of what might happen to her in the way of being turned into a kitten or a mouse or something, if the witch got really too spiteful.

'And where will you go to?' we asked.

'Home,' she said, 'at least to my nursey's, and that is close to home.'

We were so puzzled at this that we could scarcely speak.

'To your nurse's!' we said at last.

'Yes, to my own nurse—my old nurse!' said Margaret, quite surprised that we didn't understand. And then she explained what she thought she had told us.

'That stupid thing who is my nurse now,' she said, 'isn't my real nurse. I mean she has only been with me since I came here. She belongs to Miss Bogle—I mean Miss Bogle got her. My own darling nursey had to leave me. She stayed and stayed because of that bad cold I got, you know, but as soon as I was better she had to go, because her mother was so old and ill, and hasn't nobody but nursey to take care of her. And then when Gran had to go away he settled it all with that witchy Miss Bogle, and she got this goosey nurse, and my own nursey brought me here. And she cried and cried when she went away, and she said she'd come some day to see if I was happy, but the witch said no, she mustn't, it would upset me; and so she's never dared to; and now you can fancy what my life has been,' Margaret finished up, in quite a triumphant tone.

Peterkin was nearly crying by this time. But I knew I must be very sensible. It all seemed so very serious.

'But what will your grandfather say when he knows you've run away?' I asked, while Peterkin stood listening, with his mouth wide open.

'He'd be very glad to know where I was, I should say,' Margaret replied. 'My own nursey will write to him, and I will myself. It'll be a good deal better than if I stayed to be turned into something he'd never know was me. Then, what would Dads and Mummy say to him for having lost me?'

'The parrot'd tell, p'raps,' said Pete.

'As if anybody would believe him!' exclaimed Margaret, 'except people who understand about fairies and witches and things like that, that you two and I know about.'

She was giving me credit for more believing in 'things like that' than I was feeling just then, to tell the truth. But what I did feel rather disagreeably sure of, was this queer little girl's determination. She sometimes spoke as if she was twenty. Putting it all together, I had a sort of instinct that it was best not to laugh at her ideas at all, as the next thing would be that she and her devoted 'Perkins' would be making plans without me, and really getting lost, or into dreadful troubles of some kind. So I contented myself with just saying—

'Why should Miss Bogle want to turn you into anything?'

'Because witches are like that,' said Peterkin, answering for his princess.

'And because she hates the bother of having me,' added Margaret. 'She has written to Gran that I am very troublesome—nurse told me so; nurse can't hold her tongue—and I daresay I am,' she added truly. 'And so, if I seemed to be lost, she'd say it wasn't her fault. And as I suppose I'd never be found, there'd be an end of it.'

'You couldn't but be found now,' said Peterkin, 'as, you see, we'd know.'

'If she didn't turn you into something too,' said Margaret, with the sparkle of mischief in her eyes again.

Pete looked rather startled at this new idea.

'The best thing to do is for me to go away to a safe place while I'm still myself,' she added.

'But have you got the exact address? Do you know what station to go to, and all that sort of thing?' I asked. 'And have you got money enough?'

'Plenty,' she said, nodding her head; 'plenty for all I've planned. Of course I know the station—it's the same as for my own home, and nursey lives in the village where the railway comes. Much nearer than our house, which is two miles off. And I know nursey will have me, even if she had to sleep on the floor herself. The only bother is that I'll have to change out of the train from here, and get into another at a place that's called a Junction. Nursey and I had to do that when we came here, and I heard Gran explain it all to her, and I know it's the same going back, for the nurse I have now told me so. When she goes to London she stays in the same railway; but if you're not going to London, you have to get into another one. And nursey and I had to wait nearly half-an-hour, I should think, and that's the part I mind,' and, for the first time, her eager little face looked anxious. 'The railway people would ask me who I was, and where I was going, as, you see, I look so much littler than I am; so I've planned for you two kind boys to come with me to that changing station, and wait till I've got into the train that goes to Hill Horton; that's our station. I've plenty of money,' she went on hurriedly, for, I suppose, she saw that I was looking very grave, and Peterkin's face was pink with excitement.

'It isn't that,' I said; 'it's—it's the whole thing. Supposing you got lost after all, it would be——'

'No, no! I won't get lost,' she said, speaking again in her very grown-up voice. 'And remember, you're on your word of honour as gentlemen!—gentlemen!' she repeated, 'not to tell any one without my leave. If you do, I'll just run away by myself, and very likely get lost or stolen, or something. And how would you feel then?'

'We are not going to break our promise,' I said. 'You needn't be afraid.'

'I'm not,' she said, and her face grew rather red. 'I always keep my word, and I expect any one I trust to keep theirs.'

And though she was such a little girl, not much older than Elvira, whom we often called a 'baby,' I felt sure she would 'keep hers.' It certainly wouldn't mend matters to risk her starting off by herself, as I believe she would have done if we had failed her.

It has taken longer to write down all our talking than the talking itself did, even though it was a little interrupted by the bath-chair man every now and then taking a turn up and down, 'just to keep Missy moving a bit,' he said.

Margaret's plans were already so very clear in her head that she had no difficulty in getting us to understand them thoroughly, and I don't think I need go on about what she said, and what we said. I will tell what we fixed to do, and what we did do.

Next Wednesday—a full week on—was the day she had settled for her escape from Rock Terrace. It was a long time to wait, but it was the day her nurse was pretty sure—really quite sure, Margaret thought—to go to London again, for she had said so. She went by a morning train, and did not come back till after dark in the evening, so there was no fear of our running up against her at the railway station. There was a train that would do for Hill Horton, after waiting a little at the Junction, at about three o'clock in the afternoon; and as it was my half-holiday, Peterkin and I could easily get leave to go out together if it was fine, and if it wasn't, we would have to come without! We trusted it would be fine; and I settled in my own mind that if we had to come without asking, I'd leave a message with James the footman, that they weren't to be frightened about us at home, for I didn't want mamma and all the others to be in a fuss again, like the evening Peterkin was lost.

Margaret said we needn't be away more than about an hour and a half. I don't quite remember how she'd got all she knew about the times of the trains. I think it was from the cook or housemaid at Miss Bogle's, for I know she said one of them came from near Hill Horton, and that she was very good-natured, and liked talking about Margaret's home and her own.

So it was settled.

Just to make it even more fixed, we promised to go round by Rock Terrace on Monday at the usual time, and Margaret was either to speak to us from the dining-room window, or, if she couldn't, she would hang out a white handkerchief somewhere that we should be sure to see, which would mean that it was all right.

We were to meet her at the corner of her row of houses nearest Lindsay Square, at half-past two on Wednesday. How she meant to do about her bath-chair drive, and all the rest of it, she didn't tell us, and, really, there wasn't time.

But I felt sure she would manage it, and Peterkin was even surer than I.

The last thing she said was—

'Of course, I shall have very little luggage; not more than you two boys can easily carry between you.'



CHAPTER VIII

A TERRIBLE IDEA

THAT was on a Wednesday, and the same day the next week was to be the day. On the Monday, as we had planned, we strolled along Rock Terrace. Luckily, it was a fine day, and we could look well about us without appearing to have any particular reason for doing so. It would have seemed rather funny if we had been holding up umbrellas, or, I should say, if I had been, for when it rained Peterkin wasn't allowed to come to meet me.

We stood still in front of the parrot's house. He was out on the balcony. I wondered if he would notice us, or if he did, if he would condescend to speak to us.

Yes, I felt that his ugly round eyes—don't you think all parrots' eyes are ugly, however pretty their feathers are?—were fixed on us, and in a moment or two came his squeaky, croaky voice—

'Good morning, boys! Good morning! Pretty Poll!'

'He didn't say "naughty boys,"' I remarked.

'No, of course not,' replied Peterkin; 'because he knows all about it now, you see.'

'We mustn't stand here long, however,' I said. 'I wond——'

'I wonder why Margaret hasn't hung out a handkerchief if she couldn't get to speak to us,' I was going to have said, but just at that moment we heard a voice on the upstairs balcony—

'Good Polly,' it said, 'good, good Polly.'

And the parrot repeated with great pride—

'Good, good Polly.'

But when we looked up there was no one to be seen, only I thought one of the glass doors of Margaret's dining-room clicked a little. And I was right. In another moment there she was herself, on the dining-room balcony—half on it, that's to say, and half just inside.

'Isn't he good?' she said, when we came as near as we dared to hear her. 'I told him to let me know as soon as he saw you, for I couldn't manage the handkerchief, and I was afraid you might have gone before I could catch you. Nurse has been after me so this morning, for the witch was angry with me yesterday for standing at the window without my shawl. But you mustn't stay,' and she nodded in her queenly little way. 'It's keeping all right—Wednesday at half-past two, at the corner next the Square—wet or fine. Good-bye.'

'Good-bye, all right,' we whispered, but she heard us.

So did the parrot.

'Good-bye, boys; good Polly! good, good Polly!' and something else which Peterkin declared meant, 'Wednesday at half-past two.'

I felt pretty nervous, I can tell you, that day and the next. At least I suppose it's what people call feeling very nervous. I seemed half in a dream, and, as if I couldn't settle to anything, all queer and fidgety. A little, just a very little perhaps, like what you feel when you know you are going to the dentist's, especially if you haven't got toothache; for when you have it badly, you don't mind the thought of having a tooth out, even a thumping double one.

Yet I should have felt disappointed if the whole thing had been given up, and, worse than that, horribly frightened if it had ended in Margaret's saying she'd run away by herself without us helping her, as I know—I have said so two or three times already, I'm afraid: it's difficult to keep from repeating if you're not accustomed to writing and feel very anxious to explain things clearly—as I know she really would have done.

And then there was the smaller worry of wondering what sort of weather there was going to be on Wednesday, which did matter a good deal.

I shall never forget how thankful I felt in the morning when it came, and I awoke, and opened my eyes, without any snorting for once, to hear Peterkin's first words—

'It's a very fine day, Gilley—couldn't be better.'

'Thank goodness,' I said.

He was sitting up, as usual; but I don't think he had stared me awake this morning, for he was gazing out in the direction of the window, where up above the short blind a nice show of pale-blue sky was to be seen; a wintry sort of blue, with the early mist over it a little, but still quite cheering and 'lasting' looking.

'All the same,' I went on, speaking more to myself, perhaps, than to him, 'I wish we were well through it, and your princess safe with her old nurse.'

For I could not have felt comfortable about her, as I have several times said, even if we had not promised to help her. More than that—I do believe she was so determined, that supposing mamma or Mrs. Wylie or any grown-up person had somehow come to know about it, Margaret would have kept to her plan, and perhaps even hurried it on and got into worse trouble.

She needed a lesson; though I still do think, and always shall think, that old Miss Bogle and her new nurse and everybody were not a bit right in the way they tried to manage her.

I hurried home from school double-quick that morning, you may be sure. And Peterkin and I were ready for dinner—hands washed, hair brushed, and all the rest of it—long before the gong sounded.

Mamma looked at us approvingly, I remember, when she came into the dining-room, where we were waiting before the girls and Clement had made their appearance.

'Good boys,' she said, smiling, 'that's how I like to see you. How neat you both look, and down first, too!'

I felt rather a humbug, but I don't believe Peterkin did; he was so completely taken up with the thought of Margaret's escape, and so down-to-the-ground sure that he was doing a most necessary piece of business if she was to be saved from the witch's 'enchantering,' as he would call it.

But as I was older, of course, the mixture of feelings in my mind was a mixture, and I couldn't stand being altogether a humbug.

So I said to mamma—

'It's mostly that we want to go out as soon as ever we've had our dinner; you know you gave us leave to go?'

'Oh yes,' said she. 'Well, it's a very nice day, and you will take good care of Peterkin, won't you, Giles? Don't tire him. Are any of your schoolfel——'

But at that moment a note was brought to her, which she had to send an answer to, and when she sat down at the table again, she was evidently still thinking of it, and forgot she had not finished her question, which I was very glad of.

So we got off all right, though I had a feeling that Clement looked at us rather curiously, as we left the dining-room.

At the very last moment, I did give the message I had thought about in my own mind, with James. Just for him to say that mamma and nobody was to be frightened if we were rather late of coming back—even if it should be after dark; that we should be all right.

And then we ran off without giving James time to say anything, though he did open his mouth and begin to stutter out some objection. He was rather a donkey, but I knew that he was to be trusted, so I just laughed in his face.

We were a little before the time at the corner of the square, but that was a good thing. It would never have done to keep her waiting, Peterkin said. He always spoke of her as if she was a kind of queen. And he was right enough. All the same, my heart did beat in rather a funny way, thinking to myself what could or should we do if she didn't come?

But we were not kept waiting long. In another minute or so, a little figure appeared round the corner, hastening towards us as fast as it could, but evidently a good deal bothered by a large parcel, which at the first glance looked nearly as big as itself.

Of course it was Margaret.

'Oh,' she exclaimed, 'I am so glad you are here already. It's this package. I had no idea it would seem so heavy.'

'It's nothing,' said Peterkin, valiantly, taking it from her as he spoke.

And it really wasn't very much—what had made it seem so conspicuous was that the contents were all wrapped up in her red shawl, and naturally it looked a queer bundle for a little girl like her to be carrying. She was not at all strong either, even for a little girl, and afterwards I was not surprised at this, for the illness she had spoken of as a bad cold had really been much worse than that.

'Let's hurry on,' she said, 'I shan't feel safe till we've got to the station,' for which I certainly thought she had good reason.

I had meant to go by the front way, which was actually the shortest, but the scarlet bundle staggered me. Luckily I knew my way about the streets pretty well, so I chose rather less public ones. And before long, even though the package was not very heavy, Peterkin began to flag, so I had to help him a bit with it.

But for that, there would have been nothing about us at all noticeable. Margaret was quite nicely and quietly dressed in dark-blue serge, something like Blanche and Elvira, and we just looked as if we were a little sister and two schoolboy brothers.

'Couldn't you have got something less stary to tie up your things in?' I asked her when we had got to some little distance from Rock Terrace, and were in a quiet street.

She shook her head.

'No,' she said, 'it was the only thing. I have a nice black bag, as well as my trunks, of course, but the witch or nurse has hidden it away. I couldn't find it. It's just as if they had thought I might be planning to run away. I nearly took nurse's waterproof cape; she didn't take it to London to-day, because it is so fine and bright. But I didn't like to, after all. It won't matter once we are in the train, and at Hill Horton it will be a good thing, as my own nursey will see it some way off.'

We were almost at the station by now, and I told Margaret so.

'All right,' she said. 'I have the money all ready. One for me to Hill Horton, and two for you to the Junction station,' and she began to pull out her purse.

'You needn't get it out just yet,' I said. 'We shall have quite a quarter of an hour to wait. If you give me your purse once we're inside, I will tell you exactly what I take out. How much is there in it?'

'A gold half-sovereign,' she replied, 'and a half-crown, and five sixpences, and seven pennies.'

'There won't be very much over,' I said, 'though we are all three under twelve; so halves will do, and returns for Pete and me. Second-class, I suppose?'

'Second-class!' repeated Margaret, with great scorn; 'of course not. I've never travelled anything but first in my life. I don't know what Gran would say, or nursey even, if she saw me getting out of a second-class carriage.'

She made me feel a little cross, though she didn't mean it. We often travelled second, and even third, if there were a lot of us and we could get a carriage to ourselves. But, after all, it was Margaret's own affair, and as she was to be alone from the Junction to Hill Horton, perhaps it was best.

'I don't want you to travel second, I'm sure,' I said, 'if only there's enough. I'd have brought some of my own, but unluckily I'm very short just now.'

'I've—'began Peterkin, but Margaret interrupted him.

'As if I'd let you pay anything!' she said indignantly. 'I'd rather travel third than that. You are only coming out of kindness to me.'

After all, there was enough, even for first-class, leaving a shilling or so over. Hill Horton was not very far away.

A train was standing ready to start, for the station was a terminus. I asked a guard standing about if it was the one for Hill Horton, and he answered yes, but we must change at the Junction, which I knew already.

So we all got into a first-class carriage, and settled ourselves comfortably, feeling safe at last.

'I wish we were going all the way with you,' said Peterkin, with a sigh made up of satisfaction, as he wriggled his substantial little person into the arm-chair first-class seat, and of regret.

'I'll be all right,' said Margaret, 'once I am in the Hill Horton railway.'

For some things I wished too that we were going all the way with her, but for others I couldn't help feeling that I should be very glad to be safe home again and the adventure well over.

'By the day after to-morrow,' I thought, 'there will be no more reason for worrying, if Margaret keeps her promise of writing to us.'

I had made her promise this, and given her an envelope with our address on. For otherwise, you see, we should not have heard how she had got on, as no one but the parrot knew that she had ever seen us or spoken to us.

Then the train moved slowly out of the station, and Margaret's eyes sparkled with triumph. And we felt the infection of her high spirits. After all, we were only children, and we laughed and joked about the witch, and the fright her new nurse would be in, and how the parrot would enjoy it all, of which we felt quite sure.

We were very merry all the way to the Junction. It was only about a quarter-of-an-hour off, and just before we got there the guard looked at our tickets.

'Change at the Junction,' he said, when he caught sight of the 'Hill Horton,' on Margaret's.

'Of course, we know that, thank you,' she said, rather pertly perhaps, but it sounded so funny that Pete and I burst out laughing again. I suppose we were all really very excited, but the guard laughed too.

'How long will there be to wait for the Hill Horton train?' I had the sense to ask.

'Ten minutes, at least,' he replied, glancing at his watch, the way guards nearly always do.

I was glad he did not say longer, for the sooner Peterkin and I caught a train home again, after seeing Margaret off, the better. And I knew there were sure to be several in the course of the afternoon.

As soon as we stopped we got out—red bundle and all. I did not see our guard again, he was somewhere at the other end; but I got hold of another, not so good-natured, however, and rather in a hurry.

'Which is the train for Hill Horton? Is it in yet?' I asked.

He must have thought, so I explained it to myself afterwards, that we had just come in to the station, and were at the beginning of our journey.

'Hill Horton,' I thought he said, but, as you will see, my ears must have deceived me, 'all right. Any carriage to the front—further back are for——.' I did not clearly hear—I think it must have been 'Charing Cross,' but I did not care. All that concerned us was 'Hill Horton.'

'Come along,' I called to the two others, who had got a little behind me, lugging the bundle between them, and I led the way, as the man had pointed out.

It seemed a very long train, and as he had said 'to the front,' I thought it best to go pretty close up to the engine. There were two or three first-class carriages next to the guard's van, but they were all empty, and I had meant to look out for one with nice-looking people in it for Margaret to travel with. Farther back there were some ladies and children in some first-class, but I was afraid of putting her into a wrong carriage.

'I expect you will be alone all the way,' I said to her. 'I suppose there are not very many people going to Hill Horton.'

'Not first-class,' said Margaret. 'There are often lots of farmers and village people, I daresay. Nursey said it was very crowded on market days, but I don't know when it is market days. But it is rather funny, Giles, to be getting into the same train again!'

'No,' I replied, 'these carriages will be going to split off from the others that go on to London. The man said it would be all right for Hill Horton at the front. They often separate trains like that. I daresay we shall go a little way out of the station and come back again. You'll see. And he said—the first man, I mean—that we should have at least ten minutes to wait, and we've scarcely been two, so we may as well get in with you for a few minutes.'

'Yes, do,' said Margaret, 'but don't put my package up in the netted place, for fear I couldn't get it down again myself. The trains never stop long at our station.'

So we contented ourselves with leaving the red bundle on the seat beside her. It was lucky, I told her, that the carriage wasn't full, otherwise it would have had to go up in the rack, where it wouldn't have been very firm.

'It is so fat,' said Peterkin, solemnly.

'Something like you,' I said, at which we all laughed again, as if it was something very witty. We were still feeling rather excited, I think, and rather proud—at least I was—of having, so far, got on so well.

But before we had finished laughing, there came a startling surprise. The train suddenly began to move! We stared at each other. Then I remembered my own words a minute or two ago.

'It's all right,' I said, 'we'll back into the station again in a moment.'

Margaret and Peterkin laughed again, but rather nervously. At least, Margaret's laugh was not quite hearty; though, as for Peterkin, I think he was secretly delighted.

On we went—faster and faster, instead of slower. There was certainly no sign of 'backing.' I put my head out of the window. We were quite clear of the Junction by now, getting every instant more and more into the open country. At last I had to give in.

'We're off, I do believe,' I said. 'There's been some mistake about our waiting ten minutes. We're clear on the way to Hill Horton.'

'I'm very glad,' said Pete. 'I always wanted to come all the way.'

'But perhaps it needn't be all the way,' I said. 'Do you remember, Margaret, how many stations there are between the Junction and yours?'

'Three or four, I think,' she replied.

'Oh well, then,' I said, 'it won't matter. We can get out the first time we stop, and I daresay we shall soon get a train back again, and not be late home after all.'

Margaret's face cleared. She was thoughtful enough not to want us to get into trouble through helping her.

'We shall be stopping soon, I think,' she said, 'for this seems a fast train.'

But to me her words brought no satisfaction. For it did indeed seem a fast train, and a much more horrible idea than the one of our going all the way to Hill Horton suddenly sprang into my mind—

Were we in the Hill Horton train at all?



CHAPTER IX

IN A FOG

I WAITED a minute or two before I said anything to the others. They went on laughing and joking, and I kept looking out of the window. At last I turned round, and then Margaret started a little.

'What's the matter, Giles?' she said. 'You're quite white and funny looking.'

And Peterkin stared at me too.

'It's—'I began, and then I felt as if I really couldn't go on; but I had to. 'It's that I am dreadfully afraid,' I said, 'almost quite sure now, that we are in the wrong train. I've seen the names of two stations that we've passed without stopping already. Do you remember the names of any between the Junction and Hill Horton, Margaret?'

She shook her head.

'No,' she said, 'but I know we never pass any without stopping; at least I think so. They are quite little stations, and I've never known the train go as fast as this till after the Junction, when we were in the London train. I've been to London several times with Gran, you see.'

Then it suddenly struck her what I meant.

'Oh!' she exclaimed, with a little scream, 'is it that you are afraid of, Giles? Do you think we are in the London train? I did think it was funny that we were getting back into the same one, but you said that the man said that the carriages at the front were for Hill Horton?'

'Well, I thought he did,' I replied, 'but—' one's mind works quickly when you are frightened sometimes—'he might have said "Victoria," for the "tor" in "Victoria" and "Horton" sound rather alike.'

'But wouldn't he have said "London"?' asked Peterkin.

'No, I think they generally say the name of the station in London,' I explained. 'There are so many, you see.'

Then we all, for a minute or two, gazed at each other without speaking. Margaret had got still paler than usual, and I fancied, or feared, I heard her choke down something in her throat. Peterkin, on the contrary, was as red as a turkey-cock, and his eyes were gleaming. I think it was all a part of the fairy-tale to him.

'What shall we do?' said Margaret, at last, and I was forced to answer, 'I don't know.'

Bit by bit things began to take shape in my mind, and it was no good keeping them to myself.

'There'll be the extra money to pay for our tickets to London,' I said at last.

'How much will it be? Isn't there enough over?' asked Margaret quietly, and I could not help admiring her for it, as she took out her purse and gave it to me to count over what was left.

There were only four or five shillings. I shook my head.

'I don't know how much it will be, but I'm quite sure there's not enough. You see, though we're only halves, it's first-class.'

'And what will they do to us if we can't pay,' she went on, growing still whiter. 'Could we—could we possibly be sent to prison?'

'Oh no, no. I don't think so,' I answered, though I was really not at all sure about it; I had so often seen notices stuck up on boards at railway stations about the punishments of passengers not paying properly, or trying to travel without tickets. 'But—I'm afraid they would be very horrid to us somehow—perhaps telegraph to papa or mamma.'

'Oh!' cried Margaret, growing now as red as she had been white, 'and that would mean my being shut up again at Rock Terrace—worse than before. I don't know what the witch wouldn't do to me,' and she clasped her poor little hands in a sort of despair.

Then Peterkin burst out—

'I've got my gold half-pound with me,' he said, in rather a queer voice, as if he was proud of being able to help and yet half inclined to cry.

'Goodness!' I exclaimed, 'why on earth didn't you say so before?'

'I—I—wanted it for something else,' said he. 'I don't quite know why I brought it.'

He dived into his pocket, and dug out a very grimy little purse, out of which, sure enough, he produced a half-sovereign.

The relief of knowing that we should not get into trouble as far as our journey to London was concerned, was such a blessing, that just for the moment I forgot all the rest of it.

'Anyway we can't be put in prison now,' said Margaret, and a little colour came into her face. 'Oh, Perkins, you are a nice boy!'

I did think her praising him was rather rough on me, for I had had bother enough, goodness knows, about the whole affair, even though I had made a stupid mistake.

We whizzed on, for it was an express train, and for a little while we didn't speak. Peterkin was still looking rather upset about his money. He told me afterwards that he had been keeping it for his Christmas presents, especially one for Margaret, as we had never had a chance of getting her any flowers. But all that was put right in the end.

After a bit Margaret said to me, in a half-frightened voice—

'What shall we do when we get to London, Giles? Do you think perhaps the guard would help us to go back again to the Junction, when he sees it was a mistake? As we've got money to pay to London, he'd see we hadn't meant to cheat.'

'No,' I said, 'he wouldn't have time, and besides I don't think it'll be the same one. And if we said anything, he'd most likely make us give our names, or take us to some station-master or somebody, and then there'd be no chance of our keeping out of a lot of bother.'

'You mean,' said she, in a shaky voice, 'we should have to go all the way back, and I'd be sent to the witch again?'

'Something like it, I'm afraid,' I said. 'If I just explain that we got into the wrong train and pay up, they'll have no business to meddle with us.'

'But what are we to do, then?' she asked again.

'I don't know,' I replied. I'm afraid I was rather cross. I was so sick of it all, you see, and so fearfully bothered.

Margaret at last began to cry. She tried to choke it down, but it was no use.

I felt awfully sorry for her, but somehow the very feeling so bad made me crosser, and I did not try to comfort her up.

Pete, on the contrary, tugged out his pocket-handkerchief, which was quite a decently clean one, and began wiping her eyes. This made her try again to stop crying. She pulled out her own handkerchief and said—

'Dear little Perkins, you are so kind.'

I glanced at them, not very amiably, I daresay. And I was on the point of saying that, instead of crying and petting each other, they'd better try to think what we should do, for I knew we must be getting near London by this time, when I saw something white on the floor of the carriage.

I stooped to pick it up. It had dropped out of Margaret's pocket when she pulled out her handkerchief. It was an envelope, or what had been one, and for a moment I thought it was the one I had given her with our address on, to use when she wrote to us from Hill Horton, but that one couldn't have got so dirty and torn-looking in the time. And when I looked at it more closely, I saw that it was jagged and nibbled in a queer way, and then I saw that it had the name 'Wylie' on it, and an address in London. And when I looked still more closely, I saw that it had never been through the post or had a stamp on, and that it had a large blot in one corner. Evidently the person who had written on it had not liked to use it because of the blot, and the name on it was Miss, not Mrs. Wylie, '19 Enderby Street LONDON, S.W.'

I turned it round and round without speaking for a moment or two. I couldn't make it out. Then I said—

'What's this, Margaret? It must have dropped out of your pocket.'

She stopped crying—well, really, I think she had stopped already, for whatever her faults were she wasn't a babyish child—to look at it. She seemed puzzled, and felt in her pocket again.

'No, of course it's not the envelope you gave me,' she said. 'I've got it safe, and—oh, I believe I know how this old one got into my pocket. I remember a day or two ago when I was trying if it would do to tie my handkerchief on to Polly's cage, he was nibbling some paper. He's very fond of nibbling paper, and it doesn't hurt him, for he doesn't eat it. But he would keep pecking at me when I was tying the handkerchief, and I was vexed with him, and so when he dropped this I picked it up and shook it at him, and told him he shouldn't have it again, and then I put it into my pocket. He was very tiresome that day, not a bit a fairy; he is like that sometimes.'

'But how did he come to have an envelope with "Miss Wylie" on?' I said. 'He doesn't live in Mrs. Wylie's house, but in the one between yours and hers, and this must have come from her.'

'I daresay she gave it him to play with, or her servant may have given it him,' said Margaret, 'You see he's sometimes at the end of the balcony nearest her, and sometimes at our end. I think his servants have put him more at our end since she's been away; perhaps they've heard me talking to him. Anyway, I'm sure this old envelope must have come out of his cage.'

I did not speak for a moment. I was gazing at the address.

'Margaret,' I exclaimed, 'look at it.'

She did so, and then stared up at me, with a puzzled expression in her eyes, still red with crying.

'I believe,' I went on, 'I believe this is going to help us.'

Peterkin, who had been listening with all his ears, could contain himself no longer.

'And the parrot must be a fairy after all,' he said, 'and he must have done it on purpose.'

But Margaret did not seem to hear what he said, she was still gazing at me and wondering what I was going to say.

'Don't you see,' I went on, touching the envelope, 'this must be the house of some of Mrs. Wylie's relations? Very likely she's staying with them there, and anyway they'd tell us where she is, as we know she's still in London. She told us she was going to be there for a fortnight. And she's very kind. We would ask her to lend us money enough to go back to the Junction, and then we'd be all right. You have got your ticket for Hill Horton, and we have our returns for home.'

'Oh,' cried Margaret, 'how clever you are to have thought of it, Giles! But,' and the bright look went out of her face, 'you don't think she'd make me go back to the witch, do you? Are you sure she wouldn't?'

'I really don't think she would,' I said. 'I know she has often been sorry for you, for she knew you weren't at all happy. And we'd tell her more about it. She is awfully kind.'

I meant what I said. Perhaps I saw it rather too favourably; the idea of finding a friend in London was such a comfort just then, that I felt as if everything else might be left for the time. I never thought about catching trains at the Junction or about its getting late and dark for Margaret to be travelling alone from there to Hill Horton, or anything, except just the hope—the tremendous hope—that we might find our kind old lady.



The train slackened, and very soon we pulled up. It wasn't the station yet, however, but the place where they stop to take tickets, just outside. I know it so well now, for we pass it ever so often on our way from and to school several times a year. But whenever we pass it, or stop at it, I think of that miserable day and all my fears.

The man put his head in at the window. He was a stranger.

'Tickets, please,' he said.

I was ready for him—tickets, Peterkin's half-sovereign, and all. I held out the tickets.

'There's been a mistake,' I began. 'I shall have to pay up,' and when he heard that, he opened the door and came in.

He looked at the tickets.

'Returns—half-returns to the Junction,' he said, 'and a half to Hill Horton. How's this?'

'We got into the wrong train at the Junction,' I replied. 'In fact, we got back into the same one we had just got out of. I expect the guard thought I said "Victoria" when I said "Hill Horton," for he told us to go to the front.'

'And didn't he tell you, you were wrong when he looked at the tickets before you started?' the man asked, still holding our tickets in his hand and examining us rather queerly.

I began to feel angry, but I didn't want to have any fuss, so instead of telling him to mind his own business, as I was ready to pay the difference, I answered again quite coolly—

'No one looked at the tickets at the Junction. There were two or three empty carriages at the front: perhaps no one noticed us getting in.'

I thought I heard the man murmur to himself something about 'rum go. Three kids by themselves, and first-class.'

So, though I was getting angrier every moment, I just said—

'I don't see that it matters. Here we are, anyway, and I'll pay if you'll tell me how much.'

He counted up.

'Eight-and-six—no, eight-and-tenpence.'

I held out the half-sovereign. He felt in his pocket and gave me back the change—a shilling and twopence, and walked off with the halves of Pete's and my return tickets and the half-sovereign.

We all began to breathe more freely; but, as the train slowly moved again at last—we had been standing quite a quarter-of-an-hour—a new trouble started.

'It's very dark,' said Margaret, 'and it can't be late yet.'

I looked out of the window. Yes, it was very dark. I put my head out. It felt awfully chilly too—a horrid sort of chilly feeling. But that wasn't the worst of it.

'It's a fog,' I said. 'The horridest kind—I can't see the lights almost close to us. It's getting worse every minute. I believe it'll be as dark as midnight when we get into the station. What luck, to be sure!'

The other two seemed more excited than frightened.

'I've never seen a really bad fog,' said Margaret, as if she was rather pleased to have the chance.

Pete said nothing. I expect he'd have had a fairy-tale all ready about a prince lost in a mist, if I'd given him an opening. But I was again rather taken aback. How were we to find our way to Enderby Street?

I had meant to walk, you see, in spite of the red bundle! For I was afraid of being cheated by the cabman; and I was afraid too of running quite short of money, in case we didn't find Mrs. Wylie, or that she had left, and that, if the worst came to the worst, I might have to go to a hotel with the two children, and telegraph to mamma to say where we were. Papa, unluckily, was not in London just then. He had gone away on business somewhere—I forget where—for a day or two, and besides, I was not at all sure of the exact address of his chambers, otherwise I might have telegraphed there. I only knew it was a long way from Victoria.

Indeed, I don't think I thought about that at all at the time, though afterwards mamma said to me I might have done so, had the worst come to the worst.



CHAPTER X

BERYL

YES, the fog was a fog, and no mistake. I don't think I have ever seen so bad a one since we came to live in London, or else it seemed to me terribly bad that day because I was not used to it, and because I was so anxious.

I felt half provoked and yet in a way glad that Margaret and Peterkin were not at all frightened, but rather pleased. They followed me along the platform after we got out of the carriage, lugging the bundle between them. It was not really heavy, and I had to go first, as the station was pretty full in that part, in spite of the fog. The lamps were all lighted, but till you got within a few yards of one you scarcely saw it.

I went on, staring about me for some one to ask advice from. At last, close to a book-stall, where several lights together made it a little clearer, I saw a railway man of some kind, standing, as if he was not in a hurry.

'Can you tell me where Enderby Street is, if you please?' I asked as civilly as I knew how.

'Enderby Street,' he repeated, in surprise. 'Of course; it's no distance off.'

Wasn't I thankful?

'How far?' I said.

'Well—it depends upon which part of it you want. It's a long street. But if you're a stranger you'll never find your way in this fog. Better take a hansom.'

'Thank you,' I said. 'It's only a shilling, I suppose?'

He glanced at me again; he had been turning away. By this time the two children were close beside me. He saw that we belonged to each other.

'A shilling for two—one-and-six for three,' he replied. 'Hansom or four-wheeler,' and then he moved off.

Just then Margaret began to cough, and a new fear struck me. She looked very delicate, and she had had a bad cold. Supposing the fog made her very ill? I was glad the man had spoken of a four-wheeler.

'Stuff your handkerchief or something into your mouth,' I said, 'so as not to get the fog down your throat. I'm going to call a four-wheeler.'

In some ways that dreadful day was not as bad as it might have been. There were scarcely any cabs about, but just then one stopped close to the end of the platform.

'Jump in,' I said, and before the driver had time to make any objection, for I know they do sometimes make a great favour of taking you anywhere in a fog, we were all inside.

I heard him growling a little, but when I put my head out of the window again, and said '19 Enderby Street,' he smoothed down.

We drove off, slowly enough, but that was to be expected. I pulled up both windows, for Margaret kept on coughing, in spite of having her handkerchief, and Peterkin's too, for all I knew, stuffed over her mouth and throat. They were both very quiet, but I think they were rather enjoying themselves. I suppose my taking the lead, as I had had to, since our troubles began, and managing things, made them feel 'safe,' as children like to do, at the bottom of their hearts, however they start by talking big.

It was a horrid fog, but the lights made it not quite so bad outside, for the shops had got all their lamps on, and we could see them now and then. There was a lot of shouting going on, and yet every sound was muffled. There were not many carts or omnibuses or anything on wheels passing, and what there were, were moving slowly like ourselves.

After a few minutes it got darker again; it must have been when we got into Enderby Street, I suppose, for there are no shops, or scarcely any, there. I've often and often passed along it since, but I never do without thinking of that evening, or afternoon, for it was really not yet four o'clock.

And then we stopped.

'Nineteen, didn't you say?' asked the driver as I jumped out.

'Yes, nineteen,' I said. 'Stop here for a moment or two, till I see if we go in.'

For it suddenly struck me that if we had the awful bad luck not to find Mrs. Wylie, we had better keep the cab, to take us to some hotel, otherwise it might be almost impossible to get another. And then we should be out in the street, with Margaret and her bundle, and worse still, her cough.

I made my way, more by feeling than seeing, up the steps, and fumbled till I found the bell. I had not actually told the others to stay in the cab, though I had taken care to keep the window shut when I got out, and I never dreamt but what they'd stay where they were till I had found out if Mrs. Wylie was there.

But just as the door opened—the servant came in double-quick time luckily, the reason for which was explained—I heard a rustling behind me, and lo and behold, there they both were, and the terrible red bundle too, looking huger and queerer than ever, as the light from inside fell on it.

We must have looked a funny lot, as the servant opened the door. She—it was a parlour-maid—did start a little, but I didn't give her time to speak, though I daresay she thought we were beggars, thanks to those silly children.

'Mrs. Wylie is staying here,' I said. I thought it best to speak decidedly. 'Is she at home?'

I suppose my way of speaking made her see we were not beggars, and perhaps she caught sight of the four-wheeler, looming faintly through the fog, for she answered quite civilly.

'She is not exactly staying here. She is in rooms a little way from here, but she comes round most afternoons. I thought it was her when you rang, but I don't think she'll be coming now—not in this fog.'

My heart had gone down like lead at the first words—'she is not,' but as the servant went on I got more hopeful again.

'Can you—' I began—I was going to have asked for Mrs. Wylie's address, but just then Margaret coughed; the worst cough I had heard yet from her. 'Why couldn't you have stayed in the cab?' I said sharply, and perhaps it was a good thing, to show that we had a cab waiting for us. 'Please,' I went on, 'let this little girl come inside for a minute. The fog makes her cough so.'

The parlour-maid stepped back, opening the door a little wider, but there was something doubtful in her manner, as if she was not quite sure if she was not running a risk in letting us in. I pushed Margaret forward, and not Margaret only! She was holding fast to her precious bundle, and Peterkin was holding fast to his side of it, so they tumbled in together in a way that was enough to make the servant stare, and I stayed half on the steps, half inside, but from where I was I could see into the hall quite well. It looked so nice and comfortable, compared with the horribleness outside. It was a square sort of hall. The house was not a big one, not nearly as big as ours at home, but lots bigger than the Rock Terrace ones, of course.

'Can you give me Mrs. Wylie's address?' I said. 'I think the best thing we can do is to—' but I was interrupted again.

A girl—a grown-up girl, a lady, I mean—came forward from the inner part of the hall.

'Browner,' she said, 'do shut the door. You are letting the fog get all over the house, and it is bitterly cold.'

She was blinking her eyes a little as she spoke: either the light or the fog, or both, hurt them. Perhaps she had been sitting over the fire in a darkish room. 'Blinking her eyes' doesn't sound very pretty, but it was, I found afterwards, a sort of trick of hers, and somehow it suited her. She was very pretty. I didn't often notice girls' looks, but I couldn't help noticing hers. Everything about her was pretty; her voice too, though she spoke a little crossly. She was rather tall, and her hair was wavy, almost as wavy as Elf's, and the colour of her dress, which was pinky-red, and everything about her, seemed to suit, and I just stood—we all did—staring at her.

And as soon as she caught sight of us—I daresay we seemed quite a little crowd at the door—she stared too!

Then she came forward quickly, her voice growing anxious, and almost frightened.

'What is the matter?' she exclaimed. 'Has there been an accident? Who are these—children?'

Browner moved towards her.

'Indeed, Miss,' she began, but the girl stopped her.

'Shut the door first,' she said decidedly. 'No, no, come in, please,' this was to me; I suppose I seemed to hesitate, 'and tell me what you want, and who you are?'

Her voice grew more hesitating as she went on, and it must have been very difficult to make out what sort of beings we were. Margaret's colourless face and dark eyes and hair, and the bright red of the bundle, at the first hasty glance, might almost have made you think of a little Italian wandering musician; but the moment I spoke I think the girl saw we were not that class.

'We are friends of Mrs. Wylie's—Mrs. Wylie who lives at Rock Terrace,' I said, 'and—and we've come to her because—oh! because we've got into a lot of trouble, and the fog's made it worse, and we don't know anybody else in London.'

Then, all of a sudden—I'm almost ashamed to tell it, even though it's a good while ago now, and I really was scarcely more than a little boy myself—something seemed to get into my throat, and I felt as if in another moment it would turn into a sob.

Margaret is awfully quick in some ways. She heard the choke in my voice and darted to me, leaving the bundle to Pete's tender mercies; so half of it dropped on to the floor and half stuck to him, as he stood there staring with his round blue eyes.

Margaret stretched up and flung her arms round my neck.

'Giles, Giles,' she cried, 'don't, oh don't!' Then she burst out—

'It's all my fault; at least it's all for me, and Giles and Perkins have been so good to me. Oh dear, oh dear, what shall I do?' and she began coughing again in a miserable way. I think it was partly that she was trying not to cry.

Seeing her so unhappy, made me pull myself together. I was just going to explain things a little to the girl, when she spoke first. She looked very kind and sorry.

'I'll tell you what's the first thing to do,' she said, 'and that's to get this child out of the cold,' and she opened a door a little farther back in the hall, and got us all in, the maid following.

It was a very nice, rather small dining-room; a bright fire was burning, and the girl turned on an electric lamp over the table. There were pretty ferns and things on it, ready for dinner, just like mamma has them at home.

'Now,' she began again, but there seemed nothing but interruptions, for just at that moment another door was heard to open, and as the one of the room where we were was not shut, we could hear some one calling—

'Beryl, Beryl, is there anything the matter? Has your aunt come?'

It was a man's voice—quite a kind one, but rather fussy.

'Wait a moment or two, I'll be back directly,' said the girl, and as she ran out of the room we heard her calling, 'I'm coming, daddy.'

The parlour-maid drew back nearer the door, not seeming sure if she should leave us alone or not, and we drew a little nearer the fire. So that we could talk without her hearing us.



'Isn't she a kind lady?' said Margaret, glancing up at me. 'I think she looks very kind. You don't think she'll send me back to the witch, do you, Giles?'

'Bother the witch,' I was on the point of saying, for I would have given anything by this time to be back in our homes again, witch or no witch. But I thought better of it. It wouldn't have been kind, with Margaret looking up at me, with tears in her big dark eyes, so white and anxious.

'I shouldn't think so,' I replied. 'She must be Mrs. Wylie's niece, and we'll go on to Mrs. Wylie, and she will tell us what to do.'

The girl—perhaps I'd better call her 'Beryl' now. We always do, though she is no longer Beryl Wylie. Beryl was back almost at once.

'Now,' she began again, sitting down in an arm-chair by the fire, and drawing Margaret to her, 'tell me all about it. In the first place, who are you? What are your names?'

'Lesley,' I said. 'At least ours is,' and I touched Peterkin. 'I'm Giles and he's Peterkin. We know Mrs. Wylie, and we live on the Marine Parade.'

Beryl nodded.

'Yes,' she said, 'I've heard of you. And,' she touched Margaret gently, 'this small maiden? What is her name—she is not your sister?'

'No,' I replied. 'She is Margaret——' I stopped short. For the first time it struck me that I had never heard her last name!

'Margaret Fothergill,' she said quickly. 'I live next door but one to Mrs. Wylie, and next door to the parrot. Do you know the parrot in Rock Terrace?'

Beryl nodded again.

'I have heard of him too,' she said.

But suddenly a new idea—I should rather say the old one—struck Margaret again. Her voice changed, and she clasped her hands piteously.

'You won't, oh, you won't send me back to the witch? Say you won't.'

'What does she mean?' asked Beryl, turning to me, as if she thought Margaret was half out of her mind, though, all the same, she drew her still closer.

'She—we—' I began, and Peterkin opened his mouth too. But I suppose I must have glanced at the servant, for Beryl turned towards her, as if to tell her not to wait. Then she changed and said instead—

'Bring tea in here, Browner, as quickly as you can. You can put it on the side table.'

Browner went off at once; she seemed a very good-natured girl. And then, as quickly as I could, helped here and there by Margaret and by Peterkin (though to any one less 'understanding' than Beryl, his funny way of muddling up real and fancy would certainly not have 'helped'), I told our story. It was really wonderful how Beryl took it all in. When I stopped at last, almost out of breath, she nodded her head quietly.

'We won't talk it over just yet,' she said. 'The first thing to do is to see my auntie. You three stay here while I run round to her, and try to enjoy your tea. I shall not be long. It is very near.'

The idea of tea did seem awfully tempting, but a new thought struck me.

'The cab!' I exclaimed, 'the four-wheeler! It's waiting all this time, and if we send it away, most likely we shan't be able to get another in the fog. There'll be such a lot to pay, too. Don't you think we'd better go with you in it to Mrs. Wylie, and perhaps she'd lend us money to go to the Junction by the first train? I don't think we should stay to have tea, thank you,' though, as I said it, a glance at Margaret's poor little white face made me wish I needn't say it. She was clinging to Beryl so by this time as if she felt safe.

And Peterkin looked almost as piteous as she did.

Beryl gently loosened Margaret's hold of her, and got up from the big leather arm-chair where she had been sitting.

'Never mind about the cab,' she said. 'I will go round in it to my aunt, and perhaps bring her back in it. I will settle with the man. I may be a quarter-of-an-hour or twenty minutes away. So all you three have got to do in the meantime is to have a good tea, and trust me. And don't think about witches, or bad fairies, or anything disagreeable till you see me again,' she added, nodding to the two children. 'Browner, you will see that they have everything they want.'

Browner smiled, and Beryl ran off, and in a minute or two we heard her come downstairs again, with her cloak and hat on, no doubt, and the front door shut, and I heard the cab drive away.

Talking of fairies, I can't imagine anything more like the best of good ones than Beryl Wylie seemed to us that afternoon.

Browner was very kind and sensible. For after she had poured out our tea, and handed us a plateful of bread-and-butter and another of little cakes, she left the room, showing us the bell, in case we wanted more milk or anything.

And then—perhaps it may seem very thoughtless of us, but, as I have said before, even I, the eldest, wasn't very old—we really enjoyed ourselves! It was so jolly to feel warm and to have a good tea, and, above all, to know that we had found kind friends, who would tell us what to do.

Margaret seemed perfectly happy, and to have got rid of all her fears of being sent back to the witch. And Peterkin, in those days, was never very surprised at anything, for nothing that could happen was as wonderful as the wonders of the fairy-land he lived in. So he was quite able to enjoy himself without any trying to do so.

I do feel, however, rather ashamed of one bit of it all. You'd scarcely believe that it never came into my head to think that mamma might be frightened about us, even though the afternoon was getting on into evening, and the darkness outside made it seem later than it really was!

I can't understand it of myself, considering that I had seen with my own eyes how frightened she had been the evening Peterkin got lost. I suppose my head had got tired and confused with all the fears and things it had been full of, but it is rather horrid to remember, all the same.