'Impossible,' said the butler. 'Say we're at dinner, and they must wait.'

'They say they won't wait,' murmured the footman, and added something more, which apparently startled Sykes, who, giving some orders to the under-footmen, left the room, and after a short absence came back and said to Mr Clay, 'Excuse me, Mr Clay, but you're wanted just a minute.'

'Wanted?' exclaimed the millionaire, with a dark flush on his face. 'Tell them to be off, whoever it is.'

'Please, Mr Clay, sir, excuse me, but if you'd see them a minute. It's a deputation from the mill,' insisted Sykes.

Mr Mark Clay turned with a face distorted by rage; but before he could say a word Horatia cried, 'Oh Mr Clay, do let me come with you and listen to the deputation. I do so want to hear real Yorkshiremen talk.'

'You can hear me. I talk broad enow at times,' said the millionaire, purposely speaking broad Yorkshire; 'and I've nowt to say to them.'

'You'd just better go,' she said, nodding her head at her host. 'Father says things are topsy-turvy now, and the poor man has more power than he used to have; and, besides, I would like to hear them talk.'

'Come forward, then,' said the millionaire, and rose from the table.

Sykes cast a look of gratitude and relief at Horatia; and poor Mrs Clay, wiping away a tear, said, 'God bless her!'



CHAPTER XIV.

A MILLIONAIRE FOR FIVE MINUTES.

'Oh Sarah, I do 'ope they will come to an agreement! There's a lot o' discontent goin' on, an' your father is that determined,' sighed little Mrs Clay.

'Do you think he really is my father?' demanded Sarah.

'W'atever do you mean by talkin' such nonsense?' inquired Mrs Clay, indignation taking the place of anger for the time.

'Only that one would think he was Horatia's father, to see the way she goes on, as if she were a daughter of the house,' replied Sarah, her lip curling.

'Sarah, I'm ashamed o' you showin' such wicked jealousy to that dear girl. If you got on wi' your father there'd be no occasion for 'er to do as she does; but if she 'adn't interfered to-night w'at would 'ave 'appened? A strike very likely, an' we're not safe from it yet. There's a lot o' discontent,' repeated her mother.

'I hate interfering people!' was all Sarah said.

Then there was silence, while both mother and daughter strained their ears to listen for any sound of voices from without, dreading to hear Mark Clay's loud, rough voice raised in angry tones. But no sound was to be heard, and Mrs Clay said after a time, 'I'm glad 'e's listenin' to 'em; it'll do 'em good if they can say their say, even if 'e don't give way to 'em.'

Horatia meanwhile had tripped away with a light, dancing step, for which she was very often taken to task, not only at school, where she was told to walk properly and be more serious, but also by her mother, who said it was undignified for a girl of fifteen.

Mark Clay walked heavily beside his young companion, scarcely listening to her chatter—for it must be confessed that Horatia was rather a chatterbox, or, as her father said, 'had a good deal to say for herself'—but some words she said caught his ear. 'I dare say they are envious of your riches. I never cared to be rich before; in fact, I never thought about money, because we always seem to have everything we want at home; but since I have been at Balmoral I have envied you your riches, and thought it was rather unfair that you should have such a lot.'

'Oh, you think I've more than my share, do you, like all the rest of them? Well, I s'pose it's natural; but I'm not going to share it up for all that, as they'll pretty soon find out,' replied the millionaire.

Horatia had the sense not to say any more, and, indeed, there was no time, for they were at the door of the steward's room, where business was transacted in connection with the employes on the estate, and in this room were six men standing, cap in hand, near the outer door, which led into the yard.

Horatia wondered to herself if they kept near that door so as to have a way of escape in case their master got into one of his passions; but these sturdy Yorkshiremen were afraid of no one and nothing. Strong, sturdy, and independent, they stood there, with civil but determined faces. They were the old mill-hands, and had been with Mark Clay from boyhood; and among them was Naomi's father.

'Well, men, is t' mill burnt down that I can't even eat my dinner in peace, but must come at once to speak with you?' inquired Mr Clay.

'Sorry to interrupt your dinner, master; but we know it's a long business, is that, up at Balmoral, and we've got to take an answer back to our mates down Ousebank by nine o'clock,' said Naomi's father, who was evidently the spokesman.

'Oh, and what may you want to know?' inquired Mark Clay in a tone which did not promise much.

Luke Mickleroyd looked for a moment doubtfully at Horatia. 'It's business we want to talk, Mr Clay,' he said.

'Have your say, lad, and have done with it. This young lady is going to judge between us to-night, and the sooner you say what you've got to say the better we'll be pleased, for our dinner's cooling on the table, and that's not the way we treat guests up north,' said Mr Clay in a more conciliatory tone. The reminder of Horatia had done Luke Mickleroyd's cause a good turn, as he saw.

'Well, master, it's like this, only I doubt little missy there won't understand aught about it. The young men say there's a lot more boys taken on in the mill to what there ought to be,' began Luke.

Mr Clay interrupted angrily. 'Ought to be? And who's to settle that but me?'

'I am, for to-night; you said I might. Do let me feel like a millionaire just for five minutes!' said Horatia in an undertone, pulling at the mill-owner's sleeve to make him attend to her.

The millionaire threw himself into the big armchair at the top of the broad table which divided him from his men, and said with a rough laugh, 'Have your way, lass. I'm rich enough to let you have your whim, if you don't go too far. Let's see how you'd manage a mill.—Now then, Luke, let Miss Cunningham hear your tale, and see what she says to it.'

'We've got to deal with you, master,' began one of the others rather gruffly, for he thought Mark Clay was treating them and their wrongs lightly.

But Luke Mickleroyd had heard from his daughter Naomi of the influence Horatia had over the mill-owner, and said, 'I'm spokesman, if you please, mates.—And this is what we've come to say. There's two men been turned off because they've been ill, and boys put on in their place.'

'They did no more work than the boys,' observed Mark Clay, 'and took double the wages.'

'They didn't do quite as much work, 'tis true; but they did it better, and we always made up by the end of the day between us what they couldn't manage when 'twas heavy work; but the men say they ain't going to do it for the boys.'

'No, of course not,' said Horatia impulsively.

'Oh, of course not, you say?—Well, go on,' said Mr Clay.

'And these men have got wives and families to support, and who'll take them on if they're turned out of Clay's Mills for not being able to do their work?'



'I've nought to do with that. Business is business, and you can't mix sentiment up with it,' said the master.

'But, then, some one will have to support them,' said Horatia.

'The rates will,' said Mr Clay.

'Well, you pay the rates, so you may just as well keep them at the mills; the work gets done, and it makes no difference to you whether their friends help them to do it or not, and, you see, it won't get done with those boys, because the men won't help them. So, I say, take the two men back.—And, oh! I do think it kind of you men to do their work, and come and speak up for them,' wound up Horatia.

Mr Clay gave her a glance. The plain little face was lit up by animation, and he smiled. Then he turned to the men. 'Very good, lads; you hear what the young lady says. I promised her her way, and she shall have it.' Here his face grew stern. 'But it's to her I've given way, not to my men, remember that. What Mark Clay does is done, and won't be undone; and there's no parleying between master and man in Clay's Mills; so the next time the men want to come up to see me, tell them it's no good; Mark Clay receives no deputations from his men. If they don't like his ways they can leave him; it's as they like.'

'We're not likely to do that without we're forced. We've worked for you, man and boy, these thirty years, some of us, Mr Clay,' said Luke Mickleroyd.

'I sha'n't force you. I know good workers when I've got 'em, and give 'em good wages, too,' said Mr Clay. And this was quite true, and no better work was turned out of any mill than that done by Clay's Mills.

'We thank you for receiving us to-night, master.—And we are much obliged to you, miss, for your kind words,' said Luke Mickleroyd.

The millionaire rose from his seat. 'And now, I suppose, we can go and have our dinner?' he said sarcastically.

'Good-night, Mr Clay.—Good-night, miss,' said the men, and they filed out into the yard.

The millionaire grunted something which might be interpreted to be a farewell, and turned to walk out of the other door. He did not wait to let Horatia pass out first; indeed, he had never even offered her a seat, though he had sat down himself, these courtesies not being in his way. Horatia, however, did not seem to notice the want of politeness, but said a bright goodnight to the deputation, and followed her host out of the room.

Sykes was waiting at the back-door, watching the door of the steward's room; and beside him was Naomi, and the moment the men appeared she ran forward and said, 'Has he given in, father?'

Sykes followed, and came up in time to hear Luke Mickleroyd reply, 'Yes, he's given way this time, lass.'

'That's a good job! Well, go on into the servants' hall, and have a drink to celebrate the good news. I must make haste and serve the rest of the dinner. And another time do you take and come a little later and give a man a chance to have his dinner in peace,' said Sykes, hurrying off.

'I think we'll be going on to give the answer. I don't feel in no mood for drink,' said Luke.

'Why not, lad? All's well that ends well, and we've got our way this time,' said one of the others.

'Ay, we've got it this time; but we sha'n't get it next, without that young lady works miracles, same as she seems to do wi' Mark Clay,' replied the man gloomily.

'Tell us about it, father. She's really jolly, ain't she? Whatever did she go to see you for? She's a caution, is Miss Horatia!' exclaimed Naomi.

'She's a real good young lady, and wanted to do the family and us men a good turn. Now, if he'd got a daughter like that!' said Luke.

'Oh, come, father, I'm not going to have a word said against Miss Sarah. She's not gay like Miss Cunningham, 'tis true; but she's as grieved ['grieved' means 'vexed' in Yorkshire] about the way her father carries on as can be, only she's too much of a lady to go putting herself in a man's place,' said Naomi, defending her young mistress hotly.

'The other's more of a lady if you go by blood,' put in Tom Fox, who was a staunch admirer of Horatia since the affair of the motor, and had heard from Cunningham's chauffeur who Horatia was.

'We don't go by blood here; we go by money,' said Naomi scornfully; and the other servants laughed.

Mrs Nancy, needless to say, was not there, or this conversation could not have taken place.

Mrs Clay looked up eagerly when the two returned. Sarah, too, looked up, and, though she did not show it, she was just as anxious to hear the result. But neither of them dared to put any questions to Mr Clay.

'Here's a young lady who wanted to be a millionaire for five minutes,' he said, with a hoarse laugh.

'W'atever do you mean, Mark?' asked Mrs Clay timidly.

'It's all right, Mrs Clay. Mr Clay agreed to do what they wanted,' said Horatia hastily, to relieve her anxiety.

'Nay, lass, that I didn't. I agreed to do what you wanted, and that's a very different thing, as the men'll find out if they try it on again. There's only one will in Clay's Mills, and one person to have any wants,' said the mill-owner.

'What does he mean about your being a millionaire for five minutes?' demanded Sarah, who did not want her father to begin a tirade about Clay's Mills and his rights.

'I just wanted to be a millionaire for five minutes, and Mr Clay let me.—You are good-natured to me!' Horatia said, turning to her host and beaming at him.

'And you used that five minutes' power to give the men their way? They'll always want it now,' said Sarah slowly.

'That's what I'm a bit afraid of; but I'll teach them a lesson next time,' said Mr Clay grimly.

'Oh Mark! don't be 'ard on 'em,' began Mrs Clay.

But Horatia exclaimed, 'He wasn't a bit; he was very nice, and has taken two delicate men with families back into the mills.—I must see these mills, Mr Clay,' said Horatia.

'So you shall to-morrow, if you like, and then you'll see them two fettlers doing their work, as if they'd all day to fettle one machine,' replied Mr Clay.

'What's a fettler, and what is to fettle a machine?' inquired Horatia with interest. 'I think I've heard that word before.'

'Clean it up, and if they don't do it sharp while the machine is going there's an accident, and they get caught in the works, and that's what'll likely happen to them two, and you'll feel sorry then you had them back,' he replied.

It was late when they had finished dinner, and the mill-owner said 'Good-night' when his wife and the girls left the dining-room.

'Oh my dear, God bless you!' cried Mrs Clay when they were in the drawing-room, as she took Horatia's hand in hers.

'I didn't do anything; I just amused myself,' said Horatia, laughing. 'But I expected to see quite different men. They looked quite quiet and respectable.'

'What did you expect them to look like?' demanded Sarah. 'They were respectable mill-hands, as my father was years ago.'

'But I expected to see wild, fierce men, like those in the French Revolution, demanding their rights, and brandishing sticks and things.'

'Oh my dear! we ain't come to that, an', please God, we never shall,' protested Mrs Clay with a shudder.

'They can look wild and fierce. You've only to watch them at a football-match to see what they'd be like in earnest if they're like that at play,' said Sarah.

'Then I 'ope I shall never see 'em so,' repeated Mrs Clay.

'And that's what you wanted to do—amuse yourself with the sight of infuriated Yorkshiremen?' said Sarah, whom some demon seemed to possess that evening.

Horatia turned indignantly to her. 'I didn't do it for any such reason. I suppose you think I meddled, and perhaps I did; but I only did it as your friend, Sarah, and I don't think you're very nice,' she said.

'I can't think w'at's come to you, Sally! Don't be so disagreeable. Miss Horatia only means to be kind, and we're all much obliged to 'er,' said Mrs Clay.

'Yes, we are,' said Sarah; 'I expect the men meant mischief; but you have only done good for to-night. There'll be a row, sooner or later, and then father'll have to stand firm or lose his position. Not that I think that would be a bad thing, except for mother's sake. Still, it isn't every one that would use five minutes of being a millionaire just to do good to other people, and you're a good sort, Horatia. So don't mind what I say. I'm always cross at Balmoral. I can't breathe here.'



CHAPTER XV.

A VISIT TO CLAY'S MILLS.

The next morning dawned bright and sunny, as Sarah saw when Naomi drew up her blinds. She also saw that the girl's face was swollen with crying. 'What is the matter, Naomi?' she asked anxiously, for Sarah was very kind-hearted, and she was very fond of her young maid.

'It's Ruth, miss; she's been took with the croup, and mother's been up all night with her, and the doctor says he doubts if we shall pull her through. And, oh, she's such—a—darling, is Ruth!' Here Naomi burst into tears again.

'Poor little Ruth! I'll go and see her to-day, Naomi, and ask if there is anything we can do for her,' said Sarah; and she dressed with more alacrity than usual, in her desire to go and visit Naomi's home.

Horatia was always up earlier than Sarah, and generally went for a run in the park before breakfast. She had just come in and was sitting at the breakfast-table chattering with Mrs Clay when Sarah appeared, and, with a hurried 'Good-morning' to them both, plunged into the subject of which she was full. 'Naomi's sister is ill, mother. I'm going to see her this morning, so will you, please, go to the mills with Horatia?' she said.

Mrs Clay looked a little vexed. 'Your father will be grieved if you don't go, Sarah. 'E thinks you might go to your own mills sometimes, instead of always goin' to your uncle Howroyd's,' she protested.

'They're not my own mills. I have nothing to do with them. If I had I'd soon alter them,' Sarah replied hotly. 'Besides, Uncle Howroyd's mill is a pleasure to go over; my father's are a pain.'

'Oh Sarah, you do say such things! An' w'at-ever you mean I don't know 'alf the time. I'm sure there's no need to go over more of the mills than you like. You can stop before you get a pain, if that's w'at you mean,' Mrs Clay added doubtfully, for Sarah had begun to laugh.

'It's not a pain in my body, mother; it's a pain in my mind that they give me.—But I would have gone with you to-day, Horatia,' she observed, turning to her schoolfellow, 'if my maid Naomi's sister had not been taken ill; but I must go and see how she is. And I shall take Naomi with me, and let her have a holiday for the rest of the day,' she announced.

Mrs Clay did not rebuke her daughter for taking it upon herself to give a servant a holiday, any more than she did for settling her plans for the day without any reference to her mother; but only said plaintively, 'W'at's the matter with little Ruth? I suppose it's nothin' catchin', or they'd 'ave told me first; but still, I do think I should be more use than you, Sarah; you don't know anythin' about sickness. W'at 'as Ruth got?'

'Croup, and I thought I'd take her some jelly or something; children always like jelly,' said Sarah.

'Jelly—when the poor child can't swallow, very like! You'd better by 'alf let me go, Sarah; the poor mother'll not 'ave a moment to talk to you if the child's really bad, an' you'll only find yourself in the way. You go with Horatia to the mills, an' I'll call at Mickleroyd's an' do w'at I can do for 'em.'

'Martha Mickleroyd won't stand on ceremony with me, and I'm not so ignorant as you think about croup. You have to put the child in hot water. We had first-aid and domestic lessons at school. Besides, I promised Naomi I'd go, so I must,' declared Sarah in such a determined tone that Mrs Clay, who never could oppose any one for long, gave way with a sigh.

Horatia had been looking from one to the other, listening with her quick, eager look to the conversation, and longing to join in it, but half-afraid for fear of vexing Sarah; but now she could no longer resist the temptation. 'Can't we all go on our way to the mills? I should like to see a mill-hand's cottage, and I needn't go into the sick-room at all.'

Mrs Clay looked relieved. 'I'd far rather 'ave it so, Sarah. You don't know for certain that it isn't 'oopin'-cough or somethin' o' that sort. Women are that ignorant,' she declared.

'Martha Mickleroyd isn't ignorant; she's a very clever woman, and no more ignorant than—lots of ladies,' Sarah finished hurriedly. She had nearly said, 'than you are,' but luckily remembered in time.

'I believe that; but it isn't every lady that knows as much about illness as I do; an' as Miss 'Oratia 'ere wants to go to see a mill-'and's 'ome'——Mrs Clay was saying.

But Sarah broke in with impatience, 'One would think we were Hottentots or savages, or something, by the way Horatia talks!

Horatia coloured as she answered, 'Oh, but indeed I don't; you quite mistake me. Father is very much interested in the housing question, and all sorts of things that have to do with the poor, and putting stone baths in their houses, and all that will make them healthier,' she explained eagerly.

'Very kind of your father, I'm sure, my dear; but I think you'd better not talk about stone baths for the Mickleroyds. Mark won't 'ave it. 'E won't, indeed; 'e told Luke Mickleroyd so,' said Mrs Clay.

Sarah's lip curled. 'If that child has no bath to be put into it will die, and it'll be his fault, then,' she observed, as she rose from the table.

'No, it won't; it'll be the fault of its mother, who hasn't a small bath in her house,' said Horatia.

Horatia had spoken on the impulse of the moment, without any thought of contradicting or annoying Sarah; but the latter cast her a furious look, and then, drawing herself up, said, 'When will you be ready to start?'

Horatia felt crushed by Sarah's manner; but it was so uncomfortable to start out in the morning in this way that she determined to try to conciliate her. 'Don't be horrid and up in the clouds above us all;' and she took Sarah's arm with a coaxing smile.

Sarah could not help smiling, for this was an old school accusation which Horatia had made when Sarah once asked how she looked proud and haughty, and the girls had all laughed at it. 'I don't feel there; I've told you that before; but you can't or won't understand how I hate and despise it all.'

'Well, never mind; let's go and see those Mickleroyds. You don't hate and despise them,' said Horatia.

Half-an-hour later the party in the motor stopped at the point of the main street from which a 'ginnel' or alley led to the Mickleroyds' house, in one of the oldest parts of the town, and quite near the mills.

Luke Mickleroyd, as will be remembered, was the chief watchman of Clay's Mills, and could have afforded a nice little house in the suburbs on the tram-line, for he earned good wages; but he found it more convenient to be close to the mills, so that he could rest between his rounds, and in cold weather warm and refresh himself during the night.

'What a funny old place! I wonder they don't pull it down,' said Horatia, as she picked her way over uneven and broken paving-stones to the house, which had steps, with no balustrade, leading down to an open cellar-door and up to another door.

'It belongs to my father,' said Sarah curtly.

Horatia said no more, and determined not to make any comments whatever she saw, 'not even if the paper were hanging off the walls and the place in ruins,' she said to herself.

But once they were inside the cottage the scene was changed. Everything was spotlessly clean; the walls were prettily papered; the furniture was handsome and old-fashioned; and Maria Mickleroyd came forward with a pleasant smile on her tired, anxious face. 'Pleased to see you, Mrs Clay, and Miss Sarah; and you've brought Omi,' pronounced 'Oh my,' to Horatia's amusement. 'That's main kind of you. Little Ruthie's dropped off into a lovely sleep for the minute; but, thank you, I shall be glad to have Omi for the day, if Miss Sarah is sure she can spare her, for I shall be up to-night again, and I might rest a bit by-and-by. Luke's resting now.'

'No, I'm not resting, missus,' said Luke Mickleroyd, coming down a narrow staircase. 'I've had my sleep, and was coming to take a turn at watching. I ought to be good at that, seeing it's my trade; but Miss Sarah's found us some one better, I see, in Omi.'

'We're glad to know the child is better, Luke,' said Mrs Clay, as she added some suggestions about the child's treatment. 'An' now we're goin' on to the mills; but if the doctor orders anythin' special, or Ruthie fancies w'at you can't get, be sure an' send up to us. The master won't grudge you that. An' if you want Naomi the night, keep 'er, so long as we know. Jane Mary could come wi' the message after the mills are out. A walk would do her good.'

'Jane Mary won't come nigh Balmoral,' put in Naomi suddenly.

'How'd thy tongue, Omi!' said her father, and Naomi subsided.

'Jane Mary should do w'at she's told; she's too independent,' said Mrs Clay, and, with a short 'Good-morning,' they all went off.

Sarah turned to wave a friendly farewell, whereupon Mrs Clay said, with some irritation, 'It seems to me, Sarah, that folk 'ave only got to be nasty to your father for you to like 'em. It's not much good goin' on like that. You know w'at the Bible says: a 'ouse divided against itself cannot stand.'

'I wonder if that's true,' said Sarah gravely.

'Sarah, 'owever dare you!' exclaimed Mrs Clay; and even Horatia looked rather shocked at this remark.

'Oh, I'm not talking about the Bible; of course I believe that. I meant what you said,' explained Sarah. But this was not much better.

'Thank you, Sarah. W'atever I said, I 'ope it was true. I'm not in the 'abit of tellin' untruths.' Mrs Clay had forgotten what she had said.

'You only said what you thought, and we can all make that kind of mistake. I only meant that I wonder whether I do like people better if they dislike father.'

'Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself, for 'e's a good father. An' look at all these mills; every brick is 'is an' built by 'im—'is money, I mean—an' thousan's of poun's' worth of wool goods sent out every week—well-made goods, too, as every one will tell you. 'E's a wonderful man is your father, an' one to be proud of, not despised. Most girls would 'old their 'eads 'igh for bein' 'is daughter, not 'old it 'igh to despite 'im.—Oh, good-mornin', my men! good-mornin'!' Mrs Clay exclaimed, as the gates were thrown open for them to enter, and she saw some men crossing the yard.

The men replied by a surly 'Good-morning;' one or two touched their hats, but the most of them took no notice of the master's wife and daughter at all.

Mark Clay met them at the door of his private office, a plainly furnished little room, the same now as it had been thirty years before, when it had been just built. 'This is my private room,' he said.

Horatia looked round with interest. 'It's a very business-like-looking room,' she said, after searching in vain for something more complimentary to say.

'That's the biggest compliment you can pay it, and it is a true one, too. There's millions have passed through my hands in this room,' he said proudly.

''Ave you 'eard that Luke Mickleroyd nearly lost his little Ruth in the night?' said Mrs Clay. 'We've just been to see 'em an' leave Naomi there.'

Mrs Clay never liked to take the responsibility of doing anything herself; but Mark Clay turned to her more angrily than Horatia had ever seen him, and said, 'I won't have you go to the hands, encouraging them in independence and idleness. You call for Naomi on your way back. Do you hear? She doesn't get wages for nursing her sister. What's her mother there for?'

'But, Mark, the mother's got the 'ouse to clean an' meals to cook; they're such a large family, an' useful to us,' protested Mrs Clay.

'I don't care. I won't have it, I say. I shall have the other girl wanting her day off; so you do as I tell you. If the mother can't see to the girl, let her go to the hospital. What do I pay to the hospitals for if it isn't for them to be useful to me? You can tell her so on your way home, and take Naomi back with you to her work,' blustered Mark Clay.

'Oh, are we going straight home? I thought we could, perhaps, go to Fountains Abbey to-day, and you would come with us?' cried Horatia.

Sarah shot a quick look of surprise at her friend, who added, 'You said I might choose what I liked best to do every day, didn't you, Sarah?'

'Of course,' said Sarah.

'But, my dear, w'yever didn't you mention it before we started? We would 'ave taken a picnic-basket along wi' us,' cried Mrs Clay.

'That doesn't matter, Polly; send Fox for it while we're looking over the mills. That's a good idea of the lass. We'll all go to Fountains. Do you go and telephone to them to put in plenty of champagne and lemonade for the girls,' said the mill-owner boisterously.

Mrs Clay hurried off to the telephone to give her directions, while Mark Clay started with the two girls over the mills.

'I couldn't write an essay on this,' said Horatia, as they were hurried through yard after yard, on each side of which were doors which the millionaire just ordered to be opened, and into which they gave a peep as he told them, 'In there there's thousands of pounds' worth of rags and wool for blankets,' or 'cloth,' as the case might be.

'My father doesn't want you to; he only wants you to see what a huge business he has. I hope he has succeeded,' said Sarah.

Horatia was saved the trouble of answering, for they now entered the room where the machinery drowned every sound. 'Doesn't it make them deaf or make their heads ache?' she shouted at length to Mark Clay.

'Make me deaf? No fear; I don't stop in here long enough,' he replied, misunderstanding her, and not imagining it was the workpeople she was thinking of.

And again Horatia was silent.



CHAPTER XVI.

THE MILLIONAIRE'S PICNIC.

'Oh dear! my head aches, at any rate,' sighed Horatia when they came out of about the fiftieth room. 'I am glad we are going motoring; it will blow my headache away.'

'Ay, it's a big place, is Clay's,' said the millionaire with an air of satisfaction.

'There's Uncle Howroyd. I'm going to ask him to come with us to-day,' observed Sarah abruptly.

'What's he wanting?' inquired his half-brother.

Whatever Mr William Howroyd wanted with the millionaire, it did not seem important, for he stopped when Sarah met him, and the two went off together, away from Clay's Mills; and Mr Clay, after waiting a moment to see if his brother was returning, turned to Horatia. 'If you'll excuse me, young lady, I'll give some orders for this afternoon, and tell them to have some pieces done, ready for me to see when I come back. That's the way to get rich, my lass; look after the pieces and the bales'll look after themselves.' And the millionaire, with a hoarse laugh, went off to 'look after the pieces.'

Horatia stood at the door looking after him, and scarcely noticed a man who half-smiled and raised his hat. She supposed that he was a man with some manners, which the rest of them did not seem to possess; she had no idea that it was a personal attention to her till he said, 'We're much obliged to you for making t'master listen to us. It's saved a lot o' trouble for the minute.'

Now, Horatia, as will have been noticed, acted and spoke upon impulse, so she now asked eagerly, 'What trouble has it saved? And why has it only been saved for the minute? Were you all going to strike if he hadn't seen you?'

'Can't say what we mightn't have been obliged to do,' said the man.

'I don't see how you are obliged to do anything unless you like; but was that what they wanted you to do?' persisted Horatia.

'That was one thing. But, see here, missy, if you can speak a word for us, do 'e. They say you can do a lot wi' the master; he's a bit too hard wi' us, and the young uns won't stand it. That's where the trouble will come in.'

'What kind of trouble?' inquired Horatia.

The man did not look at her. He was gray-haired, and had been at Clay's Mills for twenty years, and had an affection for the place. Besides which, he was 'used to the master's ways,' and knew that a good workman earned good wages and need not fear being turned off so long as he did good work; but the younger men hated Mark Clay, and there were fewer old men there than in most mills, for the moment they got ill or showed signs of feebleness in any way they were discharged. Mark Clay lost more than he gained, for they would have kept the younger ones in order. But all this the man did not say to Horatia; he only repeated, 'I can't say what they might not do when their blood's up.'

'But tell me what they say they'll do.'

'Strike,' said the man. 'But you'd best not repeat that,' he added, almost regretting his confidence, and going off for fear of adding more.

'There's a fool's trick you've been at, Sam,' said a comrade, 'a-telling that young lady what the men say. She'll repeat it all to the master.'

'I never breathed a word of their threats. I only said they'd strike, and he knows they've threatened that before.'

'You didn't say a word about what them young lads said they'd do—you know what?' the other demanded. 'They'd be turned off to-morrow if he got wind on 't.'

'D' ye think I'm a fool? Of course I didn't. But I'll tell you what. They've got som'at in their heads at Balmoral, for that young lady kept on asking what they would do and what trouble there would be if the master didn't do what we asked him,' retorted the first speaker.

The second looked gloomily before him. 'It'll be a bad day for my Tom if them words of his get repeated to the master; and it's nought but lads' hotheaded talk; they don't mean it.'

'I'm none so sure o' that, mate; but it's best to forget it. Anyway, the master's off gallivanting for the day, and mayhap it'll take his mind off the mills a bit. If he'd do that more frequent it 'u'd be better for all—better for him and better for us,' the man wound up gravely.

In the meantime Sarah had gone to meet her uncle, and invited him to come motoring.

'Me! Nay, lass; I've other fish to fry. I'm not a millionaire like Mark, able to go away and amuse myself all day.'

'Now, uncle, you know that's nonsense; you can get away far more easily than father, because you are not in such a frightful hurry to get rich. Besides, you can always stop your work to do an act of charity, and it is a real act of charity to come with us to-day,' declared Sarah, tucking her arm in her uncle's.

'Indeed! How's that? Is Tom Fox, the chauffeur, ill, and have I got to do his work?' inquired Mr Howroyd.

'No; and if he were, one of the other chauffeurs could take his place. You've got to come and sit beside me, so as to prevent any one else sitting beside me, because you are the only one I can bear to have near me,' explained Sarah.

'Upon my word, if I were not your old uncle I should feel quite flattered,' said Mr Howroyd in a joking way; but he grew grave as he added, 'But as it is, my lass, I'm sorry to hear you talk like that. What's wrong with the others, eh?'

'I don't know that there's anything wrong with them. I think it's me that there's something wrong with,' replied Sarah.

'But I don't understand. Didn't you tell me Miss Horatia was to be of the party? What's gone crooked between you two?' he inquired.

'I don't know; at least, it sounds silly, but I can't bear her being such friends with father. She seems to think everything he does and says all right, and it isn't; it's all wrong, and I think it's horrid of her!' said Sarah.

'Steady there, my lass. I don't think it's the place of children to criticise their elders at all, and certainly not their fathers; and as for this you tell me about Miss Horatia, why, what would you have her do—abuse her host, and talk against him to his daughter?'

'You don't understand, Uncle Howroyd. Just you come for this picnic, and then see if I am not right,' begged Sarah.

'I sha'n't think that; but I think I'll come, only I must go home and change first, and give some orders for the men,' said her uncle.

'Then I'll come too. I feel as if I shall say something horrid to somebody if I don't.'

'Then you'd best come along with me, for you'll be poor company for the others in this mood;' and he took her back to Howroyd's Mill with him.

An hour later the five started for Fountains Abbey, with a huge hamper strapped on at the back of the car.

'It's a pity you don't appreciate good liquor, Bill, for there's first-class champagne there,' said Mark Clay as they spun along.

'I don't know that it is, for I couldn't afford it very often,' remarked his brother cheerfully.

'Pshaw! I've no patience with such rubbish! You could afford it fast enough if you didn't waste all your money in pensioning off half your old incapables and keeping the others at work, and going on as if you ran a mill for the benefit of the hands,' said the millionaire.

'So I do, I hope,' replied his brother, with the same good-humoured twinkle in his eye.

'Then I suppose you'll be giving them all the profits next, and we shall see you working as a hand yourself?' said Mark Clay, in a tone that implied his expectation of such a thing, as, indeed, was the case.

Mr William Howroyd laughed quietly. 'I shall keep the head of Howroyd's Mill as long as I live, as my father was before me, and his father before him, and I shall look after the old folks as they did, and, as I hope, those that'll come after me will do.'

There was silence for a moment, for Mr Howroyd was not married, and they wondered who would come after him. Mark Clay thought the mill should be made into a company with his; but William Howroyd had very decidedly declined to entertain that idea.

So it happened that it was with these words in their ears that they came into sight of the beautiful ruins of Fountains Abbey, built by those who acted upon the same principles.

Horatia had sat between Mr and Mrs Clay all the way; but the minute they arrived she caught Sarah by the arm and said, 'Come and explore the ruins, and let us find a place and take a sketch of it.'

'We must stop with the others,' said Sarah.

'Oh no, we needn't; you are only saying that because you are cross with me, and it's no good, because I can't help the things that you don't like in me. And besides, I want to talk to you.'

'How do you know what things I don't like?' inquired Sarah.

Horatia danced a queer little dance of her own, and then, coming back to Sarah, said, 'Of course I can feel when you don't like things, but I can't help that. Come and have a walk with me; I want to ask you about something.'

There was no resisting Horatia's good spirits, and it was too glorious a day to quarrel or be disagreeable; so, after seeing that Mr William Howroyd had gone off with her father and mother, Sarah walked along with Horatia. 'What do you want to ask me about?' she demanded of her friend.

'Well, it's this: why do you hate being rich?' she asked.

Sarah stared at her in wonder for a moment. 'Was that really what you wanted to ask me?' and as Horatia nodded her head, she continued, 'What an extraordinary question! I should think any one could see why for herself. Do you think it's any pleasure to eat off Sevres china, so valuable that a servant goes in dread of his life lest he should break a piece, or to have gold plate one is afraid of scratching, or to be surrounded by stuffy carpets?'

Horatia interrupted her with a merry little laugh. 'How can you be surrounded by carpets?' she demanded.

'You know quite well what I mean, only you choose to turn it off with a laugh, and that's one of the things I don't like about you; you turn things just the way you choose. And the carpets do seem to stifle me, though you don't believe it,' declared Sarah.

'I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to laugh; but the picture of you surrounded by stuffy carpets did amuse me so. But one thing I don't believe, and that is that you really hate being rich,' persisted Horatia.

'You mean that I tell untruths?' replied Sarah.

'No, I don't; I mean that you wouldn't really like to be poor. I don't believe you'd even like to have so little money as we have, though it's plenty for us; and as for being really poor, I'd just like to see you try it. At least, I just wouldn't, because I'd hate to see you miserable, and you would be miserable with no money and no one bowing down before you and getting you what you want before you asked for it, and everything.'

'Well, I've a kind of idea that you will have a chance of seeing who is right, you or I, one of these days,' was Sarah's answer.

'I wish you'd tell me why you say that, Sarah—I do really,' said Horatia.

To say what she really felt was impossible to Sarah, for at the bottom of her hatred of her riches was the feeling that they had been unjustly, if not dishonourably, obtained, and that other people knew it and despised them for it, and this was gall and wormwood to a girl of her proud spirit.

'How can I possibly tell you why any idea comes into my head any more than I can tell you why I think it's going to rain to-night in spite of its being so lovely just now?' demanded Sarah.

'That's quite a different thing. There's a west wind blowing, and it feels like rain,' said Horatia; 'there's a reason for that.'

'Very well; there's a feeling in the air as if the home of Clay were going to fall,' retorted Sarah.

'Then there must be some reason for it; and if you know it I think you ought to try and prevent it for your mother's sake, even if you would like it to fall,' said Horatia.

'You think girls can do anything, but you are wrong; they can't, and I don't know any reason why it should fall, and I dare say it's all imagination. Why does it interest you so much?' asked Sarah.

'Sarah, tell me, why won't Naomi's sister come near Balmoral?' asked Horatia abruptly.

'Because she hates my father. Every one isn't so fond of him as you are,' said Sarah.

'Why does she hate him? Doesn't she work in his mills?' Horatia inquired.

'Yes, that's one of the reasons. Besides, her young man was a hand, and was turned off. Father is not popular with his hands,' said Sarah sarcastically.

'Are you?' demanded Horatia, turning upon her.

Sarah did not answer for a minute, for the question took her aback; then she laughed. 'No, I don't fancy I am. They think me proud, and I suppose I am, though goodness knows what I have to be proud of,' she said.

'You might be proud of being so pretty, but I know you are not,' said Horatia. 'I don't see why that girl should hate your father.'

'And I don't see why you should like him,' returned Sarah.

'I know you don't, and I am sorry for it and for lots of things; but it's no good worrying about them when we are out on a picnic, especially as I am starving of hunger, as you say here, and I see Tom Fox waving the flag to show that lunch is ready.'

The millionaire was in the best of humours, paying his wife attention, telling Tom Fox playfully to be sure and have a good lunch, and see that his horse had one too! and joking with Mr Howroyd and Horatia, and with Sarah when she gave him a chance.

'Have you got right yet?' inquired her uncle after lunch, as they were preparing to go back.

'Not right enough to change places with any one; but they were better to-day, I must say.'

'Oh, were they? How very condescending you are! Upon my word, Sarah, you want taking down a peg badly,' said her uncle, who, however, took his old place beside his niece.



CHAPTER XVII.

A DISASTROUS BONFIRE.

The return journey, as return journeys after a day's pleasuring often are, was a much quieter affair than the drive on the way out. Even Horatia was rather silent as she sat between her host and hostess, and Mr William Howroyd seemed lost in thought.

It was the millionaire who broke the silence with one of the hoarse laughs with which he generally prefaced his boastful remarks. 'See that speck yonder? That's Balmoral, on t' hill; you can see it for twenty miles round on a clear day like this. There's not another property in the country that comes nigh it, though I say it as shouldn't.'

'Is that really Balmoral? Oh yes, of course I see it; they are making a bonfire of weeds in the park,' exclaimed Horatia.

Mr Clay leant forward. 'Bonfire of weeds? I don't see any bonfire. Your eyes must be sharper than mine,' he remarked; and then turning to Tom Fox, he said, 'Can you see aught, Tom?'

'No, sir; leastways, not at Balmoral. That fire's far enough from us,' replied the chauffeur.

'Fire?' cried Mrs Clay, starting nervously.

'Pshaw! Fire! It's a bonfire,' said Mr Clay very decidedly; adding, 'Put on steam, Tom; we're crawling. I don't go in a motor to crawl, man.' But he looked anxiously and uneasily in the direction of Balmoral, for he, too, could now see a bonfire or something.

Mr William Howroyd had said never a word; but his face grew stern and grave as he leaned forward.

Sarah looked at him, then towards Balmoral, and then she turned to him again. 'It's not near the house, Uncle Howroyd; it's only a bonfire.—What are you all so upset about?' she demanded; for Tom, who was noted for his cautious driving, seemed to have caught the excitement, and was driving faster than Sarah had ever known him do.

Mr Howroyd took field-glasses from his pocket, and fixing them to his eyes, gazed earnestly in front of him; then he muttered something under his breath. When he took the glasses away, he had an expression in his eyes Sarah had never seen there before; but he did not answer her question, and his niece could not imagine what had come to her cheery, good-humoured uncle.

The car was going pretty fast, and Mr Clay seemed satisfied with the progress they were making for the next few minutes, as well he might, for it was above legal speed.

'Uncle Howroyd, we shall be fined, if we don't get killed first,' observed Sarah, who was surprised that her uncle did not make some protest against what she considered reckless speed.

Mr Howroyd did not seem to hear what she said, and she gave his arm a tug; but at that moment a red tongue of fire shot up high above the trees in Balmoral park; and now that they were nearer, all—including Mark Clay himself, whose eyesight was not very good—could see that this was no bonfire.

'Put on speed!' he roared to the frightened Tom Fox.

'We're at thirty-five now, sir,' said the man.

'Put on the highest you can,' again shouted Mr Clay, with a muttered imprecation.

But Mr Howroyd leant forward, and putting his hand on his brother's arm, said kindly but firmly, 'Nay, lad, we'll be there in a short time now. Think of the wife and these two lasses. You've no right to put their lives in danger, even if you think your property's in danger.'

'They're in no danger,' he answered brusquely, as he threw off the other's restraining arm.

Horatia, who did not know what fear was, and was rather enjoying the rate at which they were going, happened to glance at Mrs Clay, who was really fainting with fright. 'Oh, Mrs Clay's ill!' she cried in alarm. 'Stop—pray stop!'

Whether Mr Clay would have taken any notice of her or not is doubtful; but Tom Fox, who had reluctantly put on speed at his master's repeated commands, took advantage of this excuse to slow down a little, which was just as well; for, springing up out of nowhere, as they seem to reckless drivers to do, appeared a policeman, who commanded them to stop.

'Confound you, man! can't you see my place is burning?' Mr Clay roared out to him.

'What! Mr Mark Clay is it?' exclaimed the man in surprise, and in no friendly tone. 'You've no right to endanger the public in this way, whatever trouble you may be in.'

But Mr Howroyd interfered. 'And you've no right to stop us longer than to take the name when it's an urgent matter, Marmaduke,' he said.

The man touched his hat. 'Beg pardon, Mr Howroyd, I didn't know you were of this party. We reap as we sow in this world, and Mr Clay's fond enough of the law when it's on his side and against others.—Go on, Tom Fox; only mind, if there's an accident I'm witness that you were warned,' he said, as he moved back and let them pass.

'Shall we be fined?' asked Sarah of her uncle.

'I don't know. No; I shouldn't think so in a case like this, especially as we had luckily slowed down a bit,' he replied. But he did not seem to care much, which surprised Sarah, who knew that he did not care for motoring at all, and was always severe on wild driving.

'I think we shall. You can't go scorching along just because some trees have caught fire. People's lives are more important than a few hundred pounds. You don't seem to care about us at all,' she protested.

'Don't be so silly and childish, Sarah; and mind you go straight into the house and stay there,' he replied.

They were now near enough to see that some trees were burning; but as they were nowhere near the house, Sarah could not quite understand her uncle's 'fidgetiness,' as she called it.

'How on earth did that tree catch fire,' Horatia suddenly ejaculated as a tall poplar was seen blazing, 'and after such a wet day as yesterday?'

'I can tell you how it caught fire. It was set on fire by some of your friends of yesterday; that's how it's caught fire, and that's their way of saying "Thank you" to me for giving in to them; but they've taught me a lesson, and one I sha'n't forget, and I hope it'll satisfy you too, young lady,' replied Mark Clay grimly.

'I don't believe it. It would be too silly of them, to begin with; and, besides, why should they burn the trees? If they wanted to be wicked like that they'd burn the house,' declared Horatia.

'Ay, so they would have done before now if they'd had half a chance; but it's too well protected. Why, there's police in it day and night, and they know it!' he declared.

'All the same, I agree with Horatia, it does seem funny after yesterday,' chimed in Sarah from the back-seat. 'And I can't think how those top branches caught.'

'No, because you don't know your home as well as you might,' said her father.

'What does he mean?' asked Sarah of her uncle.

'I suppose he means that the granaries are on fire, and that they've set the trees alight,' explained Mr Howroyd, whose face was very white and set, but with a different look of determination from his brother's.

They were in the park now.

'Turn off to the right, Tom,' said his master.

'Take the women-folk to the house first, Mark,' pleaded his brother.

'To the fire, Tom. I'll catch the rascals red-handed!' roared Mr Clay.

'Don't get out; go on in the car,' said Mr Howroyd to his niece in an undertone; but his advice fell on deaf ears.

Sarah was excited enough now, for they had turned a sharp corner at an angle, which made Mrs Clay give a sharp cry, and there in front of them were the blazing remains of two huge barns and some charred trunks of trees, while others were still burning.

In the roar and crackle of the flames and the crash of falling timber, the approach of the motor had not been heard by the excited and interested crowd who were watching the progress of the flames.

'Watching! Not one of them raising a hand to stop it!' muttered Mr Howroyd between his teeth.

Mrs Clay clasped her hands in despair.

The millionaire bounded from the car and was among them before any one saw him. 'You cowardly curs, that'll take my money and burn my property! Off my land, I say! I'll pay you for this! You shall all be in prison before the week's out! I see you all, and know you too well, curse you!'

'We haven't done aught to your property. You can't say we have. We saw the flames in Ousebank oop o' top o' t' hill, and we ran to see. There's no harm in that, and you can't have the law on us for't,' said a big, burly man.

'You're trespassing on my land, every one of you, and I'll prosecute you for that, if I can't for aught else. There's plenty of boards to warn you,' said Mr Clay.

The crowd melted away as if by magic, and they saw the gardeners trying feebly to check the progress of the flames.

Their master stood and watched them in grim silence for a little time. His presence and the disappearance of the crowd seemed to give them increased vigour, for they worked with a will now, and crash came down a tree which had just caught and would have carried on the flames to another plantation.

'That's right; rather late in the day. If you'd done that earlier it might ha' been better. And where's the rest of you? There's twenty men in the grounds somewhere, let alone the house; you could have had thirty at this, and worsted those scoundrels if you'd chosen; but you didn't, and I'll not forget it—I'll not forget it!'

'The others are guarding t' house, master' said the head-gardener. 'Sykes wouldn't let a man leave; he's there—armed, and swore he'd shoot the first hand that came nigh the house, let his business be what it might.'

A grim smile relaxed the millionaire's features for a moment as he heard this news; but they grew grim again as he asked bitterly, 'And weren't the garage and stable men enough to guard the house without the rest of you, whose business is to keep my ground in order?'

The man turned back to his work of chopping off smouldering branches, as he said in a surly tone, 'I'm here, sir, doing my best, and so's these lads, seven on 'em, and it's no use blaming them that has tried to help when your property is being destroyed for the fault of them that hasn't had the courage to do it.'

'Courage to do your work!' said Mark Clay in a tone of contempt. 'And where's the police?'

They were there, too, now, though where they had been up to this moment did not seem certain.

'You can stand here now; the harm's done and the robbers gone,' he said when they came to him. 'Bah! you're all in the same box.'

'Excuse me, Mr Clay, you mustn't bring charges like that against us,' said one of them.

But Mark Clay took no notice of him or his protest, but walked back to the motor, where Mrs Clay and Horatia still sat. 'Home, Tom, as long as I've got one,' he muttered, as he got in and sat moodily looking before him, and taking no notice of his white and shivering wife, or of Horatia, who sat there looking the picture of misery; nor did he notice, apparently, that neither Sarah nor Mr Howroyd was of the party.

Tom Fox drove up to the front-door, and Sykes, irreproachable as usual, came down the steps and helped his master and mistress out of the car. He gave no sign of anything at all unusual being amiss, for he was always very grave, till his master said in a grim tone, 'Had any visitors, Sykes?'

'No, sir; but we were ready for them if they'd come,' he then replied significantly.

'Ay, you're true Yorkshire grit,' said his master, as he passed on into the house in front of his wife, who, indeed, would hardly have got up the steps but for Horatia's help and support.

'Oh Sykes! Oh, w'at a dreadful affair this is!' moaned Mrs Clay.

'We'll have to get rid of them southerners; they wouldn't face the crowd, and are skulking in the stable-yard. I told the master what it 'u'd be, but he wouldn't hearken to me. I'd got my men all ready, and not one would have disobeyed me. Even Naomi came home to help, and offered to use a gun if I'd show her how,' related Sykes, hoping by this tale of devotion to please his mistress and distract her thoughts from a sad subject.

But the effect was disastrous, for Mrs Clay gave a cry of horror and burst into tears. 'Shoot! W'y should Naomi want a gun to shoot wi'? 'Oo's she goin' to shoot? Oh, 'ow dreadful it all is! Shoot, indeed! 'Oo do you want to shoot, Sykes?' she asked wildly.

'I don't want to shoot any one, ma'am; no more don't Naomi. And as the danger's all over now we'd best say no more about it,' replied Sykes.

'Are you sure the danger's over?' demanded his mistress. And Horatia asked the same question with her eyes.

Sykes made her a sign, which she did not understand, and replied to Mrs Clay by saying in a soothing tone, 'Yes, ma'am, yes; the danger's quite over, if there ever was any. There's not a soul inside these park-gates except those that have a right to be; and, after all, the master can afford a little loss like this afternoon.'

Mrs Clay gave a little sigh, and said, 'I think, my dear, I'll lie down a bit, if you'll stop by me. I don't fancy bein' alone.'

And Horatia willingly went with her hostess.



CHAPTER XVIII.

NANCY PACKS UP.

Poor Mrs Clay lay down on the sofa in the drawing-room and shut her eyes. Horatia sat beside her, kicking the corner of one of the rich Persian rugs that lay about the drawing-room; not that she was in a bad temper—indeed, Horatia was rarely in a bad temper—but as an outlet to her superfluous energy.

It was pain and grief to Horatia Cunningham to sit still at any time; but this afternoon, when she felt so excited and wanted to hear all about the fire, it was a severe trial to her patience.

Mrs Clay was evidently worn out by the events of the day. Horatia glanced at her from time to time, but did not like to break the silence. Great was her relief, therefore, when a knock came at the drawing-room door.

Mrs Clay opened her eyes. 'Who can that be?' she demanded, clutching Horatia's arm in her nervousness.

'Only one of the servants, I expect,' replied Horatia, looking towards the door, in the hope that it would be some one with news of some sort.

'But they never knock at the drawing-room door,' objected Mrs Clay.

'Hadn't you better tell them to come in?' suggested Horatia, for Mrs Clay lay there, clutching her hand and talking in whispers, but not giving any answer to the person at the door.

'Oh no, my dear. I—we don't know who it is,' gasped the poor thing, who was evidently quite unnerved, and no wonder.

'Shall I go and see who it is? I dare say it is one of the servants, who did not like to come in and disturb you, because they know you are resting,' said Horatia.

'I think you'd better ring for Sykes,' objected Mrs Clay, still keeping her hold of Horatia.

'I'm sure it's only a servant, perhaps Sykes himself. I'll only open the door a little bit,' said Horatia, loosening her hand from Mrs Clay's and running to the door, which she opened, as she promised, only a little bit, and then exclaimed, 'Nanny! it's you, is it? What's the matter?' For it was against all etiquette for Mrs Nancy to come down to this part of the house. Moreover, the old nurse looked disturbed and flurried.

'Excuse my disturbing you, Miss Horatia, but I couldn't get any one to come, they're all that upset and put about; but I want to know what train you're going by. The packing's all done, and you can start as soon as you like; and the sooner the better for me,' she wound up viciously.

'What nonsense are you talking, Nanny? Why should we pack up and go away just because a granary and a few trees are burnt down? We don't live in the trees!' said Horatia, laughing.

'It's no laughing matter. If you remember, I said to you when we first came here that it was no place for us, and now you see how true my words have come?' said Mrs Nancy.

'I don't remember any words of yours that have come true, and I shouldn't advise you to say that, Nanny, or they'll think you know something about it, and, perhaps, did it yourself,' retorted Horatia jokingly.

Nancy gave a kind of snort. 'Don't you go carrying your love of a joke too far, miss; and if you think there's any chance of me being accused, that's all the more reason that we should go before worse happens,' she said gloomily.

'Why, Nanny, who would have thought you'd be such a coward? It's all over now, and we can't go away all of a sudden like this, even if we wanted to, and I don't. I want to stop and see what will happen next, and help if I can.'

'Help! You'll be burnt in your bed before you can help yourself, let alone any one else,' cried Nancy. 'Be guided by me, miss, and let us take the night-mail. Sykes says there's one passes about eight o'clock. We could telegraph at once, and her ladyship would be delighted to see you. Don't pass another night under this doomed house.'

'Miss 'Oratia, w'at is it? 'Oo are you w'isperin' to out there?' asked Mrs Clay.

'It's only Nancy, my nurse; she wants to speak to me about something. I won't be a minute,' Horatia answered her; and then, stepping into the passage, she said hurriedly, 'Nancy, who told you that? Tell me at once all you know. When are they going to set fire to the house? To-night?'

'How should I know, miss? I can only say what I think,' replied the old nurse, whose usually cheery face was puckered up with anxiety and fright.

Horatia took her nurse by both arms. 'Now, Nanny, you've just got to tell me. Do you know anything, or don't you?'

'I know we're among a lot of savage folk that don't respect other folk's property, and it's about time we went home,' declared the old woman.

Horatia gave a stamp of the foot. 'You are aggravating, Nanny! Do you know of any plot to burn the house? Because if so'——began Horatia; but she got no further.

For Nancy broke in with indignation, 'Well, I never, miss! A pretty pass things have come to when you accuse me of knowing of plots! As if I'd mix myself up with their wicked deeds! No, miss, I do not know anything; but I'm not blind nor deaf, and I have heard quite enough to make me pack our trunks,' said the nurse.

'That's just what I want to know. What have you heard or seen? Do tell me, Nanny. I shall be much more comfortable if I know,' entreated Horatia.

'We shall both be much more comfortable when we are back at The Grange,' said the nurse.

'It's no good you turning it off like that, Nanny, for I'm just going to hold your arms like this till you tell me, and it's no use your wriggling like that, for you can't get away; you may be bigger, but you didn't learn gymnastics in your youth, and so you are not so strong in the arms as I am.'

'I learnt one thing that you haven't, and that is respect for my elders,' said Nancy severely, and trying to look dignified, but failing, as may be imagined.

'I shall respect you all right if you tell me the truth,' replied Horatia, unabashed by the rebuke.

'You don't want me to go carrying tales from the servants' hall, do you? What do you suppose the mistress would say to that?' said Nancy.

'Mamma would say you were quite right in this case, because I am not asking out of curiosity, but because I really ought to know,' said Horatia.

'Well, miss, if you will have it, you will; but, of course, I only know what little Naomi has told me of what she has heard down the town to-day, and of course it mayn't be true,' said Nancy.

Horatia stamped her foot with impatience. 'Never mind whether it's true or not; tell me what she said,' entreated Horatia.

'Naomi says that her sister Maria Jane says'—Horatia began to think that the tale was going to be too complicated altogether, but the old woman went on—'that the men say there wouldn't have been a brick left of Balmoral this morning if they hadn't been given way to yesterday; and that's your doing, miss.'

Horatia coloured a little with pleasure. 'Then what on earth are you making this fuss about? The danger is over, as you see,' she cried eagerly.

Old Nancy shook her head. 'You haven't heard the rest. That old stupid—well, I beg his pardon, as we're in his house, and you seem to like him, miss; though how you can, or what you can see in him, and after how you've been used'——she said.

'Oh, never mind all that, Nanny; do tell me the rest! Mrs Clay will be calling me again, so pray make haste!' exclaimed Horatia.

'Well, he goes down to the mills and undoes all the good you've done by saying it was the last time a mill-hand would put foot in his park, for he built that to be away from them, and he isn't going to have his peace disturbed; and it wouldn't do them any good either, for he'd let them have their way this time to please you, but it was the first and last time he'd do such a thing.' Nancy stopped.

'That's not all. Go on, Nanny,' said Horatia.

'Well, Naomi's sister, you know—she hates Mr Clay, of course'——began Nancy.

'Why of course?' interrupted Horatia.

'You know that story, surely, don't you, miss?'

'What story? How should I know why Naomi's sister hates Mr Clay? It's very wrong of her,' said Horatia.

'So it is; but her young man—the young man she was going to marry, I mean—was turned off by the master, and'——

'I expect he was a bad workman; that's his own fault,' said Horatia. 'But never mind about that story. Oh dear! I don't know which story I want to know. You are tiresome to-day, Nanny. What did Naomi say?'

'It was her sister. Naomi had nothing to do with it; she's too fond of Miss Sarah,' said Nancy.

Horatia peeped into the drawing-room. Mrs Clay still had her eyes shut, and by her breathing Horatia guessed what was indeed the case—that she had fallen asleep; so Horatia gave a sigh, and resigned herself to listen to Nancy's long-winded tale in the hope of getting at the truth in time. 'Come and sit on this seat outside the front-door, it is so hot in the house; and, besides, I am afraid of some one coming and hearing you,' she said, leading her nurse to a bench outside the drawing-room window. 'Now, about Naomi's sister.'

'It wasn't Naomi's sister herself,' began Nancy.

Horatia gave a groan; but so great was her anxiety to hear the truth that she made a great effort and controlled herself. Then Nancy went on: 'He said he'd burn the Clays out of Ousebank, and that they should have a taste of it this very day, to show Mark Clay what he might expect if he didn't alter his ways;' and Nancy stopped again.

'What else did Naomi say?' asked Horatia, who looked grave enough now.

'She said they'd burn the house next, or try to, and then the mills; and that's what they will do, and very likely it'll be this night; and if it isn't, it'll be to-morrow or the next day. And now perhaps you'll come home with me,' Nancy wound up.

'Indeed I won't! Fancy leaving friends when they are in such trouble!' Horatia exclaimed.

'You won't help them by staying. I know you've done some good; but it hasn't helped, after all, and Miss Sarah's gone off and left you, and it isn't the proper place for you at all.'

'I wonder where she is. Do you know, Nanny?' inquired Horatia, for she had been wondering about this ever since she had turned round in the motor to speak to Sarah, and had found that she had vanished.

'No, miss, I don't. I supposed you'd know. At any rate, she had no call to go away at such a time, and leave you alone to take charge of her ma, and all these dreadful things happening. I'm sure her ladyship will blame me for not bringing you away at once; and if anything should happen'—here Nancy threw up her hands in horror as she wound up, 'I should never forgive myself—never, whatever the mistress might do.'

'As we're both going to be burned in our beds, according to you, you won't have to try to forgive yourself,' observed Horatia.

'Don't talk so dreadful callous, Miss Horatia; and, if you don't mind for yourself, you might consider me that you're running into danger,' protested Nancy. Not that she cared about herself half so much as she did for her young charge; but because she thought this argument might have some weight with Horatia, who always thought of others before herself.

'You needn't stop if you're afraid. I shall write to mother to-night and ask her to let me stay alone,' announced Horatia.

'Miss!' cried Nancy reproachfully.

Horatia gave a little laugh. 'Oh dear! there's nothing to laugh at, only it always seems easier for me to laugh than to cry, or else I should cry now. It is dreadful to think that all this money is wasted,' she said.

'It isn't wasted yet, and perhaps Mr Clay will see reason, though they say he's wonderful obstinate; and if I was you, miss, I'd not meddle any more. You meant well, no doubt; but, you see, you're very young, and it hasn't done much good, after all; and it's best not to interfere in other folk's business.'

The tears rose to Horatia's eyes. 'I know that. In fact, I'm afraid I've done harm, and that's one of the reasons I must stop,' persisted Horatia.

'But you won't tell Mr Clay what I've said. Leastways, I didn't say it,' cried Nancy, in alarm. 'Naomi said that her sister said that'——

'Oh, never mind who said it. Of course I sha'n't mention any names, but I shall certainly warn Mr Clay of what the people mean to do.'

'Then you'll do the very harm you want to stop,' said old Nancy solemnly.

'Why?' asked Horatia.

'Because it'll only make him more determined. You don't know these Yorkshire folk; there's nothing will turn them if they get a thing into their heads. And let Mr Clay hear that they've threatened to burn him out of the place, and he'll make the place too hot to hold them, and they'll pay him out,' said the old woman shrewdly.

Horatia did not make any reply. She felt that there was some truth in Nancy's remarks, and she gave a little sigh as she thought to herself how difficult it was not to harm where you only meant to do good. At last she said, 'I won't say anything to Mr Clay; but I'll have a talk with Sarah, and she shall do as she likes.'

'She won't tell him; she knows him too well,' said Nancy, and she had hardly uttered the words when Mrs Clay, who had evidently been dreaming, awoke with a start, and called Horatia. 'You won't leave to-night, miss?' the nurse said, in a last attempt.

'No, no; I really couldn't, Nanny; but we're quite safe, for there are a lot of police guarding us.'

Nancy groaned as she went off.



CHAPTER XIX.

AN UNPLEASANT MOMENT.

Mr Howroyd and Sarah, it will he remembered, had not been seen since they arrived at the scene of the fire in the park. Mr Howroyd had vaulted from the car as soon as his half-brother; and when the latter made his angry speech, and sent off the townspeople, William Howroyd went after them as quickly as he could. But he had not gone far when he heard quick, light footsteps behind him; and, turning to see who it was, he saw Sarah, looking very hot, coming hurrying after him. 'What do you want, my lass? You go home. The town's no place for you to-night,' he said.

'Yes it is, Uncle Howroyd. I want to see Jane Mary. I'm sure this is some of her doing,' she panted as she came up to her uncle.

'And if it is, what good will it do you to know it, even if she owned up, which she won't, you may be sure?' inquired her uncle, stopping, rather unwillingly, to talk to his niece.

'Oh, she'll tell me; she's not afraid of me. She knows I'm on her side,' said Sarah.

'A fine statement that! Then what are you going to do? Incite them to more outrages? Because, if that's your intention, you certainly won't come; and I must say, Sarah, you don't show a very nice spirit in taking this tone.'

'What tone?' demanded Sarah, looking rather defiant.

'Why, rejoicing in your father's loss, and openly taking the part of his enemies,' said Mr Howroyd.

'I'm not rejoicing in it; I'm awfully sorry. I would have given anything to have prevented it; and it's just to prevent any more that I am going down to Ousebank,' replied Sarah.

William Howroyd turned and continued his way towards Ousebank. As it was evident that Sarah meant to go to the town, it was better that she should go with him than alone, which he was convinced she would do if he did not let her come with him; so he only said testily, 'I never did pretend to understand women, but you beat every one of them. I don't know what you do mean; but I'm glad to hear you are not so undutiful as I thought you were. Not that you'll do any good by going to Ousebank, because you'll not turn these people.'

'If you think I'm going to try to turn Jane Mary because I want to save papa's property for him you are mistaken, because I don't care a fig if it is destroyed or not; but I do care about Jane Mary, and I don't want her to get into trouble, and that's why I am going to see her.'

'You're a queer girl, Sarah; but I think you'll be sorry one of these days for the part you're acting now. Why, that little schoolfellow of yours has a more friendly feeling for your father than his own daughter,' observed Mr Howroyd, as the two walked hurriedly along the path through the park, which was a short-cut to the town.

'Oh Horatia! You say you don't understand me; but I think I'm much easier to understand than Horatia. She came up here to be my friend and companion, and sympathise with me, and, lo and behold! she goes and makes friends with father, and cares much more for father and mother than for me,' complained Sarah.

'And I don't blame her,' said Mr Howroyd.

Sarah laughed. 'I wonder you don't follow her example; but you don't, and you know, Uncle Howroyd, it's no use your pretending to champion my father, because you don't really care for him a bit except from duty, and you like me much better,' she announced coolly.

'I don't like you at all to-night, and I disapprove of your behaviour to your parents very strongly. As I told you before, you will be sorry for it one day,' said her uncle.

They had reached the outskirts of the park and come out on the high-road as Mr Howroyd said this; and about a hundred yards to the right of them, coming down the hill, they saw a crowd of people, and heard the murmur of many voices. It was the townspeople coming from the fire, who had been longer in coming because they had kept to the drive, not daring to use the short-cut.

'It's the hands!' said Sarah.

'You'd best turn back, my lass; you can't do any good, and you're far too young to mix yourself up with this kind of thing,' her uncle entreated her.

Sarah shook her head. 'I am going on; but if you want to go ahead, do; I shall be all right with these people,' she affirmed.

But this was more than Mr Howroyd could bear. 'Nay, you'll not do that if I can stop it, lass. You don't want to be the talk of the town, do you? But whether you do or not, you're not going to have your way. There'll be scandal enough without Mark Clay's daughter adding to it by going marching through the town with the rabble that have just burnt her father's barns,' said Mr Howroyd; and he quickened his steps to avoid being caught up by the rabble, as he called them.

But in spite of his efforts, the crowd behind gained on them, and they heard the foremost say, 'It's William Howroyd, that's who it is. He's a different man to his brother, that he is. He'd never turn us out of his park, wouldn't Mr William.'

'He's got Clay's lass with him, though. What d'ye say lads, shall we let her come into t' town if he won't let us go into his park, or shall we turn her back same as he did us?'

There were mingled shouts of 'Let her be!' and 'Nay, nay, let's turn her back, same as he did us, and teach him a lesson!'

They were close behind now, and Mr William Howroyd could no longer pretend not to hear what they said. The road was wide, and bordered by banks and hedges. He took Sarah by the hand and pulled her up on to the bank with him; but even in that moment he noticed that her hand did not tremble in the least, but was, as a matter of fact, steadier than his own.

'I'm not going to run away from them, Uncle Howroyd. I'm not a bit afraid of them,' she protested, as he pulled her up after him.

'You do as I tell you; but you couldn't run away from them if you wanted to,' he replied.

Sarah stood on the bank beside her uncle, and waited for the crowd to come up to them. They were only about fifty in all, and mostly young men, and they seemed undecided what to do when they saw Mr Howroyd standing upon the bank by the roadside, with his niece beside him.

William Howroyd's pleasant, cheery face was graver than most present had ever seen it, as he stood and watched the men come up and stand, half-sheepishly and half-defiantly, in a kind of irregular semicircle round them.

As none of them spoke, except in murmurs to each other, Mr Howroyd decided to break the ice, and began, in his brisk, ringing voice, which had a very stern tone in it to-night: 'Well, men, what do you want of me? I've made way for you to go forward. Why don't you go?'

'We want a word with you first, Mr Howroyd,' said one of the foremost, who had already shown himself to be antagonistic.

'I want no words with men who break the laws of the land,' replied William Howroyd sternly, and as he said this some of the men remembered that he was a Justice of the Peace.

'We've broken no laws, Mr William. We never set the barn afire, and you can't prove that we did,' said one rather anxiously.

'You stood by and let it burn; and you forget that it was my brother's property,' he replied.

'Mark Clay's no blood-brother of yours. We've nought again' you, Mr William.—Let 'im be, lad; he've allus right on his side, and he's a good master, is Mr William,' said an older man, walking on.

'Noa; but we've summat again' Mr Clay, and I say let the Clays stop in their park—they want it to themselves, and let 'em have it; but we won't have 'em in Ousebank,' said the first speaker in a surly voice.

'The park's private property, and you've no right there, and my brother had a right to turn you out to-night. I'd have done the same if you'd come into my house; but we're all equal on the public road, and if you molest us here you'll answer for it to me in another place,' said Mr Howroyd with determination.

All this time Sarah had stood beside her uncle, her eyes flashing, but giving no other sign that she was moved by the discussion; but she now said, 'The men are right, Uncle Howroyd. I will go back to Balmoral;' and she turned to go up the hill.

Poor Mr Howroyd might well say he did not understand women, for this was the last thing he had expected Sarah to do, and it embarrassed him very much, for he wanted to get to the town as soon as he could and stop possible disturbances; but it was impossible to let Sarah return to her home alone on an evening like this. He stood looking first at the crowd, which was now passing on, and then at Sarah, doubtful which to accompany, when the question was decided for him by a man in the crowd, who came forward and said, 'I'll see Miss Clay home, Mr William; you'll be wanted down Ousebank to-night.'

'Mickleroyd!' cried Mr Howroyd in amazement. 'You here! I didn't expect to see you among this lot.'

William Howroyd feared no man, and 'said his mind,' as he was wont to express it, and he was far too popular for it to be resented, perhaps because his 'mind' had never anything but kindness in it, though it was very truthful.

'I'll answer for my presence here if need be, Mr. William; but let me take the young lady home. She'll be safe with me, and the town'll be safer if you are there,' said the old man, with sturdy independence.

'I'll come, Luke.—Good-night, uncle,' said Sarah, deciding the question, as usual, for herself.

'Good-night, Sarah. I'm glad you're going home; your mother'll be worrying about you, I'll be bound, and she'll want some one to comfort her,' said her uncle as he turned to go down the hill.

'Oh, Horatia's doing that, I've no doubt. I can't think why she wasn't me, and I her. She'd have liked to live at Balmoral,' replied Sarah.

'She's a good young lady, Miss Sarah, and, if you'll excuse me, she's done the master a mint of good. It's what he wants, some one to say a word in season, and make him a little softer like,' said Luke Mickleroyd.

'You're all alike, Luke; you think there's no one like Horatia Cunningham, and I can't think why except that she has a pleasant way of saying things,' said Sarah a little bitterly.

'It isn't only that, miss; it's that she's got a lot of heart. But I know you've got a heart too, and a heart of gold; only I often think 'tis a pity some people cover it up so carefully that it wants a lot of digging to come at,' remarked the man.

'I suppose you are talking about me; but don't I show you any feeling, Luke?' asked Sarah rather reproachfully.

'Yes, miss, of course; and I wasn't thinking of you at the minute, as it happened. I'm sorry I said what I did about Miss Cunningham if it annoyed you, for I know from Naomi how kind you are, and what a true friend to all our family. If I said anything, it was because I was thinking 'twas a pity you didn't take things as the other young lady does, for if you had very likely matters would never have come to this pass.'

Sarah did not answer a word, and the two walked on in silence. Luke Mickleroyd was thinking bitterly of the part his daughter Jane Mary had taken in the day's work, and Sarah's thoughts were not more pleasant.

'I dare say you're right, Luke; but one can't change one's character. If a person's born proud and horrid like me she can't help it; it's her nature to be so,' she said after a pause.

'There's something above nature, Miss Sarah; and though I'm not one to preach, I know you know better than me, not being a scholar, that you can be changed,' replied the man.

Sarah was so surprised at such a speech from a mill-hand that she found no words to reply; but when he had left her, by her desire, at the back of the house, she made her way to her room by the back-stairs, and taking up her favourite attitude on the wide window-seat, sat and gazed out over Ousebank.

'I hate them all! I hate Ousebank, and the mills, and the hands—the ungrateful people; they turned against me even, though they know I have always taken their parts and sympathised with them,' she burst out. Then the words of her uncle came back to her that she would one day regret the attitude she had taken up, and she wondered whether she didn't regret it a little now. And then Luke Mickleroyd's remarks haunted her, and with a sudden impatient movement she got up and went to the door. There she paused irresolutely, and then, half-shamefacedly, she turned back and knelt down by her bedside; and after ten minutes she got up and walked swiftly out of the room and down the stairs, wondering rather at have said; and though she said her prayers night and morning as a matter of habit, she did not remember ever having prayed in the daytime before.



CHAPTER XX.

SARAH'S FIRST STEP TO CONQUEST.

Sarah walked swiftly along the passages, her head erect, her colour a little brighter, and her lips half-smiling instead of being curved in a contemptuous droop; and on her way she met Naomi.

'Oh miss!' cried Naomi, and then stopped short, and looked curiously at her young mistress.

'Well, Naomi, what is it? What are you looking at me like that for? Has anything more happened?' demanded Sarah.

'No, miss; thank goodness there's nothing more than you know, and that's enough, and too much. I was only thinking you look rare and beautiful this evening,' blurted out the maid.

'What nonsense, Naomi! I'm just hot and red, and you don't like pale people,' replied Sarah; but she was pleased all the same; for though she was not in the least vain of her good looks—which she would have exchanged willingly for Horatia's parentage—she liked to be admired, and she walked on, feeling very satisfied with herself.

Naomi looked after her admiringly. 'There's not a young lady can hold a candle to her in all the county. But wherever's she going? Why, that's not the way to the drawing-room; she's going to the master's room. Well, it isn't often she pays him a visit, and it mostly ends badly, if it doesn't begin so. How she comes to be his daughter I can't think; she's too good for the like of him. I'd sooner have believed she was a duke's daughter,' she soliloquised.

Meanwhile Sarah, conscious that she was doing a noble action in conquering her own feelings, walked on, as Naomi had said, to her father's special sitting-room, which he called his study, but in which his only study was how to make more money.

Sarah tapped at the door, and her father's voice growled something which she took to be an invitation to come in, so she opened the door and entered the room; but on the threshold she paused and hesitated. Her father was sitting in his big easy-chair in front of his bureau, writing. He did not look up at once, thinking it was a servant, who could wait his pleasure, and Sarah had time to notice his forbidding expression. It seemed to her that her father had never looked more unlovable, as he sat there with a scowl on his face, writing no doubt letters to the police or whatever authorities he wished to invoke aid from to punish the incendiaries; and as he wrote such a malignant and fierce expression came over his face that Sarah made a movement to retreat; but the noise she made in doing so attracted Mr Clay's attention, and, looking up sharply, he exclaimed, 'What! you, Sally?' and laid down his pen to hear what his daughter had to say to him.

'Yes, father; I came to tell you how sorry I am about all this affair to-day,' she said.

Mr Clay looked keenly and a little suspiciously at his daughter. She stood there, looking so like a culprit apologising for her misdeeds, that the thought flashed across him that perhaps she had something to be sorry for. She made no secret of her sympathy with the 'hands,' and she had not expressed sorrow or indignation at the time, so that the mill-owner may be excused if he believed for the moment that she had had something to do with the fire.

'Are you sorry?' he asked dryly. 'I thought you didn't care if I lost every penny of my money. That's what you always say. Are you sure you're not sorry that your friends are going to get into trouble, eh? I suppose you didn't know anything about it beforehand? Because, you know, I sha'n't make any exceptions. Those that burn my property shall pay for it.'

'Father,' cried Sarah indignantly, 'how can you think such a dreadful thing of me? If that's what you think, I'm sorry I came to you at all;' and she turned to go.

'Stop a minute, my lass,' said her father. 'I'd like to get to the bottom of this. Why did you come?'

'I came to tell you I am sorry for your loss,' said Sarah half-sullenly.

'You are sure you didn't come to beg these people off their punishment?' persisted Mr Clay.

'Yes, I am quite sure of that. I should never waste my time asking you to show mercy to any one,' cried Sarah, her eyes flashing.

Mark Clay looked at his daughter with an angry light in his eyes. 'I'm glad you've got so much sense, my lass,' he said coldly, and went on with his writing.

Sarah hesitated a minute. She was sorry for the words the moment they were out of her mouth. It was a miserable end to her attempt at making friends with her father; but her father's head was bent over his writing, and his face had on the stubborn look she knew so well, so she reluctantly turned away, and went back to her own room.

'He means mischief,' she said as she leant her chin on her hands. 'He's more dangerous when he is quiet like that than when he blusters.'

How long she sat Sarah did not know, until she was startled by hearing the dinner-gong clanging through the house. She gave a violent start, and looked round to see if Naomi had put out her dress for dinner, and saw, to her surprise, not only that she had not done so, but that it was the dinner-hour, so that either dinner must be late—an unheard-of thing in that house—or she had not heard the dressing-bell, and this must be the dinner-gong.

'But where is Naomi, and why was my dress not put out for me?' Sarah asked herself, and in answer to her unspoken question Naomi appeared.

'Oh Miss Sarah, I'm so sorry; I've fair forgot everything to-day, with all the upset! Oh miss, do let me dress you quick!' she cried, in great distress.