But at this moment the precious watch stood on the mantelpiece in the blue bedroom, on the watch-stand which was another of Esther's treasures. Lydia had given it to her on one of her birthdays; it was made of white wood, and had a little view on it of Blackpool, where Lydia had been spending her holidays. In her shabby, ugly bedroom at home Esther had not used her precious stand, it was all too dusty and ill-cared for; but here, where everything was so nice, it was to be given a prominent position.

When the children got home at last, tired and very hungry, they found four mugs of milk awaiting them, and a tin of biscuits; they found also that the postman had been with letters. There were none for them; but they never expected any, and postmen and posts held little interest for them as a rule. To-day, though, it had brought them something.

"I have heard from your mother, dears," said Cousin Charlotte, "and she sends you her love, and hopes you have arrived safely."

"Oh, we ought to let her know," cried Penelope, with sudden remorse that they had none of them thought of doing so before.

"It is all right," said Miss Charlotte consolingly. "I sent her a telegram last evening, after you came. She knew before Poppy went to bed. Ephraim took it to Gorley for me. Oh, you don't know Ephraim yet, do you? He is our handyman. He attends to the garden, and the poultry, and does all kinds of useful things. But, of course, you want to hear about your mother, more than about Ephraim. Well, dears, I cannot tell you much, for I have broken my glasses and cannot read very well. I was waiting for Esther to come home and be my eyes for me for once. I did make out, though, that she is very busy, and leaves Framley to-morrow. No, dear," to Esther, "I won't ask you to read it now. We will wait till you have had your lunch. I expect you are all hungry, and there is no great hurry."

Their milk and biscuits disposed of, Penelope and the two younger ones sauntered away to the garden. Esther waited. Miss Charlotte took Mrs. Carroll's letter from a little pile, and handed it to her. Esther, who was burning with impatience to know if her mother wrote of those things that were troubling her, began to read at once:

"DEAREST COUSIN CHARLOTTE,

"It is more than good of you to have my four poor children and give them a home. They will be as happy as possible with you, I know. I expect by this time they have reached you. To come to the business part of our plan, which I know you dislike as much as I do, I am very thankful you can keep them, clothe and educate them, for the hundred and fifty pounds a year. Their clothes need cost but very little; after all, it does not much matter what children wear in a country place."

"I have my friends here," Miss Charlotte was thinking, "and I cannot let my little cousins run about dressed like little tramps."

"While as for their education, we need only think of Esther and Penelope yet, and theirs must be of the simplest; it matters so much less for girls than for boys."

"Oh dear, oh dear," thought Miss Charlotte, "what a mistaken notion!"

"Ronald hopes to send more when the children are a little older. Oh, this dreadful want of money! I have been nearly distracted to know what to do. Do you mind, dear Cousin Charlotte, if I do not send you the cheque for this quarter till later on, but keep it for my own needs, which are so urgent? I have to get so much for my outfit, and so many things besides, I find I have not nearly enough money for it all. I hope you do not mind. I am up to my eyes in work, turning out the house and packing; and to-morrow I go to stay with friends in the North. I think the change will brace me up for the journey; I sadly need it.

"My love to the chicks and to yourself.

"Your affectionate cousin," "MAUDE CARROLL."

For a moment Esther could not lift her eyes from the sheet, they were too full of bitter tears of mortification. "Oh, why does mother always act like this," she was crying to herself, "and make people think unkind things of her? It is cruel of her, too, to leave us like this with a stranger, and not a penny to pay for it all."

Esther's heart burnt hot with shame as well as anger, for she knew instinctively that Miss Charlotte Ashe would never see one penny of that money. She knew, oh, she knew only too well! She had had six years' experience of debt and trouble and shame, of money being diverted from its destined use and frittered away and wasted, of tradesmen and servants continually asking for their money, their threatenings, and all the shifts and contrivances that had to be resorted to to get a little to satisfy them for the moment.

The cheque her father had intended for their needs would, she knew, be frittered away on useless, foolish things; and never, never would her mother be able to get together so large a sum again, for she would never tell her husband of the debt; she would not have the courage; it would mean 'a scene,' and she hated to be scolded. If Miss Charlotte worried and made continual demands, a sovereign or a few shillings might be sent to her now and again; but if she were too proud or too kind to ask, she would never have a penny of it. Esther knew, oh, how well she knew and understood it all; and how it hurt and humiliated and maddened her, as she realised their position! Helpless, penniless, homeless, four of them, and dependent on this gentle little lady, who was neither rich nor young, and could have no great love for them. They had no claim on her whatever. Esther could scarcely summon courage sufficient to look up; her shame and trouble burnt in her eyes and wrung her young heart. It was a bitter, bitter moment, how bitter Miss Charlotte had no conception, for she did not know all. But never, throughout the whole of her life, did Esther lose the memory of that scene, and the shame and misery which swamped her.

But, though she did not realise Esther's trouble, Miss Charlotte was greatly troubled too, for she had but a limited income, and to make it provide for six where it had only been expected to suffice for two was a matter that required some consideration, and when the extra four were but scantily supplied with clothes, and had to be provided with education too, the matter became very serious indeed.

But Miss Charlotte was not one to worry unduly. In the first place she had been accustomed all her life to facing difficulties, and in the second, she had too much faith to worry about things.

"The dear Lord has His own plans for us," she would say, "and He will guide us through if we only have faith and hope." She said it to herself now, as she tried to put troublesome thoughts into the background.

But poor Esther had as yet none of Miss Charlotte's faith. Troubles to the young appear so much more appalling than they do in later life, for they have no experience to look back upon and learn from.

Cousin Charlotte began to perceive, though, that Esther was very troubled too, seriously troubled. With quick intuition she divined something of what she was feeling, and her whole heart flew out in sympathy to the child.

"It will be all right, dear," she said, smiling cheerfully. "We shall do. Don't let the matter trouble you. We grown-ups will see to it all. Don't upset yourself, Esther dearest."

The kindness of her words and tone broke down Esther's last powers of restraint. "But—I can't help it—you didn't want us, you couldn't have, and—and here we are—so many, filling up your house, and—and costing so much, and—and—oh, Cousin Charlotte, I am so sorry. We must go away, go back, we can't stay here—" Esther's voice and manner grew almost hysterical.

"Oh, but, dear, you must stay, please," pleaded Cousin Charlotte gently. "You would not go away and leave me lonely again, would you, and upset all my plans and my pleasure, would you? Don't you know that it is a very great pleasure to me to have you? It is," seeing Esther's look of incredulity, "I assure you. I love girls of all ages, and I have missed them terribly here. Never let such a thought trouble you again. After all, dear, I could not expect to have the money in advance. I might, you know," smiling, "take it and spend it on myself, and pack you all up and set you adrift if I had it beforehand. Every one has to earn their money before they get it. It is about your education and Penelope's that I am troubled most. Your mother does not mention it. I wanted to send you to a good school, but if I did it would cost the whole of the money your father is able to spare for you all, and I think I am hardly justified in running him into so much expense. I would gladly put out the money—"

"Oh no, please, you mustn't," cried Esther eagerly. "Please don't, Cousin Charlotte, you mustn't think of it." Again Cousin Charlotte was perplexed by her very real distress. "I will teach myself and the others if I can only have some books, but it mustn't cost you anything."

Miss Ashe would not allow a glimmer of a smile to show in her face or eyes. "Well, dear," she said gravely, "we will think about it and have another talk. We cannot settle such a big question in a moment, can we? At any rate, if you cannot manage the teaching you can help me in other ways."

"How?" asked Esther eagerly, her whole face brightening. "Oh, I do so want to help."

But at that moment Anna came in to say Miss Ashe was wanted, and the conversation had to end.

"Run out and amuse yourself now, dear, and keep an eye on the others," said Miss Charlotte, laying a gentle hand on Esther's shoulder with a little caressing touch. "I am afraid I am leaving the care of them very much to you, but we shall settle down in time. I hoped to have got another maid; but well, Anna has lived so long alone now it is a little difficult to find any one she would live with happily. I want a girl, too, who would not require high wages. Now run along, dear. I hear Poppy calling to you," and with the same Miss Charlotte bustled away, and Esther was left alone.



CHAPTER VI.

"Girls," said Esther solemnly, as she hurried down the garden to where they were sitting, "I've got a lot to talk about. Let's go somewhere where we can be quiet."

There was a door in one wall of the garden, which led out directly on to the moor. Penelope had already discovered this, and at once led her sisters through it. At no great distance up the slope was a large group of rocks, which afforded them seats and shelter; it had other advantages, too, for from it they could look along the winding road, or down on the river and the cottages. Here the four of them ensconced themselves, with Guard beside them, and the three looked eagerly at their eldest sister.

"What is it?" asked Penelope.

"It isn't bad news from mother, is it?" gasped Angela, with a frightened face.

Esther sat looking very grave and absorbed, yet eager. "There is so much to say I hardly know where to begin," she said at last, and the excitement of the others increased.

"Begin anywhere," urged Poppy, who was not noted for her patience, and the others echoed her suggestion.

Methodical Esther, though, began at the beginning, and at great length told her story. The others listened with interest, but only Angela sympathised with Esther entirely. Penelope and Poppy were impressed, but they did not feel her peculiar horror of the situation as Angela did, nor her sensitive pride and shame. They grew more alert, though, when she, having finished her story of the letter, said gravely, "Girls, we've all got to do something, and I'll tell you what we've got to do."

"What?" they demanded in one breath.

"Well, we've got to save Cousin Charlotte all we can, and not cost a penny more than we can help."

"Must I only eat a very little teeny tiny bit?" asked Poppy gravely.

Esther laughed.

"Oh no, dear, you must eat as much as you want, or Cousin Charlotte will be angry. But we must manage so that she won't have to have another servant, and if we all help Anna and do a lot of the work, I don't think she need. We managed with only Lydia at home. But what I want most of all is to try and earn some money so as to be able to give it to Cousin Charlotte for what we cost her. But I can't think of any way, can you? Do let's try and think of something," she ended anxiously. "I am sure I would if I only knew how. I wish we weren't all so small."

"I saw a littler girl than me selling bootlaces once," said Poppy eagerly. "I could do that."

They all laughed, and the laugh inspirited them; the four faces grew bright and eager, the four brains went to work busily, and the maddest, wildest schemes chased each other through those little heads.

At dinner Miss Ashe was struck by the air of gravity which hung over them. She feared they must be tired or homesick, or suffering from the change of air, and grew quite troubled. They disclaimed all three when questioned, and spoke quite cheerfully when spoken to, and apparently were quite well; it seemed to be more an abstraction that enveloped them than depression.

Poppy at last gave a clue to their feelings. "We are finding," she said, looking at Miss Charlotte, as though she felt some explanation were necessary; but catching Esther's warning glance she said no more.

"We must not let Cousin Charlotte know," Esther had said. "She is so kind she would not like us to worry, so we won't say anything about it to her if we can help."

"We'll s'prise her," Poppy had cried gleefully; so, catching Esther's eye, she remembered, and grew silent again, leaving Cousin Charlotte more puzzled than ever.

"I wonder," said Miss Charlotte, as they rose from the table, "I wonder if you children would mind going to Mrs. Bennett's for me for some rice. Anna tells me she has run out of it. You haven't seen our shops yet, have you?"

"Shops! Oh no, we didn't know there were any." And off they ran delightedly and put on their hats at once. Esther took her purse with her too. She wanted to change the sovereign; she was so dreadfully afraid of losing it, and several silver and copper coins seemed safer than one small gold one.

Mrs. Bennett's shop was not difficult to find. Just beyond Miss Ashe's house, round a bend in the road, they found themselves in what was called 'the street.' There were at least a dozen cottages close together; a little further on were two or three more, and up the hill were scattered others, at greater distances apart. The children were perfectly delighted. Here was life and interest in plenty, and Moor Cottage was not so lonely as they had imagined.

The shops were in two of the first group of cottages they came to, and here was more delight—a perfect feast. Such fascinating windows they had, so full of all sorts of interesting things, and all at such reasonable prices too, or so it seemed to the children.

Mrs. Bennett's held groceries and drapery, and boots and writing-paper, kettles and saucepans, little china images and 'surprise' packets. Mrs. Vercoe's held ironmongery and drapery, and dolls and groceries, sweets and toys of various sorts, bread, cakes and books. Mrs. Bennett sold china too, and glass, some homely medicines, and hoops and thimbles and skipping-ropes. Mrs. Vercoe included cheese and bacon, rope and twine, and baskets.

Of the two they were most drawn to Mrs. Vercoe's. Her stock appealed to them more. But as they had been told to go to Mrs. Bennett, thither they went; and Mrs. Bennett, who kept the post office too, sold Esther some stamps and changed her sovereign for her, and while they gazed fascinated about her shop, she gazed at them with frank curiosity. But nothing she could say could draw them into conversation. For some reason, they could not have said what, they did not like her. It may have been that she 'talked fine,' as her neighbours said, and minced her words in a somewhat affected way, or that she seemed very inquisitive, or that her rather cold manner unconsciously offended them. The children could not have explained why it was, but fascinating though the shop was, they hurried away from it and crossed the road to Mrs. Vercoe's.

Mrs. Vercoe's window was certainly more enticing to them than Mrs. Bennett's. A prolonged and critical gaze showed them not only all the things already mentioned, but dear little rough red pitchers which would hold just half a pint, and a larger size which would hold a pint; packets of flower-seeds with gay pictures on the outside, and only a penny each; the pitchers were only a penny and twopence; there were the dearest little watering-cans too, and fancy handkerchiefs with a nursery rhyme round the border, and funny little books, with roughly done pictures in the brightest of colours, and money-boxes, some like little houses, others representing miniature letter-boxes.

Angela longed and longed for a pitcher. Poppy wanted a penny watering-can, painted bright red inside, and green out. Penelope wanted a book and some sweets, and Esther a money-box, that she might begin to save at once.

"Do let's go inside," whispered Penelope. "There may be lots of other things inside."

"But wouldn't it look rude to come out of one shop and go right into another?" asked Esther, who was really as interested as Penelope.

"Can't we walk on a little way, and then on our way back go in as though we had just seen something we wanted?" suggested Angela, who was an adept at trying to spare people's feelings. "P'r'aps Mrs. Bennett won't be in her shop by that time."

They all agreed to this, and sauntered on with a simulated air of unconcern. They walked on past all the cottages, keeping to the wide granite road which led with many windings up and up a hill beyond the village. How far they went they had no idea, but by and by they heard a clock strike in the distance.

"I do believe we have come to a town, or something," said Penelope excitedly. "There isn't a church or a big clock in Dorsham, only a chapel. Let's go on and see."

But Esther checked her enthusiasm. "We had better not stay away too long, or Cousin Charlotte may be frightened, and we want to stop at Mrs. Vercoe's before we go home. Let's go there now, shall we?"

The suggestion was seconded with alacrity. But if they thought that their little manoeuvrings were going to blind Mrs. Bennett, or spare her feelings, they made a mistake. They had yet to learn that no single thing happened in Dorsham 'street,' no single person went up it or down, without the fact being known sooner or later—generally on the instant—to every dweller therein; and for four strangers, newly come to live in the place, to expect to escape notice was absurd.

The only result of their plan was to attract more attention to themselves; but of this they were happily unconscious, and once inside the little, low, dim, crowded place, their joy seemed unbounded. If Mrs. Bennett had repelled them, plump, jolly-looking Mrs. Vercoe, with her round rosy face and kindly, smiling eyes, attracted them at once.

"Well, my dears," she said warmly, "and what can I do for you to-day?"

There was a delicious smell of hot cake pervading the place, and Mrs. Vercoe herself had come out streaked with flour, and carrying a big black 'sheath' full of new currant cakes and buns.

"I—I hardly know," said Esther. "There are such lots of nice things here," she added politely. "Do you mind if we look about for a few minutes first?"

"Look about to your heart's content, my dear," she said genially. "Well, little missie," to Poppy, "'tis nice to see so many young ladies about Dorsham; 'tis what we ain't over-blessed with. I'm afraid you'll find it dull without any little companions; 'tis very quiet here, not that I'm complaining," she added hastily, afraid of seeming disloyal to her native place. "And what do 'ee think of our village?" she asked, seeing Penelope's eyes fixed interestedly on her. "Fine and lonely I reckon it looks to strangers, but 'tis airy," with a little laugh, "and bootiful air too. Makes 'ee hungry, I expect, missie, don't it? Could 'ee eat a new bun now?"

Penelope was about to decline, thinking it would be correct to do so, but her finer natural instinct told her that it might be politer to accept, and in response to Mrs. Vercoe's bidding she helped herself. The old dame delightedly invited them all to do the same. Angela and Poppy accepted; Esther held back with shy reluctance.

"Oh no, thank you," she said. "We are so many."

"Well, they'm only farden buns," said Mrs. Vercoe, with a little chuckle; "but p'r'aps you'd rather have one of these," and she held out to Esther an apple. Esther felt more embarrassed than ever. Mrs. Vercoe seemed to think she had declined the bun because she wanted something better.

"Oh no, thank you," she said, with a great effort. "I like the buns very much, but I am not hungry. We had dinner just before we came out."

Mrs. Vercoe laid the apple down without saying any more; but Esther thought she looked rather hurt, and felt that it would have been more tactful to have taken it. To break the awkward pause which followed, she plunged into business.

"Please how much each are those little pitchers?" she asked hastily.

"Tuppence, missie," said Mrs. Vercoe, as pleasantly as ever, to Esther's great relief. "And the littler ones are a penny."

"May I have one of the tiny ones?" whispered Angela eagerly.

"It was for you I wanted it," said Esther, who would have liked one for herself, too. "Aren't they dears!"

"I must look 'ee out a perfect one," said Mrs. Vercoe, tapping up one after another and rapping them with her knuckles. "They'm terrible things for getting chipped. There, I think those are all right."

Angela, in a high state of delight, chose the one she thought the prettiest. Poppy, meanwhile, was tugging at Esther's skirt. She had been very quiet for some time, absorbed in a boxful of the packets of flower-seeds, with gay pictures outside.

"Esther, may I have a packet of seeds? and one of those dear dinkey little watering-cans? May I, Essie? Do say 'yes,' please do."

Poppy was not only fascinated, but she was possessed by a sudden, brilliant idea which the packets of seeds had suggested. She could not rest until Esther had consented, and she could not keep from dancing with excitement as she bent over the box, trying to make a selection.

"Bless her pretty face," cried Mrs. Vercoe, much amused. The old lady was as delighted with her customers as though they were spending pounds instead of pennies. Penelope, meanwhile, was perched on a corner of a sugar-box, absorbed in one of the funny little books which were lying in a pile on the counter, and was quite oblivious of all that was going on around her.

Esther paid for Poppy's purchases. "And will you take for the book, too, please," she said, as she held out a shilling. "The book my sister is reading." She blushed as she spoke, for she was shocked at Penelope's behaviour.

But Mrs. Vercoe would not hear of it. "Why no, my dear; 'tisn't likely she'd be wanting to buy it now she mostly knows what's in it. You'd rather have another, wouldn't you, missie? and it don't make no manner of diff'rence to me."

Penelope looked up with a start, and blushed too, but an end to the discussion was put by Poppy, who came up very excitedly with a packet of parsley seed in her hand. It was not one of those with a picture on the outside, but a larger, plainer packet.

"Please, how much is this?" she asked eagerly.

"Ah, you wouldn't like that, dearie, that isn't pretty. It's parsley. Very good parsley it is, but it don't have no pretty flowers."

"I know," said Poppy, nodding her head vigorously. "How much does it cost?"

"A penny."

"Well, I'll take it, please, instead of the other," and she held out her hand for the packet as though she was afraid of having it wrested from her.

Mrs. Vercoe held it while her eyes searched Esther's face. It seemed to her such an extraordinary choice for a tiny child to make. She was reluctant to let her have it. "Hadn't she better have the one she chose first?" she asked anxiously. But Esther was accustomed to her sister's vagaries.

"No, thank you. I expect she would rather have this. Perhaps she thinks she gets more."

Poppy smiled, and pursed her lips, and hugged her secret to herself delightedly.

Then, having paid for Penelope's book, and bought some sweets for them all, Esther led her little troop out of the shop and home.

Miss Ashe was out when the children returned, so they strolled into the garden to amuse themselves as best they could. But the garden was too neat and well-tended to allow of much in the way of games, so very soon they wandered further, and escaped on to the moor, Penelope with her new book, Esther with another book and the sweets, Angela carrying her beloved pitcher. Guard followed them devotedly.

Poppy, though, decided to remain behind. She did not say so; nor did they, so busy were they with their plans, at first notice her absence.

Miss Ashe's garden was a large one. In Dorsham land was of little value, and one could have almost as much as one chose, if one took the trouble to enclose it. The Moor Cottage garden was large enough to allow of its being divided up into several small ones, the dividing being done chiefly to provide shelter from the storms which so often swept over the moor, though the strong stout walls provided excellent space for fruit-trees.

Poppy, when she saw she was alone, walked quickly from one part of the garden to another, looking about her eagerly, her watering-can in her hand, her packet of seeds in her pocket. No one else was about. Anna was in the kitchen, she heard her voice there, singing hymns; Ephraim, whom she was most afraid of meeting, was away, apparently. Probably he had gone to Gorley with Miss Charlotte's broken glasses. Having made quite sure that she had the place to herself, Poppy carefully deposited her can on the ground, and ran to a corner where she had seen some tools stacked. There were a spade, a large fork, a rake, and a little fork. Poppy seized the spade, but after she had struggled with it a few yards and tumbled down twice, she exchanged it for the little fork.

Close by where she had dropped her can was a neat square bed of nice earth, all beautifully sifted and raked over. This pleased her critical eye immensely. With the fork she made several little holes not far from the edge, then she got out her packet of seeds and opened it.

"What lots!" she cried delightedly, and proceeded to place carefully one seed in each hole. But the seeds she planted seemed not to lessen the number in the packet in the least. "I must make another row," she murmured, and carefully covering in the first holes, she stepped on the bed and made some more.

When she had made a third row and filled them in she sighed a little. Before she had finished she had had to commandeer the whole of the bed, and was weary and confused. There seemed to be nothing but footprints all over it, and where the seed was, or how to make the earth look nice and smooth again so that no one should guess her secret, she was puzzled to know. She could have cried with weariness, but she bravely kept back her tears with the thought of the splendid thing she had done, and the delight and surprise there would be when her secret came to light. While she was standing looking in some dismay at the trampled bed, she remembered the rake standing in the corner.

It was heavy, so heavy she could hardly carry it, and far too clumsy for her to wield properly, but she worked bravely, and tried to forget her aches; she had not a very critical eye either, and soon the bed, to her eyes, looked quite neat and tidy. Then came the crowning moment. At the water-tap, which stood over a butt sunk in the ground by one of the paths, she filled her new water-can, and proceeded to give her seeds a good watering.

This was joy indeed, pure joy. The can poured splendidly, Poppy was delighted. She had to run many times to the tap to get water enough for the whole bed, and by the time it was done to her satisfaction her pinafore was well soaked, and she herself was almost too weary to stand. Her task was perfected, but when she looked down over herself, at her mud-clogged shoes, her dripping clothes, her begrimed hands, and realised what she would have to go through in the way of questioning and scolding, her spirits sank altogether. Cousin Charlotte or Anna she dared not face. Her only resource was to try to find Esther, or the others. They would scold too, but she knew them and their scoldings; they were not very bad, and were soon over. With the aid of the fork she managed to lift the latch of the garden door, and stepped out on the great wide waste; but in all the length and breadth of it, as far as her eyes could see, she caught no glimpse of the others. They were nowhere in sight, and the moor looked big, and lonely, and frightening.

Poppy felt very forlorn, and miserable, and homesick, standing there in that great waste; and under the weight of her troubles her lip began to quiver, though she did her best to steady it. She dared not go indoors, and she was too weary to go in search of the others, so she crept up the slope to the nearest rocks large enough to hide her, determined to sit there and wait until she saw the others coming home, when she would call to them. She slipped off her pinafore, spread it on the ground to dry, and with much care and trouble cleaned first her hands and then her boots on the short coarse grass, after which, utterly weary, she lay down herself and knew no more.



CHAPTER VII.

Esther, Penelope, and Angela reached home at just about what they thought must be tea-time. They came in the way they had gone out, through the garden door. In the garden path they saw Poppy's new watering-can lying. They expected to see Poppy too, but she did not appear, and the garden seemed quite empty. She must have gone indoors, they concluded, and Esther began to feel very compunctious for having left her alone so long. With this feeling on her she hurried in to find her little sister, but the house seemed quiet and empty too. They ran up to their own rooms. No one was there. They came down and looked in the sitting-rooms, Esther with a sudden fear that Poppy might be at some mischief; but both rooms were quite empty. They next ran out and tapped at the kitchen door.

"Come in," said Anna cheerfully. She liked to have the children about her.

"Is Poppy here?" asked Esther.

"Miss Poppy! No, miss. I haven't seen her since she went out with you."

"She hasn't been with us. We have been on the moor ever since, and she must have stayed in the garden, but I can't see her there now. We saw her little can in the path, that was all, and I can't find her in the house anywhere. I thought perhaps she was here with you."

Anna looked anxious. "Have you been all over the house, miss?"

"I have been in our rooms and the dining-room and drawing-room, and we have all called her, but we can't find her."

"I'd look again, miss, if I was you; look in the missus's room, and mine too, if you like. I'd come with you, but I can't leave my bread for a few minutes."

"Oh, we will find her," said Esther cheerfully, and they ran off again.

She was back in a short while, though, and not quite so cheerful. Just as she reached the kitchen Ephraim came in at the other door.

"Who hev been meddlin' with my new turnip-bed?" he demanded. He did not see Esther.

"What's the matter with your turnip-bed?" asked Anna shortly. She was just lifting her loaves out of the oven, and it was a critical moment; besides, Anna was always 'short' with Ephraim; she had a theory that it was good for him.

"Why, it's in such a mess as you never saw in your life; anybody'd think there'd been a month's rain emptied over it, and all the hens in Dorsham scratching it over, and me only sowed the seeds this morning and left it as tidy as ever you see a bed, only so long ago as dinner-time."

Anna, looking up, caught sight of Esther. "Have 'ee found her, missie?" she asked, taking no further notice of Ephraim.

"No," said Esther anxiously, "she isn't in the house, I'm sure."

Anna always grew cross when she was frightened. "Here," she cried, turning sharply on Ephraim, "never mind your old turnip-bed. You just take and look for Miss Poppy; she's the youngest of our young ladies, a little bit of a thing, and she's lost, so you'd best go and look for her this very minute. Look in the garden first of all. Time enough to worry about an old garden bed when the children's all safe."

Esther, in spite of her growing trouble, could not help laughing, their speech sounded so odd and funny, and Ephraim's face was such a picture of offended dignity.

Penelope meanwhile, without saying a word to any one, had gone down to the garden again, and out on to the moor. She had a feeling that Poppy might be out there somewhere. Very likely she had gone in search of them and missed them.

Esther, not knowing this, followed Ephraim. "She couldn't come to any harm, even if she opened the door and got out, could she?" she asked eagerly.

Ephraim shook his head with ponderous gravity. "I wouldn't go for to say so much as that," he said soberly, "there's wild beastes about in plenty on these here moors."

"Wild beasts!" Esther almost screamed with horror at the thought. She pictured her poor little Poppy flying shrieking before a cruel wolf, frightened nearly to death, calling for help, for her sisters—and no one near to save her. Beyond that she dared not let her imagination go. She felt sick and almost fainting. "Do you mean wolves and bears, and— and—"

"Well, no," said Ephraim slowly, as he searched a bed of young carrots as though he thought Poppy might by chance have got under the feathery leaves. "I won't say there are any of them there kinds exactly, but wild cattle, and 'osses, and sheep; there's plenty 'nough of they about, and they'm 'most so bad."

Esther's heart was relieved. ''Osses and cattle' seemed so very mild after what she had pictured.

"I think we'd better go and look on the moor," she said impatiently, as Ephraim showed every sign of making a prolonged search amongst the sea-kale pots, taking the cover off each one in turn. Almost reluctantly he followed her. In the path there still stood Poppy's little watering-can. Esther's eyes filled with tears as she caught sight of it. Ephraim saw it too, and picked it up.

"Perhaps we'd better take this here along as a clue," he said, looking very wise.

Esther could not see what possible use it could be, or how it could help them, but she consented in order to hurry him along; so off they went, Ephraim carrying the tiny can. But hardly had they stepped through the doorway than they saw that their search was ended. Poppy, led by Penelope, was coming down the hill towards them.

"There she is! oh, there she is!" cried Esther, and flew up to meet them, Ephraim following.

On getting outside, Penelope had, by good fortune, at first followed almost exactly in Poppy's footsteps. By stopping to search every bush and boulder she had got somewhat out of her way, but, as she was stooping to look under a large clump of broom and gorse not so very far from where her little sister lay asleep, something white fluttering about had caught her eye. It was Poppy's pinafore, dried now by the breeze. A moment later she caught sight of Poppy's shoes standing alone, without any wearer in them. The sight of her little sister's clothes lying about the moor in this fashion turned Penelope perfectly sick and cold with a horrible, indescribable fear. With feet weighted with terror, and quivering limbs, she hurried to the spot, and dropped on her knees half senseless by her sister's body. A moment later all her terrors fled, replaced by a wonderful ecstasy of thankfulness and joy. Poppy stirred, turned in her sleep, and showed a dirty but rosy face to her frightened sister. In her relief Penelope, with a shout of happiness, flung her arms about her and hugged her.

Suddenly awakened, Poppy sat up and looked about her in a dazed way; then her eyes fell on her muddy pinafore and boots, and a hot blush spread over her baby face.

"I didn't mean to make my pinny dirty," she said anxiously, "but I touldn't help it; there was such a lot of seed, and I had to water it, and the silly water would run out over the can, though I was ever and ever so careful."

"But how did you come to be lying here, darling?" said Pen, drawing her little sister closer into her arms. In her relief she was quite unable to scold her for the fright she had given them. "We left you in the garden. You shouldn't have come out here alone. We thought you were lost, and we were awfully frightened!"

Poppy sat up very erect. She suddenly felt herself very important and interesting. "I wanted to find you and Essie. I was 'fraid to see Cousin Charlotte with my dirty pinny on; and I came out here and you weren't anywhere, and then I was so tired I lay down. Oh, it took me such a long time, but Mrs. Vercoe said it was beautiful parsley. Do you think it is beginning to grow yet, Pen?"

"I don't know," said Pen absently; "we must make haste back, now, to let them know you are safe. You see, if you go getting lost, Cousin Charlotte won't let us come out on the moor alone. Come along," raising her sister, after putting on her shoes for her.

For a moment Poppy looked troubled, but quickly cheered up. "I don't fink Cousin Charlotte will be cross when she knows," she said confidently.

"Knows what?" asked Penelope curiously.

"My secret," said Poppy solemnly. "I'll tell you if you'll promise not to tell any one else." But at that moment all confidences were stopped by the appearance of Esther and Ephraim.

Poppy accepted Esther's rapturous greeting calmly. She, of course, did not realise yet the state of alarm they had all been in on her account; her whole attention was absorbed by the sight of a strange man in possession of her precious watering-can. It was too much for her to pass unnoticed.

"That's my tan, please, I fink," she said politely but firmly, and Ephraim felt his wisdom in bringing this means of identification had been fully justified.

Happy and triumphant the whole party returned to the house, to be received by Anna with open arms and a face beaming with joy. What did it matter if Poppy's apron was covered with mud, and her frock and boots and hands the same? Instead of being treated as a culprit, she was made a heroine of, and appreciated the difference.

When Anna had finished crooning over her, and the story of the discovery had been repeated more than once, she was taken upstairs by Esther, and washed and changed, so that by the time Miss Ashe returned, instead of the bedraggled, dirty little maiden of an hour before, she saw only a perfectly neat and spotless one, and had no suspicion of all that had taken place during her absence.

Ephraim came into the hall to speak to his mistress just as Poppy came down the stairs.

"Well, Ephraim, how far did you get with your morning's work? Did you get the turnip-seed planted?"

"Well, yes, ma'am, I did," said Ephraim slowly. "I made a nice bed for it right there under the lew wall there in the far corner. But—well, whatever has come to it since, it passes me to know; when I went away that there bed was so smooth and tidy as my hand; when I comes back to it— well, ma'am, you honestly might have knocked me flat with a feather, that there newly made bed was—well, 'twas more like a mud-heap than anything you ever saw in your life, ma'am, and trampled—well, out of all shape and semblance. I neer see'd the likes of it in my life. So soon as it's dried I'll have to go and do it all again, and have a second sowing, but it'll be a day or so before it's fit to touch; 'tisn't no use to trust to that first crop—it's my belief it's all ruined."

Poppy drew up suddenly on her way to the dining-room. Her face had grown very red, her hands were working nervously. "You—oh, you mustn't disturb it, please," she gasped. "I—I've planted some thing, and it mustn't be disturbed, it's very good seed, and I watered it to make it grow quickly—it—it did look rather muddy, but—but it'll soon dry."

Ephraim stared in dumb bewilderment. Miss Ashe looked from him to the child and back again, scarcely taking in the situation. She looked again at Ephraim, but getting no help from him, she turned to Poppy.

"What do you mean, darling? Have you been sowing seeds?"

"Yes," said Poppy, but with marked hesitation. "You shall know soon, but it's a secret now, and I mustn't tell, only I was afraid he,"—nodding at Ephraim—"would dig them all up again."

"But, Poppy dear, you shouldn't have done it without asking permission; you see you might do considerable damage by taking a piece of ground like that, not knowing whether there is anything in it or not. As it is, you see, you have spoilt all my turnips. If we hadn't found it out in good time, we should have been left without any for the whole season. Don't you see, dear, how important it is?"

The importance of it was so apparent, and what she had done appeared so overwhelmingly naughty, it seemed to Poppy as though all joy and happiness had gone out of her life for ever. It was dreadful, intolerable. In trying to help Cousin Charlotte as Esther had wished, she had done harm instead of good. Her beautiful secret was over, and instead of being a help she had been a naughty, foolish little girl, whom these strange new people would wish they had never seen, while every one else would laugh when they heard the story. She felt herself covered with shame and disgrace; she was humiliated and miserable; her little lip quivered piteously, her eyes filled, and she was too tired and hurt to fight against her woe.

Miss Charlotte's kind eyes saw the humiliation in the pretty, tired little face, and held out her hand. "Never mind, dear; as it happens there is no harm done; Ephraim shall choose another spot for the turnips, and you shall have that piece of ground for your own garden. It would never do to destroy a second lot of seeds by digging the bed all over again. Good evening, Ephraim, I'll see you to-morrow."

So, thanks to Cousin Charlotte, Poppy was saved the disgrace of having cried before Ephraim; her tears did not fall; she winked them away, and her lip grew steadier. The thought restored her spirits, but her great pleasure in her scheme was dashed.

"And I sowed the parsley on purpose for Tousin Charlotte, only 'twas to be a secret," she confided to Esther as she was being put to bed that night, "to help her, like you said. She could have some to use, and I was going to sell most of it and give the money to her."

Esther did not smile; indeed her eyes were misty as she took her little sister on her lap and kissed her on the top of her head. "It will be all right, dear," she said, "and—and you are the first of us to begin to do something useful; it was splendid of you to think of it. I wish I knew what I could do," she added wistfully, her cheek resting on Poppy's curls.

"I'll try and fink of something for you," said Poppy gravely. "P'r'aps by the morning I'll have finked of something very nice—then won't you be glad?"

But she fell asleep before she had come to any satisfactory conclusion, and Esther, downstairs, in spite of her busy brain and sober face, was equally unsuccessful. She was still thinking when she got up to say 'good-night' and kiss Miss Charlotte. But Miss Charlotte did not bid her good-night at once; instead, she asked her to wait a few moments.

"I wanted to have a little talk, dear, now we are alone," she said, with her pretty smile.

Penelope and Angela had already gone to bed.

Esther sat down again, wondering what was coming.

"I have been thinking," said Miss Charlotte, laying down her pen and coming to sit by Esther, "I have been thinking over our plans, dear, and I have come to the conclusion that I might superintend your studies myself, for a time at any rate."

Esther looked up quickly, her pleasure showing in her eyes. "Oh, that would be nice, Cousin Charlotte," she cried. "I do want to learn so much, but—but you have such a lot to do already, and we are very backward, and I am so—so stupid."

"I don't think you are that, dear," said Miss Charlotte gently, and her words, quiet though they were, brought deep pleasure to Esther.

"I think we might manage it," she went on cheerfully. "Of course I have many calls on my time, and I shall not be able to give you all the attention I should like to; but we can but do our best, and this seems the best plan I can think of. I cannot very well manage to have a governess to you, and there is no school nearer than Gorley, and that is not only four miles away, but a school I do not approve of. So, at any rate, we will try this plan for the present."

Esther got up and stood by Miss Charlotte, her colour coming and going, her fingers playing nervously with her pinafore. "I—I think you are too good to us, Cousin Charlotte," she said huskily, speechless almost with nervousness, but determined to say something of what was in her heart. "I—I don't know how to thank you, but I do want to, and—and—"

Cousin Charlotte's arm was round her, drawing her to her. "We can never be too good to one another, dear; and what are we here for but to help each other over hard places, to try to make each other's lives easier? I am only thankful to have this opportunity of doing good. I was growing narrow and selfish all by myself. I think you were sent to rouse me."

"Oh, Cousin Charlotte, I want to help too," cried Esther wistfully. "I do want to be useful, but I don't know how. Will you tell me? Nothing ever seems to happen to me; I never get a chance of helping people."

"Opportunities, small or great, occur every day, dear," said Miss Charlotte; "it is the little opportunity we must look out for, the small things that we must do. Big ones come sometimes, but little ones every day; if you look for them you will find them. We will help each other, dear. Now we will say good-night. You are tired with your long day in the open air. We will not begin lessons until Monday, there will be so much else to do and arrange. Good-night, my love," and with a warm kiss they parted.

Esther went up to her room with a great glow of happiness at her heart. For the first time in her life she had met some one who understood her; at least, some one who could draw out the good side of her, and not the bad. Esther did not understand what it was, but she felt a difference, and she undressed and said her prayers with Cousin Charlotte's words still ringing in her ears: "We can never be too good to one another, dear; and what are we here for but to help each other over hard places?"

She prayed very especially that she might be shown how to do her share in helping others. Like Poppy, she lay down, determined to think and think, hoping that perhaps by morning she would have thought of some way of helping Cousin Charlotte; and, more successful than Poppy, before even she fell asleep an idea had come. Quite suddenly there came back to her Miss Ashe's remark, that 'it was not convenient then to have a governess.' "It must be on account of the expense," thought Esther, with sudden inspiration. "She talked of getting another servant; but I am sure, if she can't afford a governess she can't afford a servant; and I do believe we could do without one, if I helped quite a lot, as I did at home. And I can. I did all right there. I will ask her to let me try. Oh!"—enthusiastically, as the idea took a firmer hold on her—"I hope she will. She must—and I am sure Anna would be glad."

Too excited and pleased to sleep, Esther slipped from her bed, crept to the window, and looked out. A bright moon lighted up the moor opposite and the river below, until she could see the old brown boulders quite plainly; birds called to each other across the distance, and far away a cow lowed monotonously for its calf. Esther stood and gazed and listened with uplifted heart, yearning for something, she knew not what, something higher and better to be and do.

"Oh, I am so glad we came here!" she murmured, "so glad! I am sure it will be easy to be good here, and I do so want to be good! I wish I hadn't been so horrid to mother sometimes, and—and now I can't ever be anything else, to her." And there came back to her mind her mother's words, "I am sure your Aunt Julia would not have Esther if she knew how bad her temper had become," and her eyes filled with tears at the recollection.

"I will try," she whispered. "I will try that no one else shall ever say that of me—and I will write to mother, and tell her I am sorry." And it was a very grave and serious Esther who fell asleep at last.



CHAPTER VIII.

When Esther awoke the next morning, she wondered for a moment why she felt so happy and light-hearted. Then memory returned. She recollected the talk of last night, Cousin Charlotte's kiss, and the plan for Monday. She would begin to learn at last! But even greater was her joy at the other thought—her own plan to help Miss Charlotte. She could hardly lie still when she thought of all she meant to do. She would dust, and tidy and sweep, and sew, and polish the furniture, and she even pictured herself making bread and cleaning windows.

She longed to be dressed, and beginning already. She sat up in bed and looked across at Poppy. She wanted to tell her and the others all the news, but Poppy was sleeping in the most aggravatingly persistent way.

Too impatient to wait for her to wake, she slipped out of bed and crept along the corridor, past Miss Charlotte's room, to Penelope's.

Angela was asleep, but Penelope lay awake reading.

"What is that you are reading?" asked Esther, eyeing the red-covered book with a sort of feeling that it was familiar to her.

"Oh, it's only The Invasion of the Crimea," said Penelope, withdrawing her eyes almost reluctantly from the page.

"I didn't know you were going on with it," said Esther, a touch of resentment in her voice. She did not like to feel that Penelope was more persevering than she herself, and had outstripped her. She was conscious in her inmost heart that she had not been sorry when the readings were broken off; the history did not interest her. At the same time it mortified her a little that it did interest Penelope.

"It's awfully exciting," said Penelope. "Of course I have to skip some, I can't understand it, but here and there it's lovely."

Esther's first fresh joyful feeling was a little dashed, but as it came back to her mind what it was that she wanted to say, she recovered herself. "In a few days I shall be learning properly," she thought, and then Penelope would not outstrip her.

"Listen to me," she said eagerly, as she perched herself on the foot of Penelope's bed. Angela stirred, and catching sight of Esther, was wide awake in a moment.

"What is it?" she demanded. "Has anything happened?"

"Listen," said Esther again, "both of you. I want to tell you about our schooling. Cousin Charlotte stopped me last night as I was going to bed, to have a talk; it was about our lessons. We are to begin on Monday."

"Where are we going?" asked Penelope. "There isn't any school here, is there?"

"No, Cousin Charlotte is going to teach us herself. Isn't it good of her?"

"I am sure I shall never learn. She will be shocked at me," said Angela nervously. "She doesn't know how backward I am. Fancy me, nine years old, and not able to read yet. I shall be ashamed to look, and there she will be all day long. I would rather go somewhere where I could get away when lessons are over."

"Don't be silly," said Esther. But Angela had only expressed something of her own feeling.

Penelope was sitting up in bed now, her eyes alight. "How jolly," she said, half absently. Then in low, eager tones, "I wonder if she will let us learn just what we want to? I don't want to learn grammar and sums. I want to know about people, and wars, and battles, and revolutions, and I want to learn French and music and to sing. When I grow up I should like to be able to sing and play very well. I would rather do that than anything. I wonder if Cousin Charlotte would let me learn?"

Esther looked up in mild disapproval of Pen's enthusiasm. It worried her when her sisters showed any unusual traits, or expressed desires that differed from her own. Penelope very often worried her in that way. Poppy too, at times. She felt a twinge of jealousy always that the idea had not first come to her, and of resentment that they should have tastes apart from her.

"I don't suppose Cousin Charlotte would if she could," she said coldly. "Of course you must learn grammar, and history, and geography, and all those things first. Every one has to learn them."

Penelope looked disappointed, but she was not one to worry. "Perhaps before long I shall be able to do both," she said cheerfully. "I wish Cousin Charlotte had an organ. I do want to be able to play the organ."

Esther grew impatient; these things seemed so trifling and useless compared with what she had in her mind. "I think you ought to try and think how you can help Cousin Charlotte instead of giving her more to do."

"That's just it," persisted Penelope. "If I only knew how to play well, I could be an organist, and teach people, too, and earn quite a lot of money."

"Not for years and years," said Esther, in a very crushing manner. "And we ought to begin to help at once. I'll tell you what I am going to do—I thought of it last night when I was in bed; it is not nonsense, but something very sensible. I am going to ask Cousin Charlotte to let me help Anna; I can do a lot if I have some big aprons like Anna's, and big white sleeves to go over my frocks. I know Cousin Charlotte and Anna don't want to have a strange servant in; she would cost a lot, and Anna wouldn't like her in the kitchen—and I could save all that."

"And I could help too," cried Angela excitedly. She was a born housewife, and all her tastes lay in that direction. "I can dust, and clean silver, and all sorts of things—"

"I am going to do all that," said Esther loftily, resenting at once any encroachment on her domain. "You can keep Poppy out of mischief, and play with her. I can do the hard work, if you will only be good and keep out of harm."

Angela's face and spirits fell. She did so love to do real work, it was so much more interesting than play; and keeping out of harm was not a bit interesting—it was very dull and stupid, in fact. But Angela was used to disappointments; besides which experience had already taught her that if she waited patiently she could often find little things to do, little ways of helping, that others forgot, or did not care about, so she said no more, but waited. "When I am older, perhaps I'll be able to do the things I like," she very often said to herself, by way of encouragement.

Esther crept back to her room and to her bed, and lay there impatiently, waiting to be called. The minutes seemed endless, and Anna so slow in coming!

And when at last she was dressed and downstairs she had scarcely patience to endure prayers and breakfast, she was so longing to broach her great idea to Cousin Charlotte. But Cousin Charlotte seemed to be wanted by everybody. First Ephraim kept her ever so long talking over the day's work; then Anna came in with a question to be answered; then Cousin Charlotte began to talk to the others about the lessons which were to begin on Monday, and Penelope was telling her all about her longing to learn to play and sing, and Cousin Charlotte seemed so interested, she talked on and on for quite a long time about it; and all the while Esther was growing more and more vexed, until, when Cousin Charlotte at last sprang up, exclaiming, "My dear children, do you know how long we have been talking? I must hurry away this minute, or I shall be behindhand all day!" the limit of poor Esther's patience was passed.

Angela looked up eagerly. "Can't I do something to help you, Cousin Charlotte?" she asked eagerly; "I should love to."

Cousin Charlotte paused and looked down at the pretty, eager face thoughtfully. "I wonder if you could pick some strawberries for us. Would you like to?"

"Oh, yes!" cried Angela delightedly. "I should like to do anything to help." She did not mean to trespass on Esther's plan. This, she thought, was quite different work from what Esther was going to do. But her promptness added to Esther's vexation.

"Well, there are a great many ripe ones, and I want some for ourselves and some to give away; and Anna has no time this morning to pick them, and— well, my back is not young enough to enjoy such work."

"I will do it," said Angela, very pleased and proud.

"May I help, Cousin Charlotte?" pleaded Poppy. "I'd love to."

"Yes," said Cousin Charlotte, smiling. "Can you whistle? Strawberry-pickers must whistle all the time they are at work; you know that, don't you?"

Poppy looked up very gravely. "I can't whistle," she said regretfully, "but I can sing. Will that do, Cousin Charlotte?"

Miss Charlotte laughed and kissed her. "Yes, my pet, anything that will prevent too many strawberries finding their way down Red Lane."

The others laughed merrily. Poppy began to understand.

"Put on your shady hats, and I will get you some baskets." And off they ran in a high state of delight.

Esther waited. Though she had been full of excitement and pleasure about approaching Miss Charlotte, she had felt very nervous, too, and this long delay only increased her nervousness.

Anna came in to clear the table; Penelope strolled away, no one knew where. Esther stood by the window looking out and drumming impatiently on it with her fingers. Anna looked at her once or twice as though she would like to say something. No one cares to see a window covered with finger-marks. But she did not say anything; she was in a hurry, and presently retired to her kitchen, and Esther was left alone.

"I thought last night it would be quite easy to be good here," she said to herself, "but it doesn't seem so now." She stood and gazed out at the river disconsolately. It seemed to her that the others, who were not nearly as anxious to help as she was, were taking all her opportunities, and she was left, to seem idle and unkind—and really she meant so differently.

Poor Esther! Once more, while full of big aims, she was overlooking the little chances.

"Well," she said at last in a very proud tone, "if no one wants me I will go for a walk by myself. I shan't be in any one's way then!" She knew quite well she was in no one's way, but she was very aggrieved and full of self-pity.

She was just crossing the hall to put on her hat, when Miss Charlotte entered it. Then was her chance, and she knew it; but the old sullen temper had the upper hand, and forbade her to speak. By this time she had let herself feel as hurt as though Miss Charlotte had known what was in her mind and purposely ignored her.

She passed on, put on her hat, and went out. She would not go to the garden because she did not want to see the others happily at their work; so, when Miss Charlotte turned in to the kitchen, she slipped out at the front door and walked away quickly up the road towards the station. She would not go past the cottages, she wanted to avoid every one; for that reason she avoided that part of the moor behind the house, where Penelope would probably be, if she were not in the house or garden. A little way up the road, on the right-hand side, a bridge crossed the river. Esther went over it and found herself on the moor beyond, but she turned away from it lest she should be seen, and clambered down to the river's edge, where boughs and bushes shut her off from view. It was lonely there, and she wandered on and on, through sun and shadow, under low-hanging branches, by tiny beaches of clean river-sand, and all the way she went the river ran beside her singing a low, cheery song as it rippled over its uneven bed.

It could not be long before such loveliness must have a soothing effect on any troubled spirit. By degrees Esther's mood changed, her sense of wrong grew less, and presently she began to wish she had acted differently. If she only had, she might now have been busy and happy too. She began to feel ashamed of herself. How foolish she had been. She would go back again and see if she could not be more sensible, and she rose from her seat and turned her face homewards.

The house seemed deserted when at last she reached it. She went into the hall, looked in the dining-room and drawing-room, saw no one, and strolled out to the garden.

"Where can they all be?" she wondered, "and what can they be doing?"

From the kitchen came a great clatter of crockery. Anna was washing dishes, and by the noise one could gather that Anna's temper was not of the smoothest.

As Esther stepped out she saw Miss Charlotte coming towards her from the group of outbuildings, carrying a basket of eggs. She was looking grave and worried, and for a moment Esther felt she could not speak to her then; she must wait until she found her again in such a mood as last night's. But a second glance told her that Miss Charlotte looked tired, and without giving herself time to think, Esther stepped up to her.

"Cousin Charlotte," she said, "I have nothing to do; let me help you—may I?"

Cousin Charlotte's face brightened. "Oh, could you, dear? I am so busy I don't know what to do first. I wonder if you could wash those eggs for me, and write the date on them?"

Esther assented joyfully, and Miss Ashe led her to the pantry and showed her where to find a cloth and a pencil and a place to store the eggs.

"While you are doing that, I can make out my list to send to Gorley; that will be capital!"

"Cousin Charlotte," said Esther, in a voice that trembled a little with nervousness, "I—I wanted to speak to you. I—I—you said you were trying to get another servant." Miss Charlotte sighed. "I know you don't want to, and—and don't you think we could manage without one, if I—if I helped Anna?" Her voice was trembling, uncertain, but there was no mistaking the earnestness of her purpose. "I used to help a lot at home, and I should like to here. I can sweep, and dust, and make beds, and clean silver, and cook some things, and—oh, I can do lots of little useful things. I could keep our bedrooms dusted, and the drawing-room— and it would all help, wouldn't it?"

Miss Ashe, who had paused in what she was doing, listened attentively. "My dear," she said, as gravely as Esther herself, "it is very good and thoughtful of you to think of such a thing, and you can certainly be most useful in many ways, but I hardly know what to think about trying to do without an extra servant. I cannot let you work too hard; you will have your studies, you know, and we are rather a large family now. I cannot let you become a little slave with no time for enjoyment; at the same time, I must admit I really do not know how Anna and another maid would get on. Anna does not like the idea, and to prove that one is not necessary, she slaves and slaves to do everything herself, gets over-tired and worried, and—and—well, she is very difficult; her only fault is her temper, but that is rather trying. I know she means well, and I keep on telling myself so. She gets so hurt and offended if I try to help her; she seems quite to resent it; and it requires a great deal of tact, more than I possess, I am afraid," concluded Miss Ashe with another deep sigh.

"Perhaps she wouldn't mind so much if I helped her," said Esther shrewdly; "you see, it is we who have made so much extra work. Do let me try, Cousin Charlotte, if it is only for a time."

Esther's face was very eager, her voice very pleading; Cousin Charlotte could not resist the appeal, and gave in with another sigh, but of relief this time. Esther, in her joy and excitement, marked every egg twice with the wrong date, but what did it matter when she had gained her point?

For a few minutes Miss Ashe went on making her list, but in an absent-minded fashion. "I wonder," she said at last, rather nervously, "how it would be best to broach the subject to Anna?"

Esther looked up somewhat puzzled; she would have gone straight out to Anna and told her she was going to undertake this, that, and the other thing, and give all the help she could, but Miss Ashe had other views, born of experience.

"My dear," she said, smiling rather shamefacedly, as though aware of her weakness, "it all depends on how we manage it, whether all goes smoothly, or there is constant friction. I think the best way will be not to speak to Anna about it as though we had planned it, but just begin gradually, doing what you can. I think it is always wiser not to begin violently with changes and reforms. No one likes to have new plans made and thrust on them, or their work taken from them, even though they grumble at having to do it. We should not like it ourselves, should we, dear?"

Esther's memory flashed back to the morning, and her objection to Angela's desire to share in the new scheme; she understood something of what Miss Charlotte meant.

"I think, dear, if you just go about quietly, with your eyes open, ready to give a little help when you see an opportunity, that would be the best way; then by degrees you will build a little niche for yourself, and get your own duties; and Anna, instead of resenting your help, will grow to trust you, and count on you, and be grateful."

"Yes, Cousin Charlotte," agreed Esther, but in a not very enthusiastic voice. She saw the wisdom of the plan, but it was rather a descent from the beautiful scheme by which she was to have been the help and comfort of them all, and she felt she might as well say 'good-bye' at once to the big aprons and white sleeves which had formed such a delightful feature of her plans.

"Things never turn out just as we want them to," she sighed, "and they might so easily if people's tempers were not so tiresome." But at that point she paused suddenly, and had the grace to blush warmly, though no one was there to see her.



CHAPTER IX.

"Oh dear!" sighed Esther, dropping wearily into the chair by her bedroom window. "I am so tired!"

Anna looked up in surprise from her task of bed-making.

"Tired, Miss Esther!" she exclaimed. "Whatever with? You oughtn't to be tired at this time of day."

"I am though," said Esther, sighing again; "tired of doing nothing, I suppose. You see, I used to have lots to do at home, and I miss it."

"Did you, missie? Well, I'm thinking if I had a chance to sit still I'd be only too glad, and not grumble, I know." And Anna thumped a pillow vigorously.

"I don't think you would," said Esther. "You would soon get tired. But perhaps you don't like doing housework. I do; I love it."

"Do you really, miss?" said Anna, as though such a taste were past her comprehension. "Well, you'll have enough to do next week, when your lessons begin."

"Yes," assented Esther, "but they won't take long; and it's dusting and tidying, and all that sort of thing that I like. I wish I had a little house of my very own. I would do all the work in it myself. I'd love to blacklead a grate, and clean windows, and scrub tables and things—oh, Anna, do let me help you, or I shall grow homesick and miserable. Do let me do some dusting for you; I'd love to—will you?"

Anna was quite touched by Esther's piteous appeal; also she herself detested dusting and 'finicking work,' as she called it.

"Would you really like to, dearie? Then you shall. I know it's miserable not to know what to do with yourself; I used to feel like it when I was a child. I was never so happy as when I'd got real work to do; 'twas better to me than play. You shall dust your own room presently, if you like."

"Shall I? Oh, that will be nice." Esther was on her feet in a moment, all her melancholy gone. "Where shall I find a duster, Anna?"

"Don't be in too much of a 'urry, Miss Esther. I reckon you wouldn't feel so pleased if you'd got to do it," added Anna, laughing. "I'll give you the duster and brush in a minute. You lend me a hand with this, if you will," turning the mattress on Poppy's bed, "and I'll be ready in half the time; it's ever so much quicker done if there's two at it; you see, when one's alone, one wastes so much time running round and round the bed."

"Of course," said Esther. "I wish I'd helped you sooner. I wonder how long I should be learning to make a bed. Is it very difficult?"

"Not a bit," said Anna, "once you've got into the way of it. First you spreads the blanket like so, and tucks it in—you must always begin at the bottom."

"First the foot and then the head, That's the way to make a bed."

"My old grandmother taught me them lines when I wasn't more'n eleven, and I've never forgot 'em. Next you spreads the sheet just so, and you must be careful not to leave any creases in it. Then you beat up the bolster and pillow, and lay them like that," suiting the action to the words. "Then comes the top sheet, and the blankets. You must tuck each one in at the bottom first, and then at the sides, and leave the top end loose, so that when you've got the blankets spread, you turn the sheet neatly down over the blankets; and then you see it's all tidy under the quilt, ready for when you come to turn down the bed at night."

Esther followed her instructions closely to the end. "Shall I come and help you with the others?" she asked, as Anna moved off to Penelope's room; and Anna quite graciously consented.

"I shall be glad enough to have the dusting done," she said, as they finished off the other two little beds. "I've got to make jam to-day, and that means that I can't leave the kitchen a minute when once I've put it on," and Esther could have danced with joy. She was managing wonderfully, she told herself, and felt very proud.

From the French window below they heard Miss Charlotte's voice. "Penelope!" she called. "Penelope, dear!"

Penelope came running up the garden at once.

"Do you think you could walk as much as two miles without getting over-tired?"

"Oh yes," said Penelope, without a moment's hesitation. "I often walked five or six miles at home. Do you want me to go somewhere, Cousin Charlotte?"

"Well, dear, I very much want some one to go to Four Winds for me. I promised some strawberries to a friend of mine, Miss Row, who lives just outside Four Winds. She is giving a garden-party to-day, and I know she is relying on my sending her some fruit. I thought Ephraim would have been able to go, but he started for Gorley before I could speak to him."

"I should love to go," said Penelope. "I will start at once. Which way is it, Cousin Charlotte?"

"You go past the houses here, and keep on the main road, right up the hill, until you come to the top; just before you reach the top you will come to a church."

"Oh, I know," cried Penelope. "I went there yesterday, and when I came to the church it was open, and some one was playing the organ, and I went in and sat in one of the pews for ever so long to listen."

"Oh, is that where you were?" said Miss Charlotte. "I wondered what had become of you. Well, when you go so far another time, dear, take Guard with you. We rarely, if ever, get a tramp, or any other undesirable person about these parts, we are too remote, and too poor to be worth coming so far to find, but all the same I do not like you to go about quite alone. Take him with you now, dear. When you reach the church you must go on a little further, until you come to the village; then you cross the square straight, keep down the next hill a little way, and you will soon come to a large white gate with 'Cold Harbour' painted on it. That is my friend's house. Go in, and ask for Miss Row, and if you can see her, give her the basket and this note. If you can't see her you must leave them; but I hope you will, for I should like you to rest a little before you take the walk back."

Penelope took the basket, and was starting straight away with it.

"I think, dear, you had better wash your hands and brush your hair before you go," said Cousin Charlotte. "Miss Row is very good and kind, but she is a very particular lady, and I want you to make a good impression on her; besides, one lady never calls on another with soiled hands."

"Oh, of course!" Penelope blushed and ran upstairs, and some few minutes elapsed before she walked out and through the village, her basket of strawberries on her arm, and Guard at her heels.

It was a glorious day, with rather a stiff breeze blowing, and clouds and sunshine chasing each other along the road. If it had not been for the clouds, and the intervals when the shadows had overtaken the sun, the walk would have been a hot one; but Penelope did not notice that, her mind was absorbed by other things, for suddenly it seemed to her that it was rather an alarming thing to be going alone to face a strange, and very particular, lady, and she felt a great shyness coming over her. She tried to forget it by racing the cloud, as it chased the sunshine, and the sunshine as it overtook the cloud, and so, at last, she came to the church. She paused a moment to listen, but the organ was silent to-day, so on she went again, but more soberly, and soon found herself in the village square, with little low-roofed houses on either side and a pump in the middle of the square, and two or three happy ducks paddling about in the damp earth by the trough. Guard, as though he knew it of old, went up to the pump for a drink. The ducks fled, tumbling over each other in their hurry, scrambling and quacking indignantly at the great creature who had so disturbed their pleasure; but Guard, quite unconcerned, drank, and went calmly on his way again until he led Penelope straight to the white gate with 'Cold Harbour' painted on it.

A short drive led from the gate to the house, and Penelope felt horribly shy and conscious as she made her way up it. It seemed to her that somebody might be watching her from every window, and there were so many windows it was quite embarrassing.

But, apparently, no one had witnessed her approach, for she stood quite a long time at the door, not able to reach the knocker or find the bell. She rapped with her knuckles; but they grew sore and produced no result, for the sound did not reach beyond the door-mat, or so it seemed to her, and the vast, still hall within appeared to swallow up everything. Guard lay down at last on the gravel and went to sleep, and Penelope longed to sit beside him. She was tired, and her arm aching a good deal from carrying the basket.

But at last, just as she was beginning to get anxious and a little vexed, a servant crossed the hall on her way to one of the rooms, and saw her.

"Good morning," said Penelope. "I have been trying to ring the bell, but I don't know where you keep it."

The servant, an elderly woman, who looked like the cook, smiled. "There's a brave many can't do that," she said. "There," showing Penelope a little knob like a button, "there 'tis; 'tis one of them new-fangled electric things. I can't abide 'em myself; they may be very fine and nice for towns, but in the country, where we don't have to count every inch of room, give me the good old sort. 'Tis such a silly noise these makes, too, like a child's toy, yet it never sounds but what I jumps nearly out of my skin."

Penelope wished one would sound then, that she might see so wonderful a sight. But she only smiled.

"I wanted to see Miss Row, please. I've come from Miss Ashe."

"Please to walk inside, miss," said cook, very amiably; and Penelope followed her through the dim hall to a large room where a lady was sitting at a table littered with vases, cans of water, and quantities of cut flowers. She was rather a severe-looking lady, and glanced up so sharply when cook opened the door and showed the visitor in, that Penelope was, for the moment, quite frightened. But it was not Penelope's way to remain frightened for long, and she soon recovered herself, as did Miss Row when she saw that the intruder was not a very formidable person.

"I have brought you these from Cousin Charlotte," said Penelope, advancing to the table with her wide, frank smile; "and I was to give them to you myself if you were at home."

Miss Row took the basket and the letter, but she was paying more attention to their bearer than to either.

"I suppose you are one of Miss Ashe's young cousins?" said Miss Row abruptly.

"Yes, I am Penelope, the second eldest."

"Well, sit down for a little while, and rest before you walk back again."

Penelope, not being directed to any particular seat, and seeing by the window a little low, upright chair, evidently made for small people like herself, went over and seated herself on it with much satisfaction.

But Miss Row, glancing up presently from her letter, felt no satisfaction at all; in fact she gave quite a scream when she saw her. "Oh, child," she cried. "Get off that chair this moment, quick! quick! It isn't meant to be sat on; it is far too old and valuable. Oh dear! you might have broken it right down, or—oh dear, oh dear, to think that out of all in the room you should have chosen that one!"

Penelope sprang to her feet at once. At first she felt terribly alarmed, then very angry; it made one feel so small to be screamed at in that way.

"I—I didn't know—how could I?" she said crossly. "Is it a broken chair?" What she longed to say was, "Why do you keep it there if it is so unsafe?" but she felt that would be rude. "I am very sorry," she added, forcing herself to be polite. "Is it a very old chair?"

"Yes, very old. It was made for my great-great-grandmother, when she was a little girl, and I value it exceedingly. Unfortunately the last two or three years worms have got into the wood, and have eaten it so it is quite crumbling away."

"But can't you do anything for it?" asked Penelope, her vexation swallowed up in pity for the chair. She was thinking that if she had valued it so much she would have taken better care of it.

But Miss Row had returned to her letter again. When she had done she rose and rang the bell. "You can take some milk and cake before you go, can't you?" she asked.

"Yes, I think so, thank you," said Penelope modestly. "But I left Guard outside. Will he stay, do you think?"

"Oh yes, he is used to waiting here."

Cook came in presently with a tray, on which was a large jug of milk, some glasses, and a plate of cakes of various kinds. Penelope thought they looked beautiful, so beautiful that she longed to take some back to the others. She knew exactly how thoroughly they would enjoy them; but, of course, no sign of what she was thinking escaped her.

She was wondering which of all them she might take for herself, when Miss Row took up the plate. "I think you will find that very nice," pointing to a piece of uninteresting-looking shortbread, "or that," pointing to a slice of ginger-cake. "They would be less likely than the others to disagree with you."

Penelope longed to say that nothing disagreed with her, but she did not like to, and helped herself with the best grace she could to the shortbread.

Miss Row continued arranging her flowers, sipping a glass of milk meanwhile, and eating one after another of the fascinating little sugared cakes Penelope was eyeing so wistfully, while she nibbled at her thick piece of shortbread, unable to get a real bite. There really was no satisfaction about that shortbread. It was so hard as to be unbiteable, and so crumbly it scattered all over the floor; while with one hand occupied holding the glass of milk, and the other the cake, she could not pick up the crumbs, or break the piece. When she saw the crumbs filling her lap and pouring off on to the carpet, poor Penelope wished she had declined to have anything, and sat in misery wondering what she could do.

Presently Miss Row looked around at her, and her sharp eyes fell immediately on the litter on her usually speckless carpet. "Oh dear," she said with the little click of her tongue which expressed annoyance more effectually than any words could. Then, perhaps catching sight of the child's mortified face, she tried to pass it off.

"I expect your Cousin Charlotte has a trial with the four of you," she said, in what she meant to be a joking manner; but her words, and the little laugh that accompanied them, were worse to Penelope than anything.

"I—we—try not to be more troublesome than we can help," she said shortly, without a trace of a smile on her face. "Cousin Charlotte doesn't seem to mind—and we try to help as much as we can." Then, after a moment's silence, "I—I wish I hadn't taken it. It was so crumbly I couldn't eat it without its falling all about; and the chair is so high my feet don't touch, so they all ran off my lap." She meant the crumbs, though it sounded as if she was speaking of her feet.

Perhaps something told Miss Row that she had not been very kind, for her tone changed. "I ought to have thought of it, dear," she said. It was the first time she had ever been known to call any one 'dear'.

"I think I had better go now, please Miss Row," said Penelope very gravely. She still felt mortified and unhappy.

"I wonder if you would mind waiting just a little longer, then I could have your company as far as the church. I must go and have my practice, or I shall not be ready for Sunday."

Penelope looked up with sudden interest, all her mortification and resentment forgotten. "Oh, was it you who was playing there on Tuesday?"

Miss Row nodded. "Probably, I don't know of any one else who plays that organ. Why? What do you know about it?"

"I walked up there the day after we came, and I heard the organ, and I went in and listened for ever so long. I hope you don't mind. The door was open, and I thought any one might go in."

"Mind? Oh dear no! I am only thankful some one besides myself takes any interest in it. Are you fond of music?"

"I love it! I love to hear it! I can't play yet, but I want to learn, and I think," gravely, "I'd rather play the organ than anything. I do want to learn to play so well that I can earn money by it."

"Oh, you mercenary little person," laughed Miss Row. "What can you want with money?"

Penelope did not know what 'mercenary' meant. She understood the second question, but she did not know whether she was at liberty to answer it or not. Miss Row seemed, though, to be waiting for a reply, so she felt obliged to.

"We all want to help Cousin Charlotte and father," she added, with great earnestness. "You see we are so many, and it costs such a lot to keep us all, so Esther says, and I don't know how to help, but I am trying to think of a way."

Miss Row looked at her little companion very thoughtfully, with a somewhat puzzled expression. She herself had never known what it was to want money. She was a wealthy woman, and she did a certain amount of good with her wealth, subscribing to many charities, but it never occurred to her that there might be anxiety and need amongst people of her own class, still less among those she knew. Penelope's words opened a new vista before her, and set her wondering if there were not many things she had missed for want of eyes and understanding.

"If you could play the organ," she said at last slowly, "it would be years before you could earn your living by it. You could not do much until you were seventeen or eighteen."

"No," said Penelope sadly. "That is the worst of it, and by that time perhaps daddy will be able to have us out to Canada; but it would always be useful, for I daresay there are organs in Canada, and I don't suppose daddy will ever be very rich again, and—and if I only knew how to play I could help if I was wanted to."

"It is always a great pleasure and solace too, even if one only plays for one's own pleasure," said Miss Row softly.

She led the way into the hall, unhung a hat and put it on, and preceded Penelope to the door. Guard, hearing their footsteps, rose from his sleep in the sun, and expressed his delight.

On their way through the garden Miss Row gathered quite a large nosegay of lovely roses and carnations and mignonette, and as she wandered from bush to bush, Penelope followed her in a state of perfect delight. She was passionately fond of flowers.

At last they made their way into the road and up the hill. Miss Row was rather silent. Penelope talked and Miss Row listened, but she did not say much until they came to the gate of the church and stopped.

"Tell Miss Ashe I will come and see her tomorrow. Give her my love and thanks for the fruit, and for introducing one of her cousins to me—you, I mean," touching Penelope's cheek lightly with her finger. "And these are for you," placing in Penelope's hands the lovely flowers she had been carrying all this time.

Penelope gasped with delight. "For Cousin Charlotte! oh, how lovely, I thought they were for the church."

"They are for neither. They are for you yourself," said Miss Row, with just the faintest tinge of colour in her cheeks. For one second Penelope looked incredulous; then in a kind of rapture she held her bouquet closer. "Oh, thank you very, very, very much," she said earnestly. "I never had anything so lovely in my life before," and she put up her face with the prettiest grace imaginable to kiss her new friend.

"I am glad you are pleased," said Miss Row smilingly. "Now, good-bye. Perhaps I may see you on Sunday."

"On Sunday?" said Penelope puzzled.

"If you come to church."

"Oh, do we come up here to this dear little church? I am so glad, I didn't know. I hope we shall all come. Good-bye, and thank you, and,"—hesitating a little and colouring warmly—"I am so sorry about the crumbs;" and waving her hand to her new friend as she disappeared within the church, she ran off in a state of high glee.

Mrs. Vercoe was standing at her door as Penelope passed. "Good-morning, missie," she said. "I reckon you'm fond of walking. I was the same when I was young. Oh my! what bootiful flowers!"

Penelope stayed to display her treasures. "You must have one of them, Mrs. Vercoe," she said, selecting one of the handsomest roses from her bouquet.

Mrs. Vercoe was vastly pleased. "'Tisn't often one has a flower like that now," she exclaimed delightedly. "It'll brighten up my bit of a place wonderful. Thank you kindly, missie "; and she disappeared into her house to place her treasure in water.

Penelope was hurrying on, when, glancing round to look for Guard, her eye fell on Mrs. Bennett standing at her shop door. Mrs. Bennett said "good-morning," and Penelope returned the greeting; but she had gone a step or two before it occurred to her that she had not been very gracious or kind to the post-mistress. Mrs. Bennett must have seen her stop and give a flower to Mrs. Vercoe. She paused, then slipped back to Mrs. Bennett's door. "Would you like one of my pretty flowers?" she asked.

"Oh no, thank you, miss. Don't you pull your bookay to pieces for me," she answered civilly, but with just the slightest toss of her head. She was really a little hurt and jealous, for she had seen that Penelope's offer to Mrs. Vercoe was quite spontaneous. Penelope, conscious of the feeling that had been in her own heart, was ashamed and sorry. "Do please let me give you one," she said earnestly. "I want to. I have such a lot it would be greedy to keep them all."

Mrs. Bennett backed into her shop. "Won't you come inside, missie?" she said, much more graciously. "Your little hands are almost too small; you'm in danger of dropping some of them."

Penelope followed her in gladly enough. She could not bear to think she had hurt any one's feelings, even any one she did not particularly like. Mrs. Bennett led the way into her parlour, where Penelope had never been before. It held all the treasures she was most proud of, and the window was full of geraniums, fuchsias, and hanging baskets of 'Mothers of Thousands,' blocking out most of the light. While Penelope was selecting a flower Mrs. Bennett stepped to the window.

"Are you fond of flowers, miss?"

"Oh, very," said Penelope, "I love them. I wish I could grow some. I think I shall ask Cousin Charlotte to let me have a little bit of garden of my own. Do you think I should ever get anything to grow?"

She talked on rapidly, partly because she was really interested and partly in the hope of ministering balm to Mrs. Bennett's wounded feelings.

"Oh yes, missie, of course you could, and if you'd like a split or two of geranium I'd be glad to give 'ee some off of any of mine, or you could have 'em in pots in your own windy. Have 'ee got a windy-ledge to your room?"

"Yes," said Penelope eagerly.

"Then you could grow mignonette and lots of things there. Look at mine. I've got flowers 'most all the year round."

Penelope stepped over to look closer at the beautiful pelargoniums, the great white geraniums, and graceful fuchsias, all blooming as happily in their narrow space as though it had been a handsome conservatory.

"Oh, and what is that?"

Two halves of a cocoanut shell hung from the top of the window with a curious little creeping plant growing in them, and sending long, hanging tendrils down over the sides.

"I was going to ask you if you would accept one of these, missie, by way of a beginning. We calls 'em 'Mothers of Thousands' here, and a very good name for 'em. I tilled both those last year from my old plant there, and look how they've growed a'ready."

Penelope was overjoyed. To have a plant of her very own, and growing in a cocoanut shell, too, gave her the greatest delight. She thanked Mrs. Bennett profusely, took her new present almost reverently, and hardly knew how she got home, her hands were so full of treasures and her mind of excitement.



CHAPTER X.

The next day, according to promise, Miss Row came to call on Miss Ashe. The children were all out and very busy when she came, and did not know anything about the call until Cousin Charlotte came to the garden to them after.

Esther was shelling peas, Penelope was filling flower-pots in which to plant some mignonette seeds she had bought at Mrs. Vercoe's that morning. Angela and Poppy were playing shops. They had the long stool Anna used for her washing-trays on washing-days. This was their counter, and on it they had arranged their stock of goods—a little pile of unripe strawberries, another of currants, a heap of pebbles to represent nuts, gravel for sugar, and earth for tea. One of their greatest treasures was a little tin scoop which Anna had presented to them, and which they took it in turns to use. They both stood behind the stool, with a pile of newspaper cut into all kinds of shapes and sizes in front of them, and were apparently kept as busy as could be by the constant stream of invisible customers which flowed into their shop.

When Miss Charlotte came out she found them as busy as possible. "Penelope," she called, "I want to speak to you, dear. I have something to tell you—something that I think will please you very much, dear."

Penelope looked up from her seed-sowing with a face full of pleased surprise.

"I have had a visitor, Miss Row, and she has offered to give you lessons on the organ if you would like to learn. She tells me she thinks you would. It is very kind of Miss Row, and a great opportunity for you."

"I'd love to, I told her so." Penelope stopped abruptly, her face crimsoning. "Oh, I hope she did not think I was asking!"

"No, dear, she certainly did not think that," said Miss Charlotte reassuringly. "I know my friend well enough to know that she would never have made the offer if she had."

"But where can I learn?" asked Penelope. "I shouldn't be allowed to use the organ in the church, should I?"

"I think so; but Miss Row will settle all that. You see, her father used to be the vicar at Four Winds, and she has been the organist ever since she was sixteen—"