"Sixteen!" cried Penelope. "Can I be an organist when I am sixteen?"

"As I was saying," said Cousin Charlotte, in a slight tone of reproof, "she has been the organist there since she was sixteen, and all for love, so no one would be so ungrateful as to object to her using it."

"Oh, how beautiful, how beautiful, and just the very thing I wanted." Penelope fairly danced with delight. "Isn't it strange," she said, "how one gets just the very things one has been longing for?"

Esther did not make any remark. The old demon jealousy surged up in her heart and forbade her saying anything that was nice or kind.

"Why was it that Penelope always attracted all the notice, and made friends, and got the very things she longed for?" she asked herself angrily. She wished she had said she would like to learn to play the organ, and had made friends with Miss Row; then perhaps she would have had lovely flowers given her, and be thought a lot of. Having finished her task she picked up her things and walked away into the house. Penelope looked after her, a little hurt at her seeming want of interest. Angela and Poppy had dropped their play and were bubbling over with joyful sympathy.

"Angela dear," said Miss Charlotte, "will you go to the henhouse for me, and see if there are any eggs there?"

Angela was delighted. She was always longing to be employed, and she loved anything to do with the fowls or the garden.

Miss Ashe's fowl-houses were models of what fowl-houses should be, airy, snug, and beautifully clean; and her fowls were something to be proud of. Angela ran off at once, found three eggs, and took them into the house. Miss Ashe was busy in the pantry tying down jam.

"I wonder if you could mark them for me," she said. "My fingers are very sticky."

Angela took the pencil and did her best. The figures were clumsy, but they were her neatest. They were something like this—22/6.

She looked up at her cousin with shamed eyes and rosy cheeks as she held out the eggs.

"That will do," said Miss Charlotte kindly. "You will soon be able to make tiny figures." Then, as Esther had done once before, Angela put the eggs in their box; but Esther had forgotten all about her first task in her anxiety to get others.

"Cousin Charlotte, if I learn to write better, may I always collect the eggs and mark them? I'd love to. I love the chicken and fowls, and I'd try to do it properly." She was very eager and very shy about making her request.

"I shall be very glad indeed of your help," said Cousin Charlotte. "Anna seems too busy and Ephraim forgets; he thinks eggs and hens too unimportant for his notice. I, though, think them very important indeed; they make quite a nice little addition to one's income, I find."

"Do they?" said Angela, full of interest. "When I grow up I shall keep fowls too, I think."

"You will have to learn all about them first," said Cousin Charlotte, "but that you can begin to do at once. You have them here always under your eyes, and you must keep your eyes open and take in all you can."

Angela felt, as Penelope had done, that all her dearest wishes were being granted at once. "Is there something else I can do for you, Cousin Charlotte?" she asked.

"Yes, dear, if you will. I want to send those fresh eggs up to Miss Bazeley. She has a lady lodging there who is ill, and Miss Bazeley's hens seem to have all stopped laying just as she most wants fresh eggs."

"I'd like to go. I'll go now," said Angela, running off to get her hat.

"You can take Poppy with you, dear. It is not far, and you can't make a mistake. Miss Bazeley's house is the very last in the village; it stands at the side of the hill on the way to Four Winds."

"I think I know; it has a honeysuckle arch over the gate, hasn't it?"

"Yes, sharp eyes. Now run along."

Esther was up in her room, trying to work herself into a better state of mind. She knew she was jealous of Penelope's good fortune, and she was vexed with herself for being so. When people recognise their weaknesses, and see the wrong of them, they are on a fair way to recovery—if they choose.

Esther did really want to get the better of the nasty moods and tempers that she, better than any one, knew she suffered from, and presently she came down in quite an altered frame of mind, though a little embarrassed to know how to express herself.

Penelope was in the garden alone, busy over her flower-pots once more. Esther went up to her wondering what she could say, but Penelope looked up with so grave a face Esther found her speech at once.

"Aren't you glad?" she asked in surprise.

"Oh yes," cried Penelope enthusiastically.

"So am I," said Esther, and with the same felt her burden of jealousy fall from her. "It will be fine; it was the very thing you wanted. But you don't look glad."

"I am," said Penelope emphatically; "but I was thinking how kind every one is, and I do want to do something for them—and I don't know how. There don't seem to be any ways for children to help grown-ups."

Esther stood very still and quiet for a moment. Then, after a little shy hesitation, she said, "Cousin Charlotte says we can always help each other, only we must not be always looking out for big things to do. If we do the little things, we shall do big things, too, in time."

"Oh," said Penelope. "I suppose I shall get to know what little things to do. What I would like would be to give Miss Row a beautiful organ, and Mrs. Bennett a greenhouse, and Cousin Charlotte—oh, a lot of money and things, and—and—"

"I don't suppose Mrs. Bennett would know what to do with a greenhouse if she had it," said Esther wisely.

"Don't you?" said Penelope disappointedly, and was silent for some time, pondering the matter. "Well," with a sigh of resignation, "I'll give her one of my pots of mignonette when it grows—that will be something—just to show I care, and perhaps—"

But what Penelope intended to say further was lost for ever, for at that moment there was a rush through the house and garden, a chorus of cries and exclamations, and Angela and Poppy and Guard burst on them like a small hurricane.

"Oh, do look!" cried Angela, her face flushed, her eyes dancing with joy— "do look what Miss Bazeley has given me! Oh, it is such a darling! And the poor mite has no mother, or brothers or sisters. And do you think Cousin Charlotte will let me keep it? It is a very good one, Miss Bazeley says. What sort did she call it, Poppy? I said it over and over so as to remember, and have forgotten it after all."

"It was somefin like the name of a sweety," said Poppy, racking her brain so hard she brought a frown to her brow. "Was it somefin drop, or rock, or—"

"I know it was something like Edinburgh Rock."

"Plymouth Rock, perhaps," said Miss Ashe's voice, close behind them. In their excitement they had not heard her coming, and they all sprang around with a start. "What is it, dear?" looking at the little basket Angela was holding so carefully.

As if in reply, a tiny, very forlorn 'che-ep' came from the inside.

"It is a dear little motherless chick, Cousin Charlotte," cried Angela eagerly. "A tiny baby one, and it's an orphan. A fox killed its poor mother, and the other hens won't be kind to it; they are very cruel to it, Miss Bazeley says, and she asked me if I would like to have it. May I, Cousin Charlotte? Do you mind? I will take care of it, and then some day, when it lays eggs, you shall have all the eggs."

"Well, we will see about that when the time comes," said Cousin Charlotte. "Yes, dear, you may certainly keep it. I foresee I shall have a rival poultry-yard in my own garden."

Angela and Poppy ran off in a state of the highest glee; but when they got to the yard, and all the hens ran towards them in expectation, they were afraid to trust their treasure alone among the crowd.

"You will have to try to get one of the hens to mother it," said Miss Charlotte, who had followed them, "or it will die of cold and loneliness."

This presented some difficulty. As soon as the little chick was put down it would run to the nearest hen as if it thought it had found its mother, but the hens would have nothing to say to it; first one and then another pecked it savagely, until the poor little thing was nearly scared to death.

At last Miss Charlotte threw down some oatmeal before a coop where a solemn old hen sat with half a dozen chicks playing about her. As soon as they saw the food, the greedy little creatures poured out, while the mother rose and clucked noisily with annoyance at not being able to follow. Angela put the orphan chick down amongst the others; for a second it cheeped pitifully; then it, too, began to eat. As soon as the last grain had gone some more was thrown into the coop for the old hen. All the chicks poured back helter-skelter into the coop, the orphan amongst them, and the hen took it into her family circle without demur, and the baby Plymouth Rock's life was saved.

After that, to say that Angela was as fussy as a hen with one chick was to speak but very mildly of her condition. She looked on it as the foundation of her fortunes, and, surely, she thought, no one had ever owned such a beautiful chick before.

The next day Penelope went to the church at twelve o'clock to have her first lesson. She went off jubilantly; she returned a little less so. Miss Row was unaccustomed to children, or to teaching, and she had never been considered a patient woman.

"I believe it is going to be dreadfully hard," Penelope confided to the others, as they gathered round her. They had all gone to meet her, and hear her experiences. They had always been so much together that what happened to one was of the keenest interest to all.

"I don't believe I shall ever learn, there are such lots of things to remember, and Miss Row doesn't like to explain a thing more than once, and you've got to remember."

Esther began to feel thankful that she had not expressed a desire to know how to play the organ. She much preferred to do housework and not be scolded. Penelope's next words then came as a shock.

"Oh, and what do you think! Miss Row wants us to sing in the choir! She says we must. She can get scarcely any one to sing, and she says it will be good for us, and we shall be very glad by and by—"

"Oh, I couldn't!" cried Angela, overcome with nervousness. "I haven't got any voice, and I don't know how to; and I couldn't sing with all the people looking at me."

"It will be dreadful," said Penelope drearily. "But Miss Row says we shall be glad later on—"

"People always say that when they want one to do anything one simply hates doing. But she can't make us, can she? I shall ask Miss Charlotte to say we can't. I am sure she will when she knows how much we don't want to. I wish you had never said anything, Penelope, about the organ, and learning to play, and all that. Miss Row would never have thought of it if you hadn't," grumbled Esther; and Penelope, feeling the truth of it, looked more dejected than ever. After her first encounter with Miss Row as a teacher, the prospect before her looked anything but enticing, and she was haunted by a feeling that she had not declined the honour as firmly as she might have done, for the sake of the others.

They all turned and walked homewards very gloomily. The only cheerful member of the party was Poppy. "I wouldn't mind singing in church," she said, "if nobody wouldn't look at me. I can sing 'Once in Royal David's City' all through."

"It doesn't seem so bad if you haven't got to," said Angela miserably. "But when you have, it is awful. I—I almost wish I'd never come to Dorsham, and yet—I loved it so till this happened."

During dinner Miss Charlotte looked at the four from time to time, first with faint surprise, then with anxiety. They were so quiet, so gloomy, so changed. When she had spoken two or three times and received polite, but the briefest of answers, she began to feel she must get to the bottom of the mystery.

"Well, Penelope, did you enjoy your organ lesson, dear?" she asked briskly.

Penelope looked up with the ghost of her old comical smile gleaming in her eyes. "Well, I—I didn't exactly enjoy it," she said, trying to be polite and truthful at the same time. "It is rather hard at first, but— but I wouldn't mind that if—if—"

"If what, dear?" asked Miss Charlotte gently. "Is it anything I can help in?"

"No-o, I am afraid not, thank you. It's the singing—Miss Row wants us all to sing in the choir!"

The great and terrible news was out, the shadow that hung over them was explained, and eight eyes gazed at Miss Charlotte, expecting to read in her face something of the shock and dismay they had felt, instead of which she sat looking quite unmoved and rather amused. "Well, dears, I don't see anything very dreadful in that. Do you?"

"But we can't," cried Esther. "We can't sing, except just a little bit to ourselves."

"But you can learn. I don't suppose Miss Row, or any one else, would expect you to sing perfectly at first. She would teach you. You said you wanted to learn all you could, didn't you, dear?"

"Ye-es," said Esther slowly, feeling she was having the worst of the argument, but unmoved in her dread and dislike of joining the choir. "But I never thought of this; this is different."

"Yes; but, dear, you will find very few things happen just as you would have them to. We may miss the best chances of our lives if we insist on that. You told me you wanted to save money and expense—now here is your opportunity. You will gain a knowledge of music and singing such as you could not gain in any other way, for even if we had the means, there is no one here to teach you. I dare say you feel a little shy and nervous, but don't be foolishly so, dears. All your lives you will be thankful you had this chance."

Esther had no word to say. She felt she was in the wrong again, and that is never a pleasant feeling.

"But I could never sing before so many people, Cousin Charlotte," said Angela. "I wouldn't mind so much if it was only just ourselves, but I am sure I couldn't sing before strangers."

"Then, dear, it will be good for you in another way. You must learn to get over your self-consciousness. You must not imagine the eyes of every one are on you. You must try to forget all about yourself. Remember that every one there has a lot else to think about, and that you are only one little person amongst a number." Cousin Charlotte laid her hand on Angela's to take away any seeming severity from her words.

"I know Miss Row is always trying to make up a choir, and she has such difficulty. You would be doing her a real kindness if you help her; and I know you would like to do that," with a smile at Esther.

Esther sighed. "Yes," she said hesitatingly. "But—but can't one ever do things just in the way one likes, Cousin Charlotte? There are lots of kind things I should love to do."

"We may choose, generally, whether we will do a thing or not, or whether we will do it in our way, or the way that is mapped out for us. But usually if we choose our own, it is ourselves we please, and not the person we are doing it for. But this we can always do, dearie—if we have to do a thing we do not like, we can teach ourselves to like to do it."

"It sounds like a riddle," said Penelope.

"It very often is," said Miss Charlotte. "But am sure you will all grow to love your singing and your choir when the first shyness is over, and then you will be glad you gave in, and did not choose your own way. And of one thing you may be quite sure: if, as you think, you have no voices, Miss Row will soon tell you so, and you will not be bothered any more about having to sing."

But, after all, somehow it did not seem to them that that was what they wanted.



CHAPTER XI.

To the girls' relief they were not expected to appear at the very next choir practice. Miss Charlotte had a talk with her friend, which tempered her enthusiasm with common sense, with the result that the children had their voices tried and two or three lessons given them before they were expected to appear in public, with the result that poor Poppy, the only one who really longed to be in the choir, was the only one denied that honour. All their voices were pronounced quite good. But Poppy was too young; it would strain her voice, she was told, and to her chagrin she had to sit in an ordinary pew with Miss Ashe while the others sat in what Poppy called the 'dear little' choir stalls in the chancel.

But, to show her defiance of this objectionable, and, as she thought, unnecessary care for her voice, she sang always at the top of it. It happened often that she did not know the right words, but she always managed to pick up the tune quickly, and with just one sentence to repeat over and over again, she got along to her own satisfaction, at any rate convinced in her own mind that it would not be very long before they would be glad to ask her to come into the choir.

So the days flew by and the summer slipped away; autumn had gone and winter, almost, before they realised it, so full were their days with their lessons and their singing, their housework and gardening, walks on the moor, and games and play. By degrees, as Miss Charlotte had foretold, each had made a little niche for herself. Esther had obtained almost complete charge of the drawing-room—no one else dusted it or arranged a flower in it. Penelope sometimes tried to find room in it for one of her pet plants, but unless permission was asked, and Esther chose the place where it might stand, the treasure was certain to be found 'in the way.'

She dusted their own bedrooms, too, and helped to make the beds, and did lots of other little duties; and at Christmas, to her great delight, Miss Charlotte had given her the much-longed-for sleeves and aprons.

Angela had become, meantime, almost sole mistress of the hens and the eggs. She had begun by just collecting the eggs, and washing and marking them, and she did her work so well that no one else ever thought of troubling about them; and before very long, to her enormous pride, she was given the task of packing them for market. And oh! the joy of it! the pleasure she took in laying the rich brown and creamy-white eggs in cosy nests in the sweet-smelling hay; her pride in their appearance! The only flaw in her happiness was the fact that she could not carry the basket and dispose of the contents herself to the customers. She pictured herself turning back the snow-white cloth from the top of the basket, and counting out her beloved treasures one by one.

After that she began to feed the fowls, and keep account of the corn that was used, and the number of eggs that were laid. Anna consulted her quite gravely about the house scraps.

Perhaps, though, the very happiest day of all her life, at any rate the proudest, was that on which Fluffikins laid her first egg. Angela, when she saw it and the little hen strutting up and down before the nest in which it lay, stood in a kind of speechless ecstasy, much as a young author when his first work has been accepted, or an artist before his first completed picture. Then she held out her arms to the proud Fluffikins, who mounted to her shoulder, clucking happily; and, rubbing their cheeks against one another, they gazed ecstatically at the precious egg.

"Oh, Fluff, I am so sorry to take it from you," she cried, "but I must show it to Cousin Charlotte. Fluff, you darling, do go on and lay lots more. I want one every day, then you shall sit on some, and hatch out some dear little baby chicks of your very own; and you shall live with me till you are an old, old bird, Fluffikins darling, and no one shall dare to—to—" she hesitated to name the dreadful word 'kill,'—"shall interfere with you. You are what they call the 'founder' of my fortune, you precious bird."

She did not take the egg in to show to Miss Charlotte after all. She thought of another plan. She took it in and showed it to Anna, and to the girls, who gazed at it and marvelled at its beauty, but Miss Charlotte was not to see it until it appeared on her plate at tea, with an inscription on it to say whose it was.

It hurt Angela very much to deprive poor Fluffikins of her treasure, but, while she was not looking, she slipped another new, warm egg in the nest in its place, and hoped the dear bird would not see through the fraud; and Miss Charlotte did deserve the honour, after all her goodness to Fluff and her mistress; in fact they were pledged to it.

Cousin Charlotte could not suppress a slight start of surprise when she saw the black-speckled thing in the egg-cup on her plate; but she was as pleased as the girls could wish when she read, 'My and Fluff's first egg for you,' and assured them, as she ate it under their united gaze, that she had never in her life tasted a better one.

Poppy had constituted herself every one's hand-maiden and handy-maiden. If she were allowed to have a duster and dust-brush and help Esther, her cup of joy was full, but she was just as pleased to run to the post, or to the shops, or to help Ephraim gather windfalls in the orchard, dig potatoes, or assist Anna in any way she was allowed to. And now that her parsley bed was really in full growth, in spite of its troubled beginning, she was very full of happy importance. To be asked if she could spare a pennyworth of parsley filled her with pleasure for days.

"I never saw anything like it," she would say seriously, shaking her little purse the while. "It only cost me a penny, and I've made fourpence by it already. I wonder every one doesn't grow parsley."

"If they did, dear, there would be no one to sell to," Cousin Charlotte explained.

Of them all Penelope did least to help. She had her flowers—quite a collection of them now. "But she doesn't do anything with them," complained Esther one day.

"They make the house pretty," urged Angela, always ready to defend her room-mate, "and they make our room so sweet and pretty."

"But she should try to sell them," argued Esther, "or—or do something. She seems to have forgotten all about helping Cousin Charlotte."

"She doesn't get much time," pleaded Angela, "by the time her lessons are done, and her organ lesson, and the practice, and her reading—she always reads for an hour a day, sometimes more. And—and there isn't any one here to sell flowers to—"

At that moment Penelope herself dashed in on them, her eyes dancing, her face glowing. "Oh, girls, what do you think?" she cried, as she flung her music-case on to one chair, her hat on another, and herself on a third.

"What?" asked Esther, as she picked up the music-case and straightened the cushion it had knocked over.

"Oh, do tell, do tell quick," urged Angela.

"Well!" sitting up and clasping her hands tight in an ecstasy of pleasure, "you know Miss Row has friends staying with her."

"Yes; but I don't see much in that to be excited about," said Esther.

"Well, one of them is called Mr. Somerset, and he is a musician, and he— he heard me sing. Miss Row made me sing on purpose. I was awfully frightened, but I got through all right, and—and what do you think he said?"

Esther felt the old demon jealousy clutching at her heart at once. "I don't know, I'm sure," she said coldly. "Do tell if you are going to, Penelope. I am too busy to wait."

"Oh, what?" gasped Angela, with eager, questioning eyes.

"He said,"—in an impressive, almost awed voice—"he said I had the promise of a very fine voice, and—and no expense ought to be spared in training it!" Penelope repeated the words slowly, like one in a dream.

"Oh, Pen!" Angela gasped, almost speechless with delight, "did he really?"

Pen nodded.

"What nonsense!" said Esther, in a strained voice, quite unlike her usual tones.

Angela turned on her reproachfully. "Essie, aren't you glad?"

"Of course I am," snapped Esther shortly; "but it is so silly to put such things into people's heads when there is no money. I suppose he thinks we all ought to give up everything for this, and—and never thinks that the rest of us might like to—to have lessons—"

Esther really did not mean a tenth of the hard things she was saying, and she hated herself for saying them, but that wretched temper of hers got the upper hand of her again. She knew she was being mean and unkind, and it added to her vexation; but she had not the strength of will to get the better of it. In her calmer moments she longed to be one of those who could rise above such mean jealousies, and be unselfish and brave and strong, but when the trial came she succumbed.

Penelope was too lost in happy dreams, though, to heed or be hurt by Esther's remarks.

"Of course I can't have it trained, but all the same I am glad I have a nice voice," she said in a happy, dreamy voice. "Fancy me, me, with a beautiful voice! Isn't it strange? Doesn't it seem as though it can't be true? Oh, I am so happy!"

"I always loved to hear you sing, dear," said Angela, seating herself on the ground at Penelope's feet and hugging her sister's knees. "And, Pen, just imagine if you could have lessons, and could sing at concerts, and everybody wanted to hear you, and you made lots and lots of money—wouldn't it be lovely! Esther, come and sit down and talk about what we would do if Pen were famous and made a heap of money." Angela never doubted that what good fortune came to one would be shared by all. "Come and sit here, Esther."

"It will be Penelope's money," said Esther coldly. "It would be for her to say what she would do with it, not for us. I am busy; I can't stay talking nonsense," and away she walked out of the room, leaving Penelope and Angela with their spirits considerably lowered.

"I don't know why it is," sighed Penelope, roused at last from her happy oblivion, "but whenever I bring home what I think is good news it always seems to upset Esther. I thought she was just dying for us all to be able to do something to help father and Cousin Charlotte, and this seemed such a lovely thing! Of course there is all the expense first, but if I have a really good voice, later on I should be able to keep you all, and give you all you want. I think she might have seemed a little bit glad."

"Perhaps she is worried," said Angela, "because she wants you to have lessons, and there isn't any money for them, and—and I think she is tired."

"I wish she would not do so much and get so tired," said Penelope wistfully. "We scarcely ever see her now; she hardly ever has any time to play, and—and it is disappointing when she acts like that." Penelope's voice quavered a little, in spite of herself, and she rose and looked out of window that Angela might not see her misty eyes.

"Never mind, dear," coaxed comforting Angela, "don't you fret. Essie is as glad as either of us, really, and by and by she will be all right. Let us go out on the moor, and talk over what we will do when you are rich, shall we?"

"Yes," said Penelope, with a little sigh, and a shake to shake off her gloom. "Dear old moor, I feel I want to lie down on it and hug it when big, nice things happen, and tell it all about them. Come along, Angel."

Esther, from upstairs, saw them go out together, Angela's arm about Pen's waist, Penelope's arm about Angela's shoulders. With angry eyes and aching heart she watched them go through the garden, and guessed whither they were bound; and a sense of loneliness, of being shut out, stole over her.

Cousin Charlotte had gone to Gorley and taken Poppy with her, so she was quite alone. With a hasty movement she flung on her hat, and dashed downstairs and out of the front door. "If they went out, she could go out too," she told herself angrily, and could find her own company sufficient. If they went one way she would go another, the moor was large enough, and—and at any rate the tors and the gorse and the birds liked her as much as they liked Penelope. She would not there be put aside for her younger sister.

By that time she had worked herself up into such a state of resentfulness of imagined injuries and fancied wrongs, she felt she could hardly endure her unhappy lot. She walked along the road in a perfect turmoil of mind, and, fearing she might meet some one, turned down towards the bridge and the river; but the weather had been rainy lately, and the river was swollen, and the bank all wet and slippery.

She had never been further than the bridge and the river-bank before, and as she clambered up from the muddy, slippery river-path, and pushed through the sheltering brushwood which lined it, she found herself, a tiny speck, apparently the only living creature, in a huge great stretch of moorland which was all new ground to her. There were a few big rocks here and there, but no big hills, as on the other side, with their friendly sheltering look; and the great stretch of bare land, stretching away and away, looked the picture of desolation.

The spirit of it seemed in tune with Esther's own sense of loneliness; but it touched her heart with the softening touch of sadness. She sank down on a big boulder beside her, and, stretching out her arms on its rough, lichen-covered breast, buried her face in them and burst into sobs.

"Why is it? why is it? Why should every one like the others and no one like me? Why should Penelope have everything and me nothing, and why can't I feel nice about it? Why do I care, or why can't I pretend I don't mind?" At that moment Esther really did believe that no one in all the world cared in the least for her. "Penelope is pretty and clever, and— and taking, and—and now she has a beautiful voice, and I have nothing. I am not pretty or clever or nice, and I shall never be anything, or do anything, and—and no one wants me. She will be able to go about and travel, and be rich and have everything she wants, and be able to help the others, and—and I am no better than a drudge!"

A little field-mouse, creeping out of its hole, heard the sobs and flew away again, nearly scared out of its wits. A goldfinch came and perched on a furze-bush near, looked wonderingly at the odd-shaped thing that made such funny noises, and then flew away to a thistle and began to search for any stray seeds that might have been overlooked. Little spiders ran over the boulder and put out delicate feelers to try to discover what curious pinky-white things those were that lay on the old stone; then, after a first venture, finding them harmless, ran over and over Esther's hand in a perfect fuss and fury of excitement.

Esther, feeling the slight tickling of the little creatures' feet, raised her head to look, and kept it raised to watch their busy movements. Her storm of tears had relieved her heart, and done her good. She felt less injured, and in a better frame of mind. She did not dare to move until the last spider had finished his investigations, for fear of alarming him; but when he had scurried away home, evidently eager to tell of his adventures, she raised herself and looked about her.

Her face and eyes were hot and swelled and aching. She could not meet any one while looking such a sight as she was. She would walk on until the fresh breeze should have cooled down her burning features. She turned away from Dorsham in the same direction as the river ran. It was all a strange country to her, and she would explore it. No one would miss her at home. The anger and jealousy were gone, but she still felt sad and lonely, and full of pity for herself.

She walked on and on and on, still too absorbed in herself to pay any heed to the voice of the birds or the river or the myriad little creatures moving about her. She was thinking how much she would like to frighten them all at home, and make them anxious about her; she felt she would like to walk on and on until twilight and darkness fell, and she and the moor were left to their loneliness together. It was all very foolish; but as long as there are boys and girls, or men and women, these moods will come to them, to be fought down and overcome; and we must remember that to the sufferer they do not seem foolish at the time.

How far she did walk she had no idea at the time; it seemed to her it was miles and miles;—in reality it was only about a mile and a half,—and the sun was going down, and she was beginning to admit doubts to her mind as to whether she should turn back or not, when suddenly, in a hollow in the moor before her, she saw, though at first she could hardly believe her eyes, a real little house with real smoke coming out of the chimney on the thatched roof.

If it had not been for the smoke, whirled and beaten about by the breeze, she would have thought the house was not really a human habitation, but a bit of the moor itself risen up, so brown and rough and weather-beaten it looked under its old lichen-grown thatch. But the smoke was real smoke, and Esther, stepping nearer, saw one window lit by the leaping, cheery glow of a fire.

Fascinated and surprised, she drew nearer and nearer. Before the cottage was a little garden surrounded by a sturdy railing and a thick-set, close-clipped holly-hedge, within the shelter of which whole beds of crocuses and daisies and polyanthuses bloomed gaily. The crocuses were all asleep now, their little petals fast closed, and the daisies too, but the polyanthuses looked bravely with their beautiful eyes at the fast darkening sky. Over the cottage walls, as well as on the thatch, lichen and house-leeks grew, as though to prove it was but a boulder, one of the many scattered thereabouts in all directions, and not a house at all.



CHAPTER XII.

Ester stood staring fascinated, quite unconscious of the fact that a pair of bright but dim eyes were peering out at her wonderingly; and she started, quite guiltily, when presently the cottage door opened, and a lady came along the garden path towards her.

Esther began to move away, feeling ashamed that she should have stared so rudely; but the lady hearing her, spoke.

"Don't go away, please," she said in a pretty soft voice with a foreign accent. "I saw you, and I wondered if you had lost your way. It is not often we see strangers here, we are so far away from other houses."

"No-o, thank you," stammered Esther shyly. "I—I don't think I have lost my way. I was out for a walk, and had never been this way before. I have come from Dorsham."

"Dorrsham, oh!" the lady rolled her r's, and poke in the prettiest way imaginable. "It is rather a long walk home for a young lady when the light is beginning to fail. Have you no one with you?"

"No," said Esther, suddenly realising her disobedience in not having brought Guard. "I am not afraid; at least—I—I shall be home before it is dark."

"I do not feel so sure of that."

Neither did Esther as she looked about her, and saw how quickly twilight had fallen since the sun had gone.

"I hardly like to let you go, my child, by yourself only, over the moor. You could so easily miss your way, and get into the river, or fall over a boulder and injure yourself. Will you come into my house and rest; and after you have had some tea—"

"Oh, thank you, no," cried Esther, overcome with shyness at the thought of giving so much trouble. "I am sure I shall get back all right."

"Will you not do it to oblige me?" And the lady, who was very pretty and graceful and charming, spoke so coaxingly, so prettily, Esther could not refuse her.

"I—I—but it would make me later," she began.

"Ah, but I was going to say, Anne is going to Dorsham presently, and he shall conduct you safely home."

"Who?" breathed Esther, puzzled beyond politeness.

"Anne. He—well, he is not exactly my servant—he is my friend and factotum; he and his wife live in the cottage at the back," explained the little lady. "His wife is ill, unfortunately, and he is going to get some mustard for poultices for us to apply, and he will see you home."

"Oh, thank you," stammered Esther, interested but uneasy. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable about Cousin Charlotte, and the anxiety she might be causing her; but she really did shrink from the long walk home in the gathering darkness, and, too, she did not know how to refuse the kind stranger's request. So she stepped in at the open gate, and put her hand in the one outstretched to welcome her.

"My name is Esther Carroll," she said, feeling some introduction was necessary, "and I and my sisters live with Miss Ashe at Moor Cottage."

"Oh," said the lady vaguely. Evidently she did not know Miss Ashe or the cottage. "I have not the pleasure of knowing Miss Ashe. I never go to Dorsham. I seldom go beyond my garden; in fact—I cannot walk much," and Esther noticed for the first time that she was lame. "My name is Mademoiselle Leperier. I am not one of your countrywomen, though I might claim to be, having lived in England most of my life. Now I think," with a bright smile, "we know each other. Come inside, do. Anne had just brought in the tea-tray when he caught sight of you, and drew my attention. We thought perhaps you had lost your way. Come in, we will have tea at once, and you shall start very soon for home, or your cousin will be anxious."

Esther, following her kind hostess, thought she had never in all her life seen anything so pretty as the little firelit room into which she now stepped, with its pure white walls, its green dresser hung with priceless old blue china, the high white mantelpiece, loaded, too, with china, the high-waisted lattice window, with its prim little creamy silk curtains.

By the fire stood two comfortable easy-chairs, and a little square table, on which was spread a white cloth and dainty tea-things, bread-and-butter, and tempting little cakes. To Esther it all seemed perfect, as perfect a picture as Mademoiselle Leperier herself in her soft grey gown, with her white hair, bright eyes, and pale face.

In a very short time they were seated on either side of the table, drinking fragrant creamy tea and chatting as friendly as though they had often met before. Anne, who had brought another cup and saucer, had been told his errand, and with quiet politeness expressed his eagerness to oblige. Esther looked at him with interest. Somehow she had expected to see quite a young man, but Anne was old—older than his mistress. That he was a foreigner, too, there could be no doubt; his speech, his appearance, his every action bespoke the fact.

"Is—is Mr. Anne French too?" asked Esther, and then blushed, fearing she had been rude.

But Mademoiselle nodded brightly. "Yes. Call him 'Anne,' please, dear. His name is Anne Roth. His parents came to England with mine, when they had to fly from France, and he and his have been with me and mine ever since. Ah! but he is a dear, faithful soul is Anne, and so is Laura, his English wife. They would not leave me, even when I came to this far-away spot. At first it made them sad, I think, but now they have come to like it."

"Were you exiles?" asked Esther, with eager interest. "Oh, how interesting!"

Mademoiselle Leperier's heart warmed towards her sympathetic visitor with the eager face, and soon they were deep in talk, so deep that they were surprised when Anne knocked at the door to say he had come to know if the young m'amzelle was ready to be conducted home.

Under the spell of her hostess's kind face and voice Esther had told some of her story too—told more, really, than she could have believed possible considering that she had not spoken of the events of that afternoon, nor to what led to her appearance at Edless, as the spot was called where Mademoiselle lived.

"May I come to see you again?" she asked impulsively, as she put up her face to kiss the gentle, fragile-looking French lady.

"Will you, dear? I shall be so pleased if your cousin will permit you. It is a little desolate here, and triste at times, for I cannot read or write much, or use my needle; my eyes are not strong."

"Those bright, shining eyes not strong!" thought Esther with surprise. "Could I read to you sometimes, or write for you, or sew?" she asked eagerly. "I am sure Cousin Charlotte would be pleased for me to, and—and I should love to. May I?"

"If la cousine does not object, dear child, I should be grateful indeed; but, remember, she does not know me, or anything of me, and you must not be angry if she does not permit you. It would be but natural."

"Oh, I am sure she will," said Esther confidently, and out she stepped into the darkness with Anne.

To the end of her life Esther will never forget that walk across the moor under the cold blue of the darkening sky—the long, mysterious-looking Stretches of darkness with here and there a big rock standing up grim and gaunt in the silence, the vastness in which they seemed but specks, the shrill, sweet voices of the birds calling to each other, and the busy, persistent voice of the river, added to the weirdness and loneliness of the experience. The only lifelike sounds were their own footsteps, and it was only here and there, when they got on to rough ground and off the turf, that these could be heard.

Esther grew oppressed by the awe and silence. She longed for her companion to speak. She would have said something herself, only she did not know what to begin about, and it needed courage to break, with her small voice, that vast silence.

At last though, a rabbit, or some other wild animal that loves the night-time and the silence, darted right across their path, making her start and scream. The shock past, she laughed a little with shame of her own weakness. The scream and the laugh broke the spell.

"It was very silly of me, but it came so suddenly," she explained apologetically.

"It did, m'amzelle. I expect you are not used to such places at night?"

"No, not at night. We love the moor, though, by day, and know it well, and I am not really afraid of the wild things."

"No, m'amzelle," politely. Silence followed again. Esther grew desperate.

"I—I hope your wife will soon be better," she said sympathetically.

"Thank you, m'amzelle. I hope so, too."

"Is she very ill?"

"Well, not—not dangerous, but she troubles. Our M'amzelle Lucille is not strong, she suffers so, and when Laura—my wife—is ill, M'amzelle does too much, she is so good."

"Can't you have some one in to help you?" asked practical Esther.

"No, m'amzelle, we are so far away. But we do not want any one really. I can do all. I know how to nurse," with evident pride, "but M'amzelle likes to help us, and—and she is not strong, she suffers so."

"Does she?" asked Esther sympathetically. "I am so sorry. I noticed she was lame. Does she suffer pain from her lameness?"

"Yes, m'amzelle. She had a fall some years ago. You know, I daresay, that M'amzelle Lucille was at one time a famous singer. No? She has not told you? Then perhaps I should not have, but I thought that when she told you her name you would know."

"I can keep a secret," said Esther. "I will never mention it if I may not. Why did M'amzelle stop singing and come here?"

"Ah, she stopped singing long, long before she came here. She never sang after the great trouble came to her life, when the great English gentleman she was so soon to marry was killed."

Esther gave a little cry of horror. "Oh, how dreadful, but—but how—was it an accident?"

Anne's tongue was loosened now, he needed no questioning; he had so few opportunities to talk, he could not resist this one, and he wanted every one's sympathy for his beloved mistress. "Yes, it was an accident, a fearful, a cruel accident, and it happened less than a week before the wedding day. They were together at a station waiting for a train, when some one ran against him with so great force he reeled, he lost his balance, he fell forward, right off the platform—the train was just coming in!" Anne's voice died away in an awful impressive silence. "M'amzelle Lucille sprang to catch him—"

"Oh!" gasped Esther, in horror.

"They saved her," he added significantly; "but she was injured, she was lame always from that day, and her eyes were injured. She may be blind, some day—if she lives. He was killed before her eyes."

"Oh, poor M'amzelle Leperier," groaned Esther, her heart aching with the tragedy of the terrible story. "I wonder it did not kill her."

"It nearly did," said Anne significantly.

"And her singing?"

"She never sang again, m'amzelle. She says her voice broke with the shock—but it was her heart that broke. She loved him so; it was too cruel, too terrible."

"Did you come here to live then?"

"No, m'amzelle, not for a long time. We travelled from place to place. M'amzelle Lucille said she would go alone, but my wife and I would not leave her, she was so lonely, so triste, she had no one but us. Wherever we went people stared at her and annoyed her so. Very often they recognised her, she was so well known; or they saw she was beautiful, and they knew her story, or found it out, and they had no delicacy, no feeling. We always had to leave. Last year we came here. M'amzelle does not suffer here, except from loneliness, and I think she never will, but it is too lonely for her. I hope you will come to see her, m'amzelle. She likes you, I can see."

Esther was delighted. Here, at last, was some one who really needed her. In her heart she determined to devote all her spare time to M'amzelle Lucille. The walk home was over much sooner than she wished. She could have gone on listening to Anne for miles further, but the bridge was crossed, the lights began to show in the cottage windows, and soon they were at the gate of Moor Cottage.

Here Esther's new joy began to moderate. It was quite dark now. Anne told her it was nearly six o'clock. What would Cousin Charlotte be thinking? Now she had time to spare a thought for her, Esther felt sorry and ashamed.

The sounds of their footsteps or voices must have reached the anxious ears within, for even while she was saying 'good-night' to her companion the cottage door was opened wide, letting a flood of light pour along the pathway. "Esther, dear, is that you?" asked Cousin Charlotte's gentle voice reproachfully, and Esther flew to her and flung her arms about her.

"Oh, Cousin Charlotte, I am so sorry," she cried repentantly. "I can't tell you how sorry. I didn't mean to be so late, really—at least, at first I did—but—but—I shouldn't have—"

"Never mind now, dear. Come in and warm yourself, and you can tell me all about it later. You have frightened me dreadfully, Esther; but just now I am too relieved to scold, only—only don't do it again, it is more than I can endure bravely," and Cousin Charlotte leaned down and kissed her.

Esther saw then that she was white and trembling, that tears glistened in her eyes, and understood for the first time how much Cousin Charlotte cared.

"Oh, Cousin Charlotte, Cousin Charlotte," she cried remorsefully, "if only I were like you. I wish I could be good. I do want to be, I do really."

"Try to be good, but not like me, dear," said Cousin Charlotte huskily, "or you will be a very weak and foolish old woman. Now," with another kiss, "run upstairs and take off your hat and shoes, and come and tell us all your adventures. We have all been dreadfully anxious."

Esther went upstairs feeling far more remorseful than if Miss Charlotte had scolded her well. When she had taken off her hat and shoes, and made herself tidy, she felt really shy of going down to face them all. But while she was hesitating, the door opened and Poppy flew into the room and straight to Esther's arms.

"Oh, Essie, I couldn't wait, and Cousin Charlotte said I might come up for you. Are you all right? You are not hurt or—"

"You have been crying," broke in Esther. "Oh, Poppy, I made you!"

"I couldn't help just a teeny tiny little cry, but it was only a tear or two when I thought the wild beasts had got you and were eating you right up. Come down now."

In the dining-room it was all so cosy and pleasant that Esther soon forgot her embarrassment, and, seated in the midst of the circle round the fire, was soon telling her story to a rapt audience.

"I should love to see the little cottage, and have tea in that dear little room," said Angela, after Esther had described her sudden discovery of the little brown house and the flower-filled garden.

"Mademoiselle Leperier!" cried Miss Ashe quite excitedly. "Why, child, I remember her quite well; at least her name and fame, and the tragedy of her lover's death. I have often wondered what had become of the poor lady."

"Have you?" cried Esther, delighted. "Cousin Charlotte, I wish you would get to know her. I am sure she is very lonely."

"Perhaps she prefers loneliness, dear. I should be only too pleased to show friendly neighbourliness to the poor lady if she would like it, but sometimes it is greater kindness not to intrude. You can go there, dear, if you and she wish it, and perhaps the friendliness will increase by degrees."

"Is she very ill? Does she have a great lot of pain?" asked Poppy anxiously. "I wonder if she knows she may be blind some day. Why doesn't she have a doctor?" Poppy had no doubt in her mind that a doctor could cure every ill human beings can suffer.

"She has seen nearly every famous doctor there is," said Esther, "so Anne said. But, Poppy, if you ever see Mademoiselle, you must never let her know that we know about it, and never speak about her to any one. Do you hear? You won't, will you, dear? She might not like it."

Poppy promised. "Oh, no," she cried emphatically, "tourse not "; and Poppy's promises were always kept. "Esther, hasn't she got any eyes, and is she very sad, and—and—"

"Not at all. She was anxious about Laura, and she looked thin and delicate, but you would never know she was suffering; and her eyes are as bright and pretty as any I have ever seen."

Then Penelope, who had been all this time thinking things over, began to put her questions. All her curiosity was about Mademoiselle's singing, but Esther could tell her little on that point. "Perhaps she will tell me more when I know her better," she said hopefully, and went to bed in high spirits at the thought of the new friend she had made, and of another visit to the dear little cottage soon.



CHAPTER XIII.

"Angela, has Fluffy laid an egg to-day?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Will you sell it to me? I've got the money for it." Poppy opened her hand to display the penny she had been tightly grasping.

"What do you want to buy an egg for?" asked Angela, with sudden caution. "I don't think you had better eat any more without asking Cousin Charlotte first. You had a big breakfast."

"I don't want to eat it," cried Poppy, in a tone of wounded dignity. "I want it to—to give to some one."

"Some poor person?"

"Well, yes, I think she is poor. I know she is not well, and eggs are good for people who are not well."

"Yes, very. Well, there's the egg. Isn't it a beauty? I call it perfectly lovely." Angela looked at it lovingly. To her there never were or would be such eggs as her Fluffikins laid. "Now do be careful. How are you going to carry it?"

Poppy ran off, and in a moment was back again with a little covered basket lined with hay. Evidently it had been prepared beforehand for this purpose. The egg was laid in and carefully covered over, and the lid shut down and secured.

"Are you going with it now?" asked Angela.

"In a minute. I have to get something else too."

The girls were always very considerate to each other over their little mysteries and secrets, so Angela, without further inquiry, went away to her hens, and Poppy hurried off to the end of the garden, where she gathered a bunch of beautiful green parsley, and wrapped it round with a piece of paper which she tied with a little piece of pink ribbon she had saved on some previous occasion.

Miss Charlotte and Anna were in the kitchen arranging the meals for the day. Esther was busy in the bedroom, Angela was in the hen-house, and Penelope already at the church, practising, for although it was Easter, and holiday time, she continued her organ-practice daily. So no one saw Poppy as she and Guard started off together. She was bound on a secret expedition to Mademoiselle Leperier, carrying with her all she could compass as suitable offerings to an invalid—a new-laid egg and a bunch of her own fresh parsley. She had not mentioned her plan to Miss Charlotte— not because she was afraid of being stopped, but because she wanted to give of her very own, and not make demands on Cousin Charlotte. She knew if she did speak of it that Miss Ashe would be thinking of all sorts of things to send, and Poppy did not want that. She wanted it to be entirely her own little scheme, in gratitude to the poor lady for her kindness to Esther.

She did not know in the least how long the walk would be, but she was prepared for it to take her a very great while. Essie had said it was a long way there but a short way back, and it had not occurred to either of them to wonder how this could be possible. Thinking, though, of the expedition before her as something very great, she hurried along without once pausing to look at the river or play on the bridge or pay heed to any of the hundreds of attractions which lie on a walk on a beautiful spring day. Guard made little dashes and excursions in all directions, but was never absent for more than a moment or two from his little mistress's side.

Now and again Poppy sat down on a big boulder to rest, standing her basket on the ground beside her, and she and Guard would gaze eagerly about them at the wide-spreading sunny moorland; and probably both of them thought of the games they might be having there if matters so serious were not engaging their attention, but no thought of doing so crossed their minds now.

The result of all this haste was that, long before she expected it, Poppy found herself face to face with the little brown cottage, and felt there must be some mistake. This could not be the place, she thought; it must be another. Perhaps, oh dreadful doubt! she had come the wrong way. She was a very wise little person, though, and to make sure, before she went further, she determined to go in and inquire.

Rather timidly, but full of interest, she walked along the paved garden path, and tapped at the door with her knuckles, not being able to reach the knocker. It was a feeble knock, but soon called forth an answer. A man opened it, an elderly man—Anne himself, in fact.

"Please does Mademoiselle Le-le-, the French lady, live here?" she asked, finding some difficulty in pronouncing the long French name.

"Yes, m'amzelle. M'amzelle Leperier lives here."

Poppy was a little non-plussed. She had not thought out any plan or reason to give for her visit, nor how she was to reach the presence of Esther's new friend, but her usual ready frankness stood her in good stead. "I have come to ask how she is, and how—how Anne's wife is. My sister Esther was here last night. Made—Miss, the French lady, asked her to tea, and—and sent her home with a Mr. Anne." The man smiled.

"Ah! I know. The young lady I conducted to her home last night— Miss Esthaire. Come inside, m'amzelle. I know M'amzelle Leperier will wish to see you."

A sudden shyness rushed over Poppy. "Oh, I—I don't think I had better come in, thank you. I didn't mean to do that. I have to go all the way home, and it will take me rather a long time. I—I only brought a fresh egg that Angela's hen laid this morning, and some parsley out of my own garden for—for Miss Leperier, and perhaps if she didn't like it she might give it to your wife. I am sorry I had nothing nicer."

"There couldn't be anything nicer, m'amzelle," said Anne Roth with ready tact. "It will come in for an omelette for the mistress's lunch, and the parsley too, it will be most useful. How fine it is. We have none here. It is always a difficulty to get any."

"Oh, I am so glad I brought it!" cried Poppy, flushing with delight. "If ever you want any, do come and have some of mine. I have a whole bedful, and all from a penny packet of seed that I sowed myself. I should be delighted to give you some at any time."

She refrained from mentioning the fact that it was her only source of income. She had thrust the basket and the parsley into the man's hand, and was edging away.

"But M'amzelle will be annoyed with me if I let you go all the way back without any rest," he pleaded. "Please to enter, m'amzelle."

At that moment Mademoiselle Leperier herself appeared. Anne turned to her with relief.

"Here, M'amzelle, is the sister of the young lady who was here last night. She has come with kind inquiries for M'amzelle and my wife."

Mademoiselle Leperier stepped to the door, and taking the blushing Poppy's hands in both her own, stooped and kissed her. "Oh, you dear child, how sweet of you," she cried with warm delight. "Come in, you must come in. Is that beautiful dog at the gate yours? I saw him there and felt I must go out and speak to him, and then I heard your voice and Anne's. Do call him in, I want to know him too. You must both come."

There was no shyness or hesitation about Guard; he hurried in almost before he was invited to, and he and his little mistress found themselves in the room Esther had described so vividly the night before, only now it was lit by sunshine instead of fire and lamp. Poppy did not like to look about her, she knew it was not polite to do so, but her eye fell on the dresser with its lovely china, and the blue bowl of primroses and moss and ivy leaves on the little black table, and thought it all more perfect even than she had imagined.

Guard, as though feeling he was too large for the small room, went over and sat close against the wall by the window, shedding around him genial smiles in return for all the attentions lavished on him. Anne was despatched for milk and biscuits; and while he was gone Mademoiselle inquired for Esther, and how she got home, politely hoping they had not been very anxious.

"Yes, we were; we were very anxious, thank you," said Poppy, half absently. She was looking at her hostess, and thinking of the story she had heard of her. It seemed so wonderful that after going through such terrible tragedies she could laugh and talk and be interested in little every-day matters. But she was, especially when Poppy, at last recovering her tongue, told her all about themselves, and their father and mother in Canada, and how they four came to Cousin Charlotte's because no one else could have them, and how frightened they ware until they saw her, but were never frightened after, she was so kind; and how they all wanted to help her, and how they tried all sorts of ways.

Mademoiselle was very interested in the parsley-bed, and Angela's hen, and Esther helping in the house, and Penelope's desire to be able to play the organ and sing; and Poppy chattered on, delighted to find so interested a listener.

"I think it quite cheered her and did her good," she confided to Angela later. "She said it did, and she asked me to come again; and I am to keep threepennyworth of parsley for her every week. Isn't it lovely! A whole shilling a month! Oh, I wish I had a whole garden to sow parsley in. Do you think it will go on growing for ever, Angela?"

Angela did not know, but she was hopeful. Ephraim, however, thought that at the rate she was picking it her crop would not last another month, and strongly advised the clearing of a part of the bed and tilling more seeds.

But when Poppy went to Esther to tell her about her expedition, she met with a disappointment. Esther did not seem at all pleased at the attentions she had shown the invalids. She seemed, in fact, quite annoyed.

"I was going myself," she said coldly, "by and by; but I sha'n't now, of course. I don't suppose Mademoiselle Leperier wants the whole Carroll family continually going to her house. It was not right for you, either, to go all that way alone; it was not safe."

"I had Guard with me," said the crestfallen Poppy. "I didn't know you wouldn't like it, Essie. I thought you—you would be glad." Her lip would quiver a little as she spoke. "I—I only wanted to be kind to the poor lady because she was kind to you, and I—didn't mean to go inside, but she made me. Aren't you really going again, Esther? She expects you, she said so."

"I can't go if all the rest of you keep going. Besides, Mademoiselle won't want me."

"Oh yes, she will," cried Poppy, almost in tears. "She does want you; and—and I won't go any more if you don't like me to. You can take the parsley for me. I wish now I hadn't promised to bring it; but they can't get any one to come, and—and—" and then a tear really forced its way out and fell; but at the sight of it Esther's better nature conquered her temper, and she took her little sister in her arms with real remorse.

"No, darling, you shall go, and we will go together; but not always," she added presently. "I should like to go alone sometimes, Poppy, to have a quiet talk with Mademoiselle."



CHAPTER XIV.

To-morrow was Poppy's birthday, and all day long there had been mysterious whisperings and signs and nods, hasty dashes in and out of the house, invasions of Mrs. Vercoe's and Mrs. Bennett's shops, and great mysteriousness on the part of Ephraim, who had to make a special journey to Gorley.

And all the time Poppy, with a little thrill of excitement at her heart, went about pretending to see and hear nothing, and half wishing her senses were not so acute.

Miss Charlotte was very vexed with herself. She had made an engagement for the very afternoon of the great day, and could not get out of it.

"I am so vexed I did not remember, dears," she said; "but it was so long ago I was asked, and I had to accept or refuse then and there, and I really did not realise what the date actually was. I should have liked, above all things, to have been home with you on that day."

The children were very sorry too; but seeing Cousin Charlotte so vexed they made light of their own disappointment.

Anna was vexed too. To her the birthday tea was the great feature of the birthday, and she had, days before, with a great deal of trouble to keep it a secret from the children, made and baked a beautiful birthday cake, which now lay hidden away in a white cloth in a tin box in the copper in the wash-kitchen.

On this day, the day before the great day itself, when she had for the first time realised that the children would be alone on the important occasion, her mind had grown very seriously troubled, so troubled that she could think of nothing else, until suddenly a beautiful idea came into her head, so beautiful an idea that Anna fairly gasped. Later on, when she had really sorted out her plans, she went upstairs to a big box in her bedroom which held untold stores of treasures, and searched until she drew from the depths a box of little sheets of fancy note-paper and envelopes. This was hid in the copper too, along with the cake; but only until the children had all gone to bed and the house was quiet.

As soon as ever she was sure there would be no more rushes into the kitchen that night, Anna got out the wooden box with 'Hudson's Soap Powder' stuck all over it, in which she kept her writing materials; and then, withdrawing the box of fancy note-paper from its hiding-place, she sat down, and taking out sheet by sheet, spread them all on the table before her.

"It do seem a pity to use it after keeping it all these years," she said regretfully, as she examined each one. They were all different. "But there, there couldn't be a better time. They'm just what I want." So hardening her heart against any further regrets, she proceeded to make her choice.

"I think Miss Poppy ought to have the roses. They'm considered the best of all the flowers, and 'tis her day. Then Miss Esther shall have—let me see. They'm all so pretty I don't hardly know which to choose for which— oh, Miss Angela shall have the daisies, somehow they remind me of her, and vi'lets seems like Miss Esther's flower, and I'll give the sunflowers to Miss Penelope."

That settled, and four envelopes picked out and inscribed each with one of the children's names, Anna squared her elbows and began the real work of the evening. First she took some old scraps of paper, and wrote note after note on them before she succeeded in pleasing herself. At last she accomplished what she wanted, and feeling satisfied, copied it out, word for word, on the four sheets of note-paper. She hesitated as to whether she should not put her writing on the plain side, and so avoid marring the fair beauty of the flowered side, but she thought better of it, and hardened her heart; and after one had been done she did not mind so very much.

It was almost late when at last she went to bed, her task had taken her so long, and the clock actually struck ten as she crept into Esther's room and left two of her little notes on the dressing-table, after depositing the other two in Penelope's and Angela's room.

Poppy, being the heroine of the day, was naturally the first to wake the next morning. At the remembrance of what the occasion was, she sat straight up in bed with excitement, and nearly shouted; then she saw that Esther was asleep still. It seemed very hard that every one else should be asleep, and quite lost to the greatness of the occasion, while she was awake and alert, all ready to receive congratulations.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness she could make out a square, fascinating-looking parcel on the table by Esther's bed, after which it became almost intolerably hard to lie still and wait for the others to wake. The little heroine's excitement began to give way to quite a hurt feeling. It seemed as though no one could care, or they would never sleep on like this. She actually began to feel aggrieved; but she sprang out of bed to try to drive away the feeling by looking out to see what the morning and the weather were like. She might, if she had liked, have pulled back the curtains in a way that would have waked Esther at once; but she drew them as gently as though her one anxiety was not to disturb her sister, and opening the window, looked out.

Oh, how lovely it was! Poppy, child as she was, gasped at the sight before her. Road and river, houses and moor, lay bathed in the clear glow of the beautiful pure morning sunshine. Every leaf and twig sparkled with dew; even the little window-panes in the cottages glittered and looked beautiful. On the moor opposite great cloud-like masses of mist rolled away quickly before the advancing sun, leaving the old brown moor behind it, flashing from thousands of tiny leaves and blades. The river gleamed and scintillated as it danced along, singing as it went.

"Everything seems to know what day it is," said Poppy gleefully. "Oh, you dear river, you dear sun, you dear, dear moor and houses, how I love you all!"

She softly closed the window and turned away to get back to bed. As she turned her eye fell on two little envelopes, one pink, the other lilac-coloured.

"What can they be?" she cried, as she read the inscriptions on them.

'Miss Esther.'

'Miss Popy.'

Taking up the one addressed to her, and carefully opening it, she took out the pretty sheet with the spray of rosebuds scattered over the page. Across the rosebuds, sprawled in big letters,—

"Anna rekuests the pleasure of Miss Popy's compny to tea in the kitchun at five o'clock.

"Yours respectfly

"Anna."

The rustling of the paper had aroused Esther at last. First she opened one eye, then the other, and would have shut both again, only they happened to fall on the white parcel beside her.

"Why, it has come! The day has come! It is Poppy's birthday!" she thought. She sprang up in a moment, wide awake. "Many happy returns of the day," she cried. "Oh, Poppy, have you been out of bed long? Come into my bed and get warm. Here is something for you. Why, what have you got there?" Poppy was dancing about the room in a high state of glee, waving a letter in her hand.

"Oh, thank you, darling," she cried, seizing the parcel and hugging Esther at the same time. "And here's something for you. Won't it be fun! Isn't Anna a dear! I do love her. I fink I love every body."

"Get into bed," commanded careful Esther, and Poppy hopped into her sister's bed before she even stayed to open her first birthday present.

Esther's gift was a book, which she had bought for her little sister the last time she was at Gorley. Poppy was delighted. New books, or even old ones, came to her so seldom. She loved them with such a love as only the unspoiled child can know. While she was still crooning over it, looking at the pictures, examining the covers, patting it and loving it as though it were a living, feeling thing, the other two came flying in, all excitement. Each held in one hand a letter, in the other a small parcel.

"Many happy returns of the day. Oh, you darling!" as they caught sight of Poppy's dark head and beaming face in Esther's bed. "Just look at our letters,—oh, you have got some too? Isn't it lovely of Anna? I think she is a perfect dear." Both talked at once, and as fast as their tongues could wag. "Here's a present for you," said Penelope, laying her parcel very carefully in Poppy's lap, and kissing her on the top of her curly poll.

"Jump in too, at the bottom," said Esther; and soon all four were tightly packed into the little bed.

Poppy's fingers shook as she fumbled with the string. It was a curious-shaped parcel, and Penelope kept enjoining her to be very careful, and not to turn it over. When at last she did undo the wrappings, and the box inside, and found a tiny red flower-pot with a baby cactus in it, her joy knew no bounds.

"I am afraid you won't care for mine very much," said Angela meekly. "It is something for your room." But Poppy was equally delighted with the little blue pincushion, with her name, 'Poppy,' outlined in bright new pins. "It is stuffed with tiny, soft, beautiful feathers from our own hens," explained Angela. "I've been saving them, and Anna baked them for me."

They all agreed that it was a perfectly lovely birthday morning, one of the nicest they had ever known, and when the presents had been examined and discussed, Anna's pretty writing-paper came in for a long examination.

"I like mine best," said Esther, and all agreed they each preferred their own.

"Mine ought to have had poppies on it," said their little namesake; "but I do like roses best."

"Anna gave you the roses because the rose is the queen of flowers, and you are the queen of the day, I expect."

Then Anna came in to call them, and at the sight of the four figures in the bed immediately collapsed on to a seat by the door, and laughed and laughed until they laughed too from the infection of it.

"We'd best stop ourselves," she said presently, rising, and trying to make her face very grave. "Laugh before breakfast, cry before night, they do say; and we don't want no tears this day, do we?"

"Oh no," they all agreed, and tried very hard to draw long serious faces at once; but it was difficult on a birthday, and holiday, with the sun shining, and the birds singing, and tea in the kitchen in prospect.

When Poppy presently danced singing down to breakfast, she found by her plate another present—a pretty scarlet housewife from Cousin Charlotte, containing a little pair of scissors, a silver thimble, a case of needles, a stiletto, a bodkin, and two of the tiniest reels of silk she had ever seen. When the case was closed it looked like a dear little red hand-bag.

There was a letter, too, from Canada from father, for the mail happened to come in that very day. Such a nice letter it was—so full of love for his little daughter, and longing to see her, and all of them. "Sometimes I feel I cannot bear this exile from my little ones any longer," he wrote. "If I do run away from here and return, will you help to make a home for your old father and mother? or will you want to remain with Cousin Charlotte always? Give her my love and grateful thanks for all her kindness to my chicks."

Angela cried a little over this letter. "I don't believe father is a bit happy out there," she said. "I do wish he would come home and live here, and mother too. It would be so jolly, and I'm sure they would love it."

A little cloud of sadness rested on them for a while, but for Poppy's sake they put away all sad thoughts, and began to make all kinds of nice plans for the day, and before very long they were all as merry as grigs. Cousin Charlotte was really very pleased when she heard of Anna's invitation.

"I wish you were coming too," cried Esther, "then it would be all quite perfect,—oh, and there's Ephraim. I do think Anna ought to invite him too—don't you, Cousin Charlotte?"

"You had better ask her," said Miss Ashe with a smile. But Anna did not smile when they put the question to her. "Me ask Ephraim!" she cried indignantly. "Me ask him! No, my dears, 'tain't likely as I shall ask him to tea in my kitchen, so he needn't expect it," and she bustled away, sniffing and snorting in a perfect fury of disgust apparently. Why she should show such scorn and contempt of poor Ephraim no one could ever understand; but some very wise, sharp-eyed people had been known to say that she over-acted her contempt for all men, and Ephraim in particular, and that really—well, they even went so far as to say she had so warm a spot in her heart for him, she was always afraid some one would find it out.

But, if it was so, she acted so well that neither Ephraim nor the children ever suspected it was acting.

Having made their suggestion, and not met with the success they had expected, they turned their thoughts next to the spending of their morning. With one consent they agreed it was to be spent on the moor.

"I will wear my watch," said Esther, "and we will see how far we can get; but we will come back to 'the castle' for lunch, won't we?"

All agreed joyfully; and Miss Charlotte's permission having been obtained, Anna packed them two noble baskets of provisions, and gave them a can of milk. Poppy was loth to go away and leave her new treasures, and debated long whether she would not carry her book or her cactus with her—one would be so nice to read on the way, and the sunshine would be so good for the plant; but on the others pointing out to her that she would not be away so very long, she finally agreed to leave both in Anna's care.

"Don't you think," said Penelope, when at last, after many wanderings this way and that, they reached the castle, and she had dropped her basket and thrown herself on the ground beside it—"don't you think we might leave the baskets and can here? It will be ever so much nicer not to have to carry them all the way, and I should think they would be quite safe if we hide them very carefully."

All agreed at once that it was a splendid idea, and quite safe, for they scarcely ever saw any one on the moor but themselves; and the baskets were heavy, and the milk was apt to slop, and it would be much nicer to go on with free hands.

"We will try a new way to-day, shall we?" cried Penelope; and they bore away to the right instead of keeping straight on up the slope, wandering hither and thither, it is true, but still bearing in the same direction, until presently they came out by the station.

A train was just coming in, and they stopped to watch it—a great delight to them always, for the coming and going of the trains was one of the greatest excitements of their lives. They never expected to see any one they knew; but the sight of the people in it, even if they did not get out, afforded them interest and food for talk, wondering where they were going, and whether they wanted to go or not, and making up all sorts of tales about them and the people they were going to. An engine is always fascinating, too.

To-day, though, was quite an unusual day. First Anne Roth got out, and then Miss Row and her guest Mr. Somerset. Anne left the platform first, and was walking briskly away when he caught sight of the children, and came up to them smiling and bowing.

"How is Mademoiselle?" asked Esther, who never forgot her inquiries.

"Not very well, m'amzelle," Anne answered sadly. "I think she is suffering, and her spirits are low. If m'amzelle could find time to come and cheer her, she would be glad, I know, and it would do her much good." He glanced at the others; but they had learned that Esther disliked any encroachment on what she considered her rights.

"Oh, yes, I will come," she answered gladly. "I will come to-morrow. I cannot to-day, for it is my little sister's birthday, and we have had an invitation to tea; but I will come to-morrow, and I will bring a book. Perhaps Mademoiselle would like to be read to."

"I am sure she would," agreed Anne. "Thank you, m'amzelle. Bon jour "; and with a bow which included them all, Anne hurried on.

As he went Miss Row was rapidly approaching the spot where the children stood. She looked with curious, suspicious eyes after Anne, and then at the children.

"Who is your friend?" she asked with frank curiosity..

"That is Anne Roth, Mademoiselle Leperier's man," said Esther, not without a touch of importance in tone and manner. "Mademoiselle Leperier is a friend of mine," she added. She still felt a little sore that Miss Row had passed her over for Penelope, and she was not sorry to let her know she had friends who could appreciate her.

Mr. Somerset had been teasing Poppy in the meantime, and laughing with the others.

"What a pretty name," said Miss Row, who was very curious and wanted to find out more; but she already knew enough of Esther to understand that she must not let her curiosity be apparent.

"Yes, it is," agreed Esther, by her little vanity falling easily into the trap laid for her; "and she is so pretty, too, and she had such a lovely voice once. She was a very famous singer years ago, but she never sings now—"

Then remembering, she stopped suddenly in her chatter, colouring hotly with anger with herself, and embarrassment, as she glanced round and saw all eyes fixed on her. It seemed to her that every one was listening to her indiscreet, foolish talk. Mr. Somerset had ceased playing with Poppy, and was listening with particular interest.

"Mademoiselle Leperier," he cried, drawing nearer. "You don't mean to say she is in the neighbourhood! You never told me," turning to Miss Row, "what a celebrity you had in your midst. I should so much like to meet her—quite an interesting personality. I have always wanted to know her. Don't you know her story?" And in a few brief, cold words he gave the outline of the bitter tragedy of the singer's life.

Esther chafed and boiled with anger against them, and resentment and rage with herself. She realised to the fall now what she had done. She had destroyed Mademoiselle Leperier's peace and seclusion. She had laid her open to curiosity and unwelcome visitors, and—and she might even have driven her from that neighbourhood, and Mademoiselle would know it was her fault, and blame her, and never like her again.

Oh! it was bitter to think that she had done it, she who loved Mademoiselle so, and knew and understood her, who meant to have been such a comfort to her. Poor Esther was heartbroken as she realised it all. Something must be done, she determined. She must do something to undo some of the mischief. She could not let things go on like this; it was too dreadful.

They turned to her full of inquiries. Where did Mademoiselle Leperier live? What did she look like? Who lived with her? etc. etc. Esther set her lips tight. They should get no more out of her. In the first place she could decline to tell them where Mademoiselle lived. If they determined to find out, she must find some means of preventing their going.

When Miss Row had asked three or four questions and got no answer, she began to grow annoyed. "What is the matter with you, child? Why don't you speak when you are spoken to? Don't you know how rude it is?"

"Yes, I do know," said Esther, in a very trembling voice, "and I am very sorry, but I am not going to tell any one anything more about Mademoiselle. I—I ought not to have said anything. I promised her I wouldn't. I am very sorry I did—"

"Dear me! dear me! how important we are!" cried Miss Row, whose temper was far from being one of the best. "Let me inform you that we all knew of Mademoiselle Leperier before you were born, and Mr. Somerset knew her personally—"

Mr. Somerset stepped forward, colouring a little. "I—I am afraid I can hardly claim that much," he said hastily. "She was so great and so sought after, and—and so exclusive, it was difficult to get to know her— unless,"—with a smirk—"one were a celebrity too."

Miss Row looked at him as crossly as she had at Esther. She hated to find herself mistaken at all.

"But I thought," he went on hastily, "I would very much like to see this celebrity of a past generation, the heroine of such a romance, in her—ah —in her retirement. Perhaps she would not be so exclusive now. A chat with her would be most interesting—such valuable 'copy.' I really must try to accomplish it. Shall we call, dear Miss Row? I am sure you and she would be mutually pleased."

Esther's feelings became too much for her. She did not know what 'copy' meant; but she felt certain that this kind of person was the very last Mademoiselle would wish to see.

"Oh, please don't," she cried anxiously. "Please, you mustn't go there. Mademoiselle herself told me she did not want any visitors, and Anne told me she came here on purpose that she might be quite quiet, because she can't see them. Please don't go. If people call she will go away— I'm sure she will. Anne says she had to move from ever so many places because people would not let her be quiet. Please don't let her know that I said she lived here. I did not mean to—"

"Dear me! I suppose you have the exclusive right to the lady's society— that, knowing Miss Esther Carroll, she does not require any other friends!" Miss Row's sneering, sarcastic words brought the colour to Esther's cheeks and the tears to her eyes.

"I didn't—mean—that," she stammered confusedly, bitterly hurt. "You know I didn't," then turned away hastily that they might not see how weak she was.

All this time the others had stood by listening, growing more and more indignant with Miss Row, and more and more sorry for Esther. At first they were afraid to say anything for fear they might make matters worse, but Miss Row's last speech was more then they could bear. Angela ran to Esther with blazing cheeks and flashing eyes. "Never mind, dear," she cried, putting her arms about her. "You were very brave to speak up so."

Penelope stepped nearer to Miss Row. Her cheeks were white, her eyes very bright and indignant.

"It is not fair to speak to Esther like that, Miss Row," she said reproachfully. "It was by accident she came to know Mademoiselle Leperier, and Mademoiselle asked her to go again, or she wouldn't have gone, for Esther knew she did not want to have strange visitors—she told her so. She said she didn't want any one to know she was living here, for she was not strong enough to have visitors, or to go anywhere. Esther ought not to have said anything about her, and she was frightened when she had; but when she had, she had to tell you—about—about not going there."

Miss Row was not in the frame of mind to be reasonable. She felt she was in the wrong, and that made her the more cross. "Well, Penelope," she said icily, "I did not expect to be spoken to like this by you, after all I have done for you, too. I did expect civility and some gratitude in return, I must confess; but I find I have been grossly mistaken in you."

Penelope started, and her face flushed crimson.

"I suppose," went on Miss Row, turning to Mr. Somerset, "I was foolish to expect it from children brought up as they were." Then turning to Penelope again—"Esther's unfortunate temper one has grown accustomed to; but you—"

Penelope hung her head for a moment, overcome with mortification; then suddenly raising it she looked fearlessly, but wistfully, into Miss Row's angry eyes. "I wish you would understand," she said earnestly. "We neither of us mean to be rude or—or ungrateful." She stammered a little over the last word. "It was only Mademoiselle we were thinking of—and—and then you were unfair to Esther, and—and I couldn't bear that."

"And I can't bear rudeness," said Miss Row, beginning to move away. Her face was very red, and her eyes ugly. "Don't come to me again this week for a lesson," she said, turning round to face Penelope once more. "I—I don't want to see you for a while. When I do I will send for you."; and Miss Row walked away very quickly, chattering volubly all the way to her companion, while Penelope stood, stunned and wounded, scarcely able to believe her own ears.

For a few seconds she remained looking after the retreating pair, then turned, walked silently for a little distance, and suddenly dropped on the old brown turf in a passion of sobs.

For a moment Poppy gazed, too entirely astonished to know what to do. She could not remember when she had last seen Penelope weep; it happened so rarely. Flinging herself on the turf beside her, she threw her arms lovingly about her. "Don't cry, darling. Oh, Pen, don't cry," she pleaded. "It doesn't matter what that horrid old Miss Row says, and we all love you. Don't cry, dear." She was too young to comprehend what was hurting Penelope most—the words that rankled, and stung; the charge of ingratitude; the taunt; the throwing up to her of favours she had received—things no lady should ever permit herself to do.

Under the lash of it all Penelope sobbed on uncontrollably. When she did weep, she did weep—a perfect storm of tears that shook and exhausted her. Poppy grew frightened at the violence of her grief. There seemed to be something more here than she could understand. "Oh, where is Essie? Essie must come," she cried, raising herself on her knees and looking about for her sisters; but Esther and Angela were at some distance, walking slowly but steadily away, apparently absorbed in talk.

Poppy sighed a big sigh which sounded almost like a sob. "My poor little birthday," she murmured wistfully, "that I fought was going to be so lovely!"

The words and the tone touched Penelope. Her sobs grew less, broke forth again, then stopped, and she struggled up into a sitting position. "Oh, you poor little Poppet," she cried. "It is hard on you. I am so sorry, dear. It is too bad that your birthday should be spoilt like this. I wish—I wish we had kept to the moor, and not come anywhere near human beings." Tears welled up into her eyes again, but she only threw up her head and tilted her nose a little higher, as though to make them run back.

"Never mind, darling. We will try to forget all about it, and enjoy ourselves."; but a sob shook her even as she spoke.

"And it began so beautifully," Poppy was murmuring. "Anna said 'Laugh before breakfast, cry before night,' and it's come true. I'll never laugh before breakfast again."

Penelope listening to her, suddenly made up her mind. It should be a beautiful day, after all. They would put away all unpleasant thoughts for Poppy's sake. It rested with her to be cheerful herself, and to comfort and cheer up the others. She put her arms about her baby sister and drew her closer. "Poppy dear, don't tell Esther about—Miss Row being so— nasty, and about my crying. It will only trouble her more, and I want her to forget, and we will all try to be very jolly to-day, won't we?"

Poppy nodded her head vigorously; but there was a doubtful expression on her pretty face. "She will see you've been crying," she said gravely.

"No. We will sit here facing the breeze, and that will soon make my face and eyes look all right, and—we will laugh and talk as if nothing had happened. We are going to have a really jolly day, aren't we?"

Poppy nodded again; but a second later she shook her head gravely. "I sha'n't ever forget what Anna said about laughing before breakfast," she said very seriously. "It comes true."