Side by side on the springy turf the two little figures sat, leaning against each other lovingly, waiting for the sweet breeze to take away all traces of sorrow; telling secrets the while of what they would do by and by, when they were grown-up, and trying bravely to forget their own troubles for the benefit of others.



CHAPTER XV.

At last, finding the others did not come back to them, Poppy and Penelope got up and prepared to follow them. "I suppose they don't mean to go any farther in this direction," said Penelope. "Are my eyes all right, Poppy?"

Poppy assured her, truthfully, that no one would know she had shed a tear, and Esther and Angela, seated on a boulder waiting for them, saw no trace on either face, and suspected nothing of the storm that had come and gone since they parted.

"I am frantically hungry, aren't you?" called Penelope gaily, as they drew near.

They were all ravenous.

"Let's go back and have lunch at once," suggested Esther. "Did you get away from that horrid old thing pretty soon?"

They all understood who the 'horrid old thing' was without explanation, and none of them felt inclined to quarrel with the description.

"Oh yes, pretty soon," said Penelope, in an off-hand way, as she stooped to pick some sweet wild thyme.

"I shall never like her any more," said Angela emphatically. "She was so horrid to Esther."

"I wouldn't be taught by her for something," said Esther. "I don't envy you, Pen."

Pen felt a big sinking at her heart at the thought of her music lessons, and Miss Row's last words to her; but she made a brave effort to be cheerful. "She—she can be very nice," she said lamely.

"It's all very well for you to talk," said Angela, whose usually gentle spirit was greatly roused. "She didn't speak to you as she did to Esther."

Penelope gave Poppy a warning glance. "Well, she can be nice," she repeated, for want of something else to say. "Now come along, girls; do let's get back to 'the Castle' and have some lunch, and we'll forget all about Miss Row being so nasty. It is the Poppy's birthday, and we've got to think only of nice things. Now let's join hands and run down this slope."

With Poppy tightly grasped by her two eldest sisters, they flew over the ground as fast as their legs could go. Poppy, her feet scarcely touching the ground, shrieked with the greatest delight. Guard, who had been distractedly hovering between the two couples while their party was divided, barked and danced, and raced away and back again, as pleased as any of them.

They were quite exhausted before they reached 'the Castle,' and Poppy and Angela had to be allowed to sit down to recover their breath.

"I will go on and begin to get out the baskets," said Esther, "and unpack them by the time you come. You won't stay here very long, will you?"

Penelope was lying on her back gazing up at the blue sky and the swarms of tiny insects which hovered and darted between her and it. She was too comfortable to move, even to help get the lunch, so Esther and Guard went alone.

'The Castle,' the children's favourite play-place, was a group of huge boulders, like closely set rough pillars, so arranged by nature as to enclose a considerable space, like a tiny room, while outside was a kind of natural staircase leading to what they sometimes called 'upstairs,' and sometimes 'the roof,' which was formed of a large flat boulder, forming a natural roof, and keeping the interior dry and cosy save for the breezes which blew through the various openings, large and small, between the pillars.

It was in this centre, close to a pillar, and well out of sight, that the children had hidden their things; and here Esther came now, and pushing her arm through a narrow opening, groped about for the familiar baskets, and groped in vain.

"I thought we put them here," she said to herself, "but I must have come to the wrong opening." She went to another, and groped again in vain.

"Well," she said perplexed, and beginning to feel troubled, "I am certain it was in one of those. We didn't go round to the other side, I am sure we didn't. I'll go inside and look."

She went to what they called their secret entrance, and creeping in, stood up in the 'room' and looked about her. Not a basket was to be seen. The place was bare.

She scrambled out again more quickly than she had moved for a very long time. "Penelope," she shouted, "girls, quick—come—we've been—"

Then the thought suddenly came to her that perhaps the thieves were in hiding somewhere near, and were chuckling over her dismay, and she drew herself up abruptly. If a trick had been played them the perpetrators should not gloat over their discomfiture.

Guard was still sniffing eagerly about the spot when Esther walked with dignity back to the others, and, still with that fear of watching eyes on her, sat calmly down by them before she spoke; but when she did speak her tragic, mysterious voice and manner filled them all with awe and dismay.

"Girls, keep very quiet and listen to me. What do you think has happened! There are thieves about. They have stolen our baskets and the can—everything. There isn't a crumb left. Isn't it awful! Don't shriek or make a fuss. They may be watching us, and we won't let them see that we know, or—or care, will we?"

To the two younger ones it was an impossibility to suppress all signs. To them thieves meant robbers, bandits, a horde of savage creatures who might spring from anywhere, who, having consumed their provisions, might next run away with themselves. There were other troubles, too.

"And I am so hungry," cried Poppy. "I am starving. It isn't a bit like a birthday. I wish I hadn't had one."

Esther sat down by her and put her arms protectingly round her. Penelope looked fierce.

"We cannot put up with it," she cried indignantly. "It's such impertinence to take our things, such wickedness, such thievery. The children will be starved. What can we do? Where can we look? Who do you think can have done it? Come and search for them, shall we? Guard ought to be able to catch them. Perhaps some one has done it just to play us a trick."

"But suppose they are looking on and laughing," said Esther, who had a perfect horror of being made to look foolish. "And do you think it is safe? They must be horrid people, and might do anything if we found them out."

"I expect they have run away by now, if they stole the things," said wise Penelope, who could be very practical when she did come out of her dreamy state, "and they would laugh more if the baskets were only just hidden for a joke, and we went hungry because we wouldn't look for them."

Esther saw the sense of all that; but Angela repeated anxiously, "Do you think it is safe?"

"Yes, safe enough with Guard to protect us," said Penelope, rather impatiently. She was dreadfully hungry, and very disappointed and rather cross. They all got up and looked about them. Guard was at a little distance from them, sniffing excitedly about a big clump of furze and blackberry bushes.

"I believe they are there," cried Penelope.

"What, the thieves!" cried Angela, turning pale.

"Don't be silly, Angela," Penelope retorted crossly. "Can't you see you are frightening Poppy? I meant the baskets. If you are afraid, stay here, and I will go alone."

Angela looked 'squashed.' "Oh no," she stammered, "I—I will go too."

"We will all go," said Esther promptly. "Come along, children, don't let's be silly."

They went along hand in hand, trying hard to look unconcerned and brave, and succeeding fairly well. Guard, seeing them coming, ran back to them excitedly, then tore back to the bushes again, while they followed as fast as they could, peered in where he was thrusting his nose, and there, right in the middle of the furze brake, they saw the two baskets and the can, quite empty.

They were so hungry, so shocked, so disappointed, and so mortified by the trick that had been played them, they had hard work to keep back their tears. Angela and Poppy quite failed to. "I never knew such a horrid old birthday," sobbed Poppy; "and the patties looked so lovely, and the cake, and now we've got to wait till we go home."

Esther stood with the baskets in her hands, gazing at them with a troubled face. "I am glad we have these to take home with us," she said thoughtfully. "Girls, do you think we had better go straight back and tell what has happened, or—or shall we say nothing and let Cousin Charlotte and Anna think we have eaten it all up. Anna would be so awfully disappointed to think all the meat patties and the sandwiches she had made, and all the other things, had been eaten by thieves, and—and very likely we shouldn't be allowed to come out like this any more, and that would be dreadful."

The consternation on all faces when Esther began was almost ludicrous, and, indeed, it was no light matter to contemplate hours of hunger in that hungry air; but the thought of Cousin Charlotte's and Anna's disappointment, wrath, and alarm made them think of another side of the question.

"Will it be very long?" asked Poppy, in a piteous little voice. Esther took out her watch. "Four and a half hours to tea-time, I am afraid," she said reluctantly. She could not bear to doom her sisters to such a spell of waiting, it seemed really too dreadful; and so they all thought as they groaned aloud.

"Can I go home and pretend to Anna we want more lunch, we are so hungry to-day?" suggested Penelope.

"I am sure she would think we were ill, and make us all come home at once," said Esther, laughing, "and perhaps make us go to bed. She gave us such a lot we couldn't possibly be hungry if we ate it all."

"I have a penny," said Angela. "Shall we go and buy four tea-cakes at Mrs. Vercoe's? That will be one each, and better than nothing." Better than nothing indeed! One of Mrs. Vercoe's tea-cakes seemed then the most desirable thing in the world—except two.

They were all starting off when Angela exclaimed again, "Oh, and I've thought of something else. If I could creep into the garden without being seen, and get to the fowls' house, I believe I should find an egg in Fluffikin's nest."

"One raw egg between four wouldn't be much good," said Penelope hopelessly. "It isn't worth going for."

"But I didn't mean that, I didn't mean to eat it. I meant to take it to Mrs. Vercoe's, and sell it. I dare say she would give me a penny for it, and that would buy four more tea-cakes."

The suggestion was pronounced a noble one, and hailed with joy, and in another moment they were all running in the direction of home as fast as they could go.

"I feel like a thief myself," said Angela, as she crept out of the garden again, and rejoined them, a beautiful great egg in her hand.

"I wish I knew who stole our food," said Esther, "I should feel much happier. I don't like to tell, yet I don't think it is right to say nothing about it."

It was a knotty problem, and lasted them all the time they were skirting the end of the garden and crossing the moor, until they came out close to Mrs. Vercoe's shop.

What had not occurred to any of them was that there might be any one else in the shop, and least of all that it should be any one they knew. And this was exactly what did happen.

The four of them walking quickly in at the door, as into a haven of refuge reached at last, found themselves face to face with Cousin Charlotte.

It was so unexpected that for a moment they wavered, and nearly turned and fled. Colouring hotly, and looking the picture of confusion, they could think of nothing to do or say. But Cousin Charlotte, guessing nothing, only smiled and looked amused. Their dismay escaped her. "Well, chicks," she said, "are you managing to enjoy your holiday?"

"Yes—thank you," they stammered, with as much enthusiasm as they could muster.

"That's right. Don't overtire yourselves, but have a nice day. Now I must hurry home to my meal. I expect you have had yours by this time. Ah, I see," glancing at the empty baskets, "every crumb cleared. This is wonderful air for giving one an appetite," she remarked, turning to Mrs. Vercoe, and Mrs. Vercoe agreed; but the children felt that neither of them understood that fact as they did. It was almost torture to hear Cousin Charlotte say she was going home to her meal. Their longing to join her was almost more than they could bear. They were thankful, though, that she did not ask them how they had enjoyed their lunch, and what Anna's patties were like, or anything of that sort.

"Well, good-bye, dears, for the time. You won't be late, will you? It would be wise to have a nice rest before tea-time. Don't eat a lot of sweets now, will you? After your big lunch you should reserve yourselves for Anna's big tea. She will expect you to do justice to it." Then turning to Mrs. Vercoe again to explain, "It is this young lady's birthday, and Anna has invited them to tea with her, as I, unfortunately, have to be out."

"My!" exclaimed Mrs. Vercoe, looking at them with amused interest, "that will be nice. Good-day, miss," as Cousin Charlotte hurried away.

On the counter stood a large tray of buns and tea-cakes—'splits' as they call them in those parts. They were new, and the smell was perfectly delicious. Mrs. Vercoe, saying, "I wishes you many returns of the day, missie," was about to take one up and present it to Poppy, when she stayed her hand. "If you've just had your dinner you'd rather have a bit of sweety, I reckon."

"Oh no," gasped poor Poppy, in her desperation almost clutching at the tempting food. "I—I—thank you very much," she stammered. "I love plain buns. There's miffing I like so much." But when she had it she hesitated to begin to eat it; it seemed so selfish and greedy right there under those three pairs of hungry eyes. She longed to divide it, but did not like to. Esther, seeing her perplexity, came to her rescue. "Eat it, dear," she said softly, and Poppy never in her life was more glad to obey.

Angela stepped forward, colouring a little. "Please, I want four farthing tea-cakes," she said, as calmly as she could speak. She was painfully conscious of Mrs. Vercoe's look of surprise. "And—and please," she went on, growing painfully embarrassed, for it was not easy now it had come to the point, "do you want an egg, Mrs. Vercoe?"

Mrs. Vercoe looked even more surprised, but she only said civilly that she "could do with a dozen."

"I've only one at present," said Angela. "It is one my own hen laid, but you can have some more to-morrow morning."

"Very well, my dear," said amiable Mrs. Vercoe, "that will do. I'll put the one here until I get the rest. Shall I give you the money, missie, or would Miss Ashe prefer to have it in goods?"

"Oh please," said poor Angela, "this one is my own, and I should like— some more tea-cakes for it."

"Tea-cakes!" said Mrs. Vercoe in a bewildered voice. "Why, yes, my dear, of course; but—you'll excuse my asking, but—there isn't nothing the matter, is there?" she inquired confidentially, peering at them over her big glasses.

Then Esther stepped forward. "Yes, Mrs. Vercoe, there is. It's—it's nothing wrong that we've done, but you must promise not to say a word about it to anybody, please. It wouldn't have mattered quite so much, but now we have pretended to Cousin Charlotte that we enjoyed our lunch it would be dreadful. You will never say a word to any one, will you, Mrs. Vercoe?"

Mrs. Vercoe promised solemnly, whereupon the four tongues were unloosed, and the whole tale of the calamity and their hunger and disappointment was poured out. Mrs. Vercoe listened with the keenest interest, every now and then raising her two fat hands in amazement, then resting them again on her plump sides.

"Oh, my dears! oh, my dears!" she kept gasping. "What owdacious wickedness there do be in this world, to be sure. To think of it! Well, I never did! And if they ain't caught and punished it'll be no more nor less than a crying shame."

By the time they had finished she was leading them all into her little parlour, bent on making tea for them and preparing them a good meal; but Esther would not hear of it.

"Thank you very much," she said warmly, "but if we may have a few tea-cakes it will be quite enough. We only want something to prevent our feeling so hungry and faint and horrid till tea-time."

Mrs. Vercoe insisted, though, on their all having some milk to drink with their splits, on which she spread butter liberally, and an apple or so each to take away and munch on the moor. It was too soon to go home yet, they felt, yet their love for wandering had been somewhat dashed by the unpleasant experience of the morning. Somehow the moor did not seem the same while they felt that it held thieves too.

Guard, who had been given some biscuits and stale cake, looked up at them inquiringly, as much as to say, "Aren't we going home now?" Visions of his comfortable bed rose before him, and he felt very inclined for a noon-day nap. But the children told him he was not to go home yet, and he agreed, with his usual amiability, to follow where they led.

"I think we will go down by the river," said Esther. "It will be a change, and will seem different. It won't remind us so much of thieves."

So on they went, past Moor Cottage, where they saw through the curtains Cousin Charlotte at her solitary meal, and waved gaily to her; over the bridge and down on the fascinating river-bank where all sorts of treasures lurked, and the roots of the trees, rising out of the soft earth, formed steps and seats and balustrades and all sorts of things.

"I think we won't go so very far," said Esther, looking at her watch. "It is two o'clock now, and I think we might go home at half-past three. Let's sit down here, shall we?"

"Shall we just go a teeny tiny way further?" pleaded Angela. "There is a beautiful place a little way further on, a dear little cosy, cubby corner where we should be shut in, and as comfy as possible. Shall we, Esther?"

Esther nodded, and on they went again. Guard, as though he knew what they had been saying, ran on in front, making for the very spot.

"He couldn't have understood what I said could he?" asked Angela eagerly, "but he has gone into the very place."

"And seems inclined to stay there," said Penelope. She whistled once or twice, but the usually obedient Guard did not appear.

"I wonder what he is doing?" said Angela, growing anxious at once, as she always did. "I will run on and see," and, no one stopping her, she went.



CHAPTER XVI.

The others, scarcely noticing that she had gone, went on their way very slowly, watching the river as it swirled past, rushing by some places, at others apparently not moving. They were absorbed in sailing twigs down the stream when a flying white-faced figure dashed into their midst, chattering confusedly and almost weeping.

"Oh, what shall we do, what shall we do!" gasped Angela. "Guard found them. They are in there, dead or asleep. I don't know which. He is sniffing at their pockets. There are three of them, and he won't let them go, and it is Cousin Charlotte's cloth. I recognised it hanging out of his pocket, the one Anna wrapped the patties in—"

"What are you talking about?" demanded Esther, grasping Angela by the arm. "Don't be so frightened. What has happened?"

Angela tried to be calmer and more coherent. "There are three boys asleep in the very place where we were going. Guard found them. He was sniffing at their pockets when I got there, and he wouldn't come away, and—I believe they are the thieves that stole our lunch. One had a bit of white sticking out of his pocket, and Guard sniffed at it and pulled it out, and I am certain it is Cousin Charlotte's doyley! Oh, Esther, what shall we do? Shall we go away, or—or shall we—"

"Go away!" cried Esther, scornful and indignant. "No, indeed, except to fetch a policeman. I am going to tax them with it, and hear what they have to say. What boys are they, do you know?"

"I believe I have seen them at 'Four Winds,' but I don't know their names—but, Esther, do you think it is safe to accuse them—"

"Safe!" cried Esther scornfully. "What is there to be afraid of? If there was anything I shouldn't care. I am not going to let them get off scot-free, nasty, wicked thieves. They have spoilt our day, too, and all our fun. Let's be quick and catch them before they manage to escape."

The four turned and hurried to the spot. As they drew near they heard now and again a low growl from Guard, then voices half-whimpering, half-bullying. "Get away, get away you ugly great thing. You leave me alone."

Esther's and Penelope's eyes lightened at the scent of battle.

"Oh, don't let them hurt poor Guard!" pleaded Poppy piteously.

"No, dear, they won't hurt him. They are horribly afraid of him, really, I expect. Perhaps you had better stay here. Would you rather?"

But Poppy clung close, begging not to be left. If there was to be battle she was not going to let her sisters face it alone.

There was not much battle left, though, in the three young scamps Guard was keeping prisoners. The sight of the big, angry-looking dog, and the knowledge that they were trapped with proofs of their guilt on them, had quenched all their spirit. Torpid after their big meal, they had fallen asleep in their hiding-place, feeling perfectly secure from detection. They had been awakened by something touching them, breathing into their faces, diving into their pockets where the remains of their feast lay hidden, and had awakened with a start to find a huge, eager, angry animal standing over them. They would have yelled but for the fear of drawing still more attention to themselves and their whereabouts.

When they heard footsteps approaching their terror increased a hundredfold, but when the owners of them turned the corner, and they found they were nothing worse than four little girls—the eldest no bigger than themselves—their relief was great, and their courage began to return. They assumed at once a superior 'don't-care' air, as though they thought it all a great joke. In their own minds they felt they could easily defy such antagonists and get the better of them; but their attitude only made Esther and Penelope more indignant with them.

"Now," said Esther severely, "you are caught. You are three thieves, and we have caught you, and it only remains for us to decide what we shall do with you. Guard, come here."

Guard obediently came to her side, but he only helped so completely to block the entrance that the boys recognised at once that they were no better off than they were before.

"You go away and leave us alone," cried the tallest of the young scamps, a boy of about fourteen. "We've got as much right here as you, and you've no right to stop us if we wants to go. I'll tell the p'lice as 'ow you set your great savage dog on us. Yes, I will, see if I don't!"

Esther laughed scornfully. "I should like to see you," she said contemptuously. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Wouldn't I! wouldn't I dare! You just wait and see then," he went on in a bullying tone.

Penelope could keep quiet no longer. "That's easily proved," she said loftily. "I will go and get one. Constable Magor will be in the village about this time, it won't take me long to get him," and she turned away.

The boys' faces were a picture. Fear, confusion, astonishment took the place of their bragging. They still kept up a semblance of defiance, but it was very lukewarm. "No, you won't. You know you don't mean it. You needn't try to kid us. We know better."

Penelope without another word walked away. When first she spoke she had hardly intended really to get a policeman, but their taunts roused her spirit and determined her. The boys listened to her departing footsteps, and the look that came into their faces was not pretty. For a moment they looked only foolish, then their expression changed to one of bullying anger.

"Let's knock 'em down and run for it," urged one. "They don't know who we are. Tip they there things out of your pocket, Bill, so's they won't have no clue."

Esther's eyes darkened and deepened, her lips grew a little more compressed, but otherwise her expression did not change from its look of scornful disgust. Poppy clung closer. "Oh, Essie, don't let them hurt us," she whispered nervously.

Esther drew her closer and stood in front of her. "They won't hurt us, darling," she said, with calm defiance.

Angela, who all this while had been standing white to the lips and shaking uncontrollably, now suddenly pulled herself together. "If either of you dare to touch my little sister," she called out, "I'll—I'll—"

"Dear me," mimicked one boy rudely. "Will you really? What very fine people we are. Ain't we brave too! Come on, Bill," and they came towards the girls with a rush. But they had reckoned without a very important antagonist. Guard, sitting quiet, obedient, apparently unconcerned, had watched every movement. At their first step forward he was on his feet, when they made their rush he sprang towards them, knocking the first boy off his feet, and the others sprawling over him, and across the wriggling, bellowing, gasping heap he planted his big, rough body determinedly, growling fierce low growls every time they attempted to move, and even had his mistresses called to him then it is doubtful if he would have moved, so enraged was he.

But Esther did not call him. Her anger had flamed as hot as his at this attack of the bullies on Angela and little Poppy, and she felt no pity. "They shall stay there," she determined, "for the time, at any rate. We will see what will happen next."

The next thing that happened was a very meek voice coming from the prostrate trio. "Please, miss, if you'll call your dog off, we won't touch you, we won't really, honour bright!"

"Honour bright," scoffed Esther. "You have none. You don't know what honour is! I didn't know before that boys ever were such cowards."

"Please, miss, if you'll call him off and not let him hurt us, we'll promise—"

"I don't want your promises," cried Esther. "You are thieves and cowards, and I wouldn't take your word. Besides, we are not afraid of your touching us. Why did you steal our things?"

"Well—we found them," grumbled one of the boys. "Findings is keepings, and how was we to know they was yours?"

"You knew they were not yours, and you had no right to touch them."

"You shouldn't leave things about if you don't want them took. As like as not your dog would have had 'em if we hadn't."

"He is honest," said Esther scathingly, "and we are accustomed to honest people. The things were put in a safe spot, out of sight."

"Not so very safe," taunted Bill. "We found 'em easy enough." But his energy only called forth an alarming growl from Guard.

"We will find a safe spot for you, at any rate," said Esther meaningly, and the boys became thoughtful for a moment.

"Please, miss, your dog's 'urting. He's treading on my chest, and he's 'eavy," whined Bill, but Esther paid no heed. Silence reigned, broken only by the voice of the river, and the singing of the happy birds. Guard stood at his post, the three girls kept the entrance, the boys waited in increasing alarm, wondering what was going to happen. They were beginning to feel genuinely frightened.

Esther was thinking deeply. The truth was she did not know what step to take next. She did not really want to give them in charge, she did not want the affair to reach Cousin Charlotte's ears, and she did not know how to dispose of her prisoners with dignity.

At last the silence was broken by a pitiful wailing voice. "Please, miss, if you'll let us go, we'll promise never to do no such thing no more. Please, miss, we ain't thieves really; we done it for fun more'n anything, and—and now I—I wish I hadn't never seen the old things," and then the hero broke down and began to sob and call "Mawther, mawther, I want my mawther!"

Angela's anger evaporated. "I dare say he isn't really a bad boy," she whispered to Esther. "Let's forgive him, Essie."

Esther was making up her mind. "Look here, you boys," she called out at last, "if you apologise to us and say you are sorry, and will never do such a thing again, we will let you off this time. But you must tell me your names and where you live." She did not in the least know what good an apology would be, nor did the boys know what it was, but they promised readily.

"Guard, come here," commanded Esther.

Guard moved away reluctantly. He had not forgotten the sudden attack on his little mistresses. The boys sat up.

"His name is John Thomas, and his is Bill Baker, and mine's Silas Hawken," said the eldest of the three, "and we lives to Four Winds."

"Um!" said Esther sternly. "We know Four Winds and a lot of people there, so we shall hear if you don't behave yourselves, and if you don't we will tell the police about this. Now go."

With intense relief and quickening steps the boys were hurrying by them, Guard, still suspicious, following at their heels, when suddenly it was his turn to be bowled over by the enemy. With a roar of terror the three boys recoiled one on the other, and all three on top of Guard, for at the entrance stood Penelope and Constable Magor.

Angela and Poppy looked almost as frightened as the boys. They did not want them to be really taken to jail, and it seemed now as though matters were being taken out of their hands. They felt sure the culprits would be led away handcuffed. Poppy, with this in her mind, forgot everything.

"Oh, please," she cried, running to the constable, "please we have promised to forgive them. Don't take them to jail, please. They said they were sorry, and they won't ever be naughty again, and we let them go. Didn't we, Esther? Please don't hurt them."

Constable Magor looked at Esther, and Esther explained. The boys, looking the picture of miserable fear and shame, stood huddled together as far as possible from every one. The constable, with a knowing shake of the head to Esther, said, "All right, miss. I knows how to deal with they there young rogues." Going over to them he pushed them apart, and made them stand at equal distances from one another.

"Now you turn out your pockets, every one of them," he commanded sternly. "Right there afore me, you turn 'em out, and turn 'em out thorough, or I'll be doing it for you. Do you hear?"

They heard plainly enough, and with shaking hands turned out a collection of marbles, crumbs, sticky sweets, twine, broken patties and sandwiches, and sundry other odds and ends. One had the little doyley Angela had first recognised, another reluctantly produced a silver folding fruit-knife with 'C. Ashe' engraved on the handle. When the girls saw this they looked at each other. "Cousin Charlotte and Anna would have missed that," they whispered, "and then we should have had to tell."

The constable looked grave, too, when he saw the knife and the doyley. "This is serious," he said sternly, "and if it wasn't that the young ladies perticler asked me not to, I'd clap the handcuffs on the lot of you for it, and as like as not you'd get a week in jail, and have your jackets warmed with that there cat-o'-nine-tails you may have heard tell on. Don't you think, miss," turning to Esther with a very grave face, "as 'ow I'd better, after all?"

"Oh no—don't let him!" pleaded Poppy frantically.

Esther pretended to think deeply for a moment, debating the question; then, with great importance and dignity, "No, I think we will let them go this time, thank you," she said, "though when I gave them my promise I didn't know they were going away with stolen things in their pockets. I gave them my promise, and I'll keep it, but,"—very severely—"it is more than they deserve."

"That it is," said Constable Magor emphatically; "and if they don't look after their ways they'll taste that 'cat' yet. Do you hear, you young scamps? Let this be a lesson to you, and thank your stars you've got such kind-hearted young ladies to deal with, or I wouldn't say what would have happened to you by now! Now go. Right about face, quick march, and don't you let me have no more complaints of you, or I'll know how to act. You won't have a second such chance. Do you hear? Now go!"

They did not need a second bidding, but dashed out of the place as though they feared if they lingered their chance would be gone, and soon even their stumbling, scrambling footsteps could no longer be heard.

Then the policeman took his leave too, and the four were left looking at each other. The scene had tried their nerves and their courage more than they realised; they felt suddenly very tired and very depressed. Poppy began to sob from sheer weariness. The others felt as though they would like to follow suit, but pride forbade them. The moor and the river and the day seemed suddenly to have grown chilly and gloomy and sad.

"I think we will go home," said Esther. "Shall we?"

They all agreed, with something like relief in their voices. Poppy's sobs ceased. "It doesn't seem a bit like a burfday, does it, Essie? Oh, I am so tired."

Esther bent down and kissed her and picked her up in her arms. She herself was tired, and Poppy was a heavy load for fourteen-year-old Esther; but she loved her baby sister so dearly she could not bear to see her sad and weary. "Put your arms round my neck and hold tight, and we will soon get home, and you shall rest a little; and then we will have tea, and all the rest of the day shall be one of the beautifullest you ever had. We will play games, 'Hot and Cold,' 'Pepper, Salt, and Mustard,' and all the ones you like best, and we will have a lovely time, won't we?"

Poppy nodded the weary little head resting on her sister's shoulder. "Yes," she agreed gladly, comforted greatly by Esther's tone. Esther herself did not feel at all inclined for games or jollity, or anything of the sort, but the mere pretending helped her. Penelope and Angela strolled on ahead, linked arm in arm. Guard trotted along slowly between the two couples, as though determined to be prepared for any more attacks, and so they reached home again at last, and thankfully they made their way to their comfortable bedrooms to prepare for the next event of that exciting day.

"I do hope," said Esther, as she slowly mounted the stairs, "that we don't have another angry word with any one all the rest of the day. It seems to have been nothing but quarrelling, so far."

"Laugh before breakfast, cry before night," murmured Poppy in a very weary voice; but when Esther had given her a nice warm bath, and tucked her away in her little bed for a rest, her spirits had recovered. "She didn't say 'keep on crying,' did she, Essie? So perhaps I have cried enough, and it's all over. Oh my! what lovely things Anna must be cooking," sniffing in the savoury odours which were finding their way from the kitchen. "I wonder what they are. I am going to have some of everything, because it's my birthday," and then the little heroine of the day dropped off into a dreamless sleep, while Esther turned over their scanty stock of clothing to try to find something worthy of the occasion.

When Poppy awoke the scent of hot jams and spicy cakes, and all sorts of other good things, was stronger than ever, reminding her, the moment she opened her eyes, what day it was, and what was before her. She jumped up in bed with a start. "Oh, I haven't slept too long, have I? Esther, is it very late? Do help me to dress quick!"

"It is all right," said Esther, in a calm, reassuring tone. "I am ready, and now I can attend to you. It is only four o'clock. There is plenty of time. I wouldn't have let you sleep too long, dear."

"But supposing you had slept too, and we had all slept!" Poppy's eyes grew very large and round at the mere thought of so dreadful a possibility.

"Oh my!" said Esther calmly, as she put the last finishing touches to her hair, "wouldn't it have been dreadful! Don't let's think about it."

Esther had put on her best frock and an old muslin fichu about her shoulders. The fichu was one her mother had thrown away long ago, and Esther had rescued. It was old, but it looked quite pretty and picturesque over her plain red frock. Poppy was better off than the others. She owned a little soft, white silk frock, which still looked festive and partyfied, in spite of frequent washings and not too careful ironings. Her pretty dark hair Esther tied with her own best rose-pink hair-ribbon. "Now if I had only got a sash for you, dear, your frock would look lovely."

"Never mind," said Poppy cheerfully. "I will wear my locket." From her jewel-case, as she called it, she took carefully a thread-like gold chain and a tiny old-fashioned gold locket; it had an anchor on one side and held two photographs. Poppy did not know whose photographs they were, and no one had ever been able to tell her, but she would not have had them removed for any consideration whatever. The other contents of her jewel-case were a large green malachite brooch in the shape of a Maltese cross, a tiny silver pig, and a broken gold safety-pin; but no child ever possessed treasures more greatly prized.

Before the toilette was complete Penelope and Angela came in, looking very neat and nice, and then an anxious consultation was held as to whether they ought to go down or wait until the bell rang. They compromised by going half-way and sitting on the stairs. The last few minutes did seem very long, for they were ravenous again by that time; but so prompt was Anna that before the clock began to strike the hour she came to the kitchen door, and had just begun to make a terrific clanging with the bell when they ran through from the inner hall.

"Well! 'tis a compliment, sure enough," she said, with a beaming smile, "when folks comes and waits outside for the doors to open. Come along in then, my dears. 'Tis all ready."

Anna was in her best frock with her Band of Hope scarf on, and looked flushed and pleased, and no wonder, for the kitchen looked beautiful. It was decorated with no fewer than twenty nosegays of flowers, arranged on the dressers and mantelpiece and every available space in jugs and pots and vases of every description; while on the table were bread and butter, 'splits' spread with jam and cream, seed-cakes, currant-cakes, an apple tart covered with cream, on a plate, and the birthday cake. Oh! how good it all smelt and looked.

Anna took her seat at the head of the table before the tea-tray, with the heroine of the day on her right hand and Esther on her left.

"I hope you've all got good appetites," she said, as she handed them their cups.

"Oh yes," they said meekly, but thought, as they looked at each other, it was as well Anna did not know how good, and why.

"You look tired, I think," she went on. "You've been out too long, perhaps; but your tea will refreshen you."

Esther thought if Anna only knew all they had been through since she saw them last she would not wonder at their looking tired. She did long to pour out all their adventures to her. She would have been so interested and sympathetic, and it would have been such a relief to have talked it all over with some one older than themselves, and thus have thrown off the fear of a chance word or hint escaping one or the other of them. Once or twice the tale almost got beyond the tip of her tongue; but she thought of the curtailed freedom which might follow, so held her peace.

The others were, for a time, completely absorbed by the meal. Never greater compliment was paid to any feast. Very soon there was not a dish on the table but what showed gaps. The 'splits' vanished in no time; the apple tart looked quite shabby. Anna was kept quite busy helping them to one thing after another. At first she fairly beamed with delight; but by and by she began to look a little perplexed.

"I suppose it is a long time since you had your lunches," she said reflectively, "and the air do give one a appetite. P'r'aps you hadn't better have any more tart, Miss Poppy, dear. Hadn't you better try a bit of plain bread and butter?" She did not like to say much, but she really began to grow quite troubled at the size of their appetites.

Before they had finished their tea Ephraim came to the door. He had tidied for the evening, but had come back with a message for Miss Charlotte.

"Oh, do ask him in," pleaded Poppy earnestly. "Anna, do. It would seem so unkind to let him see us having such a lovely tea and not offer him any."

"I shouldn't think he'd want any," said Anna, with seeming reluctance; but she called out to him, "Come inside, Ephraim, and close that door. You'm keeping the young ladies in a draught. Miss Poppy wants to know if you can stay and have some of her birthday tea. You'm welcome to if you can."

Ephraim seemed able, and even glad, to stay. "I wanted to see Miss Poppy," he said. "I've got something for her, as that there furrin chap down to Edless was bringing along. I met un at the gate and told un I'd take it in for him as I was coming in," and he laid a neat white parcel on the table beside the astonished little maid.

"For me!" she cried, looking all round the table, wide-eyed with excitement. "Are you sure it's for me, Ephraim?" she asked, as she began to undo the pretty ribbons which tied the parcel—rose-colour ribbons like that in her hair. The excitement of all very nearly equalled hers, and when she lifted out of the soft white paper a beautiful silk-fringed sash of the same shade, they all shrieked with joy.

"The very, very, very thing I was wanting for you just now!" cried Esther. "Oh, how lovely! It is from Mademoiselle. How kind and beautiful of her."

Poppy handed the sash round for inspection, while she read the little note enclosed.

"It is not poppy-colour, but will my dear little market-woman accept it from a grateful customer with much love and every good wish for many happy returns of the day?"

Their excitement was so great they could not eat another mouthful, somewhat to Anna's relief, for she had really grown quite anxious lest they should make themselves ill.

Ephraim's appetite almost rivalled theirs, but at last even he had done, the table was cleared, and space made for games to begin. It was then that Ephraim came out in a new and unexpected light, for if any one had told Anna or the children that he could be a leading spirit in games and jokes, and riddles and such-like, they would have refused to believe it; but he proved it beyond all doubt or denial, for the next hour or two flew by with shrieks of laughter and endless fun, and Ephraim was the leader of it all.

"Anna," said Poppy, as she was being put to bed that night, "don't you like Ephraim now better than you did?"

Anna refused to own to any such weakness, but she blushed a little as she denied it.

"P'r'aps," said Angela, in a half-absent way as she brushed out her hair in Poppy's room, "p'r'aps Anna likes him so much already she can't like him better if she tries"; and Anna blushed as though Angela's chance shot had reached home.



CHAPTER XVII.

To Penelope the weeks that followed the great day were very sorrowful ones. Miss Row apparently could not forgive her. Day after day she waited, hoping for a message bidding her come to renew her lessons; but no message came, and Penelope grew sick with disappointment and grief that she should have given such offence to her good friend. She went to Cousin Charlotte about it—she had told her at once the story of how they had given offence—but Cousin Charlotte only shook her head.

"I think you cannot do anything, dear, but go and apologise if you feel you spoke rudely; but—well, to tell you the truth, Penelope, Miss Row has a most unfortunate temper. She was born with it, and she was never taught to check it, and now it is too late. I tell you this as a warning, child."

Penelope did go to Cold Harbour to apologise. She thought she would feel happier if she did; but there she only met with another blow. Miss Row had gone away, and no one knew when she would come back. Returning more dejected than ever, she looked in at the church on her way home. If she could have practised a little it would have comforted her, but the organ was locked. Miss Row had probably left the key with some one, but Penelope felt she could not ask for it, as Miss Row had not said anything to her about it; so everything seemed at a standstill and full of gloom.

Esther, meantime, was spending what were perhaps the happiest weeks she had ever known. She went to Mademoiselle Leperier three times a week to sit with her and read to her and do little things she needed done, and in return Mademoiselle gave her lessons and talked to her in French, so that very soon Esther began to feel she was becoming quite proficient in the language. So the visits were a double and a treble joy to her. She loved to be with Mademoiselle in the dear little brown house where all was so quiet and peaceful, and nothing rubbed her the wrong way; or to stroll about the moor together. She loved to learn, and, perhaps best of all, she loved to be of use and feel she was some help. Such pleasant walks they had, and such long talks as they strolled slowly about, or sat in the sunny sweet garden, looking over the great empty space where nature dwelt alone, or in the cosy little parlour, fragrant always with the scent of flowers and the pot-pourri with which the old blue bowls and teapots were filled. One of Esther's self-appointed duties was to keep the vases always fresh and sweet.

The days were very full and happy now for Esther. She had quite a number of duties at Moor Cottage, duties that were now left entirely to her, and for which she was held responsible. She worked hard at her studies with Cousin Charlotte, and she was still to some extent 'little mother' to Poppy, so her mind and her time were very much occupied. This perhaps made her a little blind to Penelope's distress, yet poor Penelope's distress was very complete and apparent, for Miss Row had been away for months, and never once in all that time had she sent a word to her little pupil. The truth was she was so absorbed, as was her habit, in the people and things she was amongst that she quite forgot all else.

It was Angela who felt most distressed by Penelope's trouble, and most sympathetic; and Angela it was who, on one of her rare visits to Edless, told the tale to Mademoiselle Leperier.

"Poor child, poor child," sighed Mademoiselle sympathetically, and asked many questions until she drew from Angela all details, even to what Mr. Somerset had said about her voice. "Ah!" she said. "It ought not to be neglected, it ought not to be neglected. It will soon be too late."

She said no more then; but when Angela and Esther were leaving she sent a message to Penelope. "Tell her to come to me to-morrow. We may be able perhaps to do something that will fill up the waiting time."

Angela returned home in a high state of joy, which was scarcely damped by Esther's silence during the first part of their walk, or her vexed remark, "I do think you should know better than pour out all the family troubles to Mademoiselle. I wonder you didn't ask her to teach—" but she stopped before she finished what she had been going to say. "You three never go there but what you make me wish you hadn't."

"But I haven't done anything, Esther. Mademoiselle asked how Pen was, and when I told her she was very unhappy about something she asked me why, and what it was, and I had to tell her; and then she just asked me all about it, and I—I told her. I couldn't help it—could I? I couldn't say I wouldn't."

"Penelope isn't very unhappy, nothing to make such a fuss about," grumbled Esther. "When I am unhappy no one takes any notice of me. I don't see anything wrong with her."

"Oh, don't you? I do. She is always so quiet, not like she used to be. She frets so about having vexed Miss Row, and not going on with her music."

"If Miss Row had acted so to me I should have too much pride to grieve. Why doesn't Penelope ask Mr. Jeffry to lend her the key of the organ? He would in a moment."

"She won't because she feels Miss Row did not mean her to have it."

"That is nonsense," retorted Esther. "She can't want it so very much if she won't take the trouble to speak to Mr. Jeffry. After all, it is not Miss Row's organ."

"Pen does want it very much," said Angela gently.

"I never did like Miss Row," Esther went on, still in her most disagreeable mood. "I could see she had a horrid temper. If Pen lets herself be taken up and made a lot of she must expect what she gets."

"But Miss Row didn't make more of Penelope than Mademoiselle has of you," urged Angela, always ready to defend her adored Penelope, "and you would feel it if Mademoiselle acted so to you."

"Oh, Mademoiselle is quite different from Miss Row," said Esther loftily. She did not admit even to herself that much of the charming difference lay in the fact that she had singled out her, Esther, from her sisters.

She underwent some change of opinion, though, when, a few days later, Penelope came dancing down the road from Edless beside herself, almost, with happiness. "Oh, Cousin Charlotte!" she cried as she rushed into the house. "Oh, Cousin Charlotte! oh, girls! Mademoiselle has been talking to me. She is so kind! What do you think? She actually says she will give me lessons in singing if Cousin Charlotte will permit her. She says she would like to. Isn't it lovely! splendiferous! beautiful! Cousin Charlotte, you will, won't you? I do want to learn, and this is such a splendid chance. Isn't it wonderful how the very things one wants most come to one! I never dreamed of such a lovely thing as this."

Esther got up and walked away without speaking a word. Cousin Charlotte, who had seen her face, looked after her sadly, and sighed a little as she watched her go. Then she turned to Penelope. "Yes, dear, certainly. It is a wonderful opportunity for you here in this out-of-the-way spot, and I could not deny it to you. I am most grateful to Mademoiselle for her thoughtful kindness. I must call on her," Miss Charlotte added a moment later, "whether she likes it or not. I must thank her for her goodness to all my chicks."

"Oh, she will be glad," cried Penelope, flinging her arms about Miss Ashe's neck, and kissing the soft old cheek. "She will love you, Cousin Charlotte, I know she will. She can't help it. Now I am going out to think about it all. Oh, I am so happy. Thank you ever so much, Cousin Charlotte," and she kissed her impetuously again.

"You are easily made happy, my Penelope," said the little lady with a sigh, as she put her arm around Penelope's shoulders and gave her a little squeeze; and she sighed again as she thought of her Esther, and the expression on her face. "I had that same sort of temper once," she said to herself, "so I ought to understand her, and help her through; but oh, I pray she may be spared the sorrow I had to bear, and the bitterness of such regrets."

But whatever Esther felt she said nothing. She never once spoke to Penelope, then or later, of her singing lessons, or mentioned the subject to any one, and when Penelope returned from her lessons, full of talk of what had been seen and done and said, Esther might have been dumb and deaf for all the share she took in the conversation. But she carefully avoided Edless on those days; in fact she rarely went to the cottage at all from the time Mademoiselle made her kind offer to Penelope.

No one knew it, though, for she went off as usual three times a week in the direction of Edless; but usually she turned aside when she got out of sight, and wandered on the moor hour after hour, lonely and most unhappy, breaking her heart for neglecting her beloved Mademoiselle, yet such a victim to her temper that she could not conquer it. Often and often she threw herself on the turf in a passion of tears, angry, wretched, ashamed. More than once, in a better mood, she determined not to be so weak and contemptible, but to be nobler and braver, and truer to her aims. She hoped Mademoiselle did not notice anything and understand. But how could Mademoiselle help noticing? She saw and grieved; and in part she understood, but she said nothing. She knew that time alone could set things right. Esther must learn by experience. But how that lesson was to come, or how bitter was to be the experience, she little dreamed until the dreadful day I am going to tell you of.

To begin with it seemed like any other day. Penelope had to go to Edless, for it was one of her singing-lesson days, and Esther, jealous, angry, wretched, had watched her start, envying her and full of wrath. She herself had not been to Edless for a fortnight, and she had lately felt shy about going again after such a long neglect. She wondered what Mademoiselle was thinking of her. She was hurt that no message was sent by Penelope, yet relieved that Mademoiselle was keeping her secret; she often dreaded what Cousin Charlotte would think of her if she should discover her deceit, for she had often and often gone out pretending she was bound for Edless, and had even said, in answer to her inquiries for Mademoiselle, that she was 'about the same,' or something to that effect, though she really had no knowledge at all, and the deception made her conduct trebly bad. She was angry that all this misery should have come and spoilt her happy life, jealous that Penelope should be able to go off with such an honest, light heart and smiling face; and blamed every one but herself.

Before Penelope was more than out of sight, on this particular tragic day, Cousin Charlotte came into Esther's bedroom, looking alarmed and bothered.

"Esther dear," she said, "I wish you would go to Edless to-day and home again with Penelope, and take Guard with you. If you are quick you can overtake her. She has gone quite alone, and I am anxious. Ephraim told Anna that a lot of the cattle have wandered to this part of the moor, and are in a very wild state. I shall be afraid for you children to go on the moor at all if they stay in this neighbourhood. I wish Anna had spoken about it before Penelope started; I would have sent Ephraim with her or not have let her go. Do you mind going, dear?"

"Oh no," said Esther, but very coldly.

"You will be quite safe with Guard, even if they do come near. He will drive the creatures off," said Cousin Charlotte, thinking Esther was nervous. "Penelope ought to have taken him. I should not have been anxious about her if she had."

But Esther had none of that sort of fear. "Oh, I am not afraid," she said more heartily, and went away to put on her hat. But when she was actually on her way to Edless she felt she could not go there; she could not obey Miss Charlotte and hurry after Penelope until she overtook her, and then escort her to the very door. In those days she could rarely bring herself to talk to Penelope at all, so far had her feelings got the mastery over her, and so deeply did her grievance rankle; and the farther she went the less able did she feel to do so now.

"If I keep her in sight it will be all right," she said, with sudden inspiration; and so they went all the way, the unconscious Penelope walking on in front, Esther behind dodging and hiding and loitering so that Penelope might not see her, until at last she knew the cottage was almost reached, and stopped altogether.

She had had to lead Guard all the way, for he, catching sight of another of his mistresses before him, was full of eagerness to tear on and greet her; but Penelope, still quite ignorant of what was behind her, reached the cottage safely, knocked, and was admitted. Esther, from her hiding-place behind a rock, saw the door opened by Laura, Anne's smiling wife, and closed again, and resentment against her sister grew hotter than ever.

"She gets everything," she muttered, "and if I have a friend or a chance she takes them away; but she doesn't share hers with me." She had told herself all this so often she really believed it by this time. Poor Esther! poor unhappy Esther! Guard sat by her watching her with wistful, wondering eyes. He felt that something was wrong, poor old doggie.

She seated herself behind the rock to await Penelope's return. It would be no use to conceal her presence any longer, for Cousin Charlotte would certainly speak of it; so she must join Penelope on the way home, and make some sort of explanation. That, though, would be nothing compared with the mortification of having to go into the cottage with her.

Esther in her nook, cut off from every view but the moor in the direction from which she had just come, sat and dreamed troubled dreams, and brooded over her grievances, but never once gave a thought to the danger she had been sent to protect Penelope from. And all the time that danger was drawing nearer and nearer.

In the distance, just over the horizon behind her, on her left, there appeared a shaggy brown form, followed closely by another and another and another until a whole herd was descending the slope towards her, sniffing the air and the strange ground, cropping the turf a little here and there, or gazing about them with curiosity. Closer and closer they came, the soft turf deadening the noise of their coming.

"It must be nearly time for her to come out," said Esther at last, taking out her watch. Guard, at the sound of her voice, rose on his long legs and, stretching himself, wandered away a little. The foremost of the shaggy brown creatures looked up sharply, looked again, suspiciously, at this other occupant of this strange land who had so unexpectedly appeared, and his eyes wore a new glint as he stood and watched with increasing fear or suspicion, or both. Then he took a pace nearer, and another, followed by the others, all staring now at Guard, tossing their heads ominously, and pawing the ground as they sniffed the air.

And just at that unfortunate moment Penelope came around the bend, dancing along light-heartedly, singing to herself the exercise she had just been learning. Guard, looking about him eagerly, recognised her at once, and with a yelp of joy dashed towards her.

Esther was not alarmed at his outcry. She guessed the cause of it, and rising with feigned indifference went out from her shelter to meet her sister. With cold, hard eyes and unsmiling face she looked towards Penelope, framing the while her explanation of her presence there—only to see that explanation had come too late.

The cattle, roused to anger by Guard's sudden bark and spring, were coming down on him in a body, their pace growing faster, their anger increasing with every step. In charging him they must inevitably charge Penelope too. There was no escape for her, unless Guard ran away from her, drawing the enemy off; but that, of course, he was not likely to do, he was too pleased at seeing her again.

Esther saw and realised all at a glance, and the horror of it struck her dumb. Once, twice, three times she tried to call. If she could only get Guard away the cattle would follow him; but no voice came. She grew desperate, mad with fear for her sister. Oh, if she could but get them to come towards her and leave Pen. She tried to whistle, but her lips trembled too much. She tried to shriek and failed, and when at last she succeeded, the weak, strained voice could hardly be recognised as hers. But Guard heard it. "Guard, Guard, come here!" she called, running a little to draw him after her. The obedient old dog turned, saw the enemy, and, all his fury aroused by the danger, charged them like a hurricane.

But what was one amongst so many! They overwhelmed him, were on him, closed around him, and around Penelope too.

Esther saw it—saw her sister fall, saw the big beasts trampling over her, and Guard in their midst barking, snarling, flying at their noses, dodging away from their horns, and punishing them so severely that in spite of their numbers the poor brutes gave up the game at last, worsted, and tore away over the moor in the direction whence they had come, as though they had a pack behind them.

When Anne Roth came panting up a moment later, having seen the cattle disappearing and been filled with alarm lest Penelope should have been frightened by them, he found the two sisters unconscious on the ground, with their poor protector lying bleeding and exhausted between them, and whining piteously as he licked his bleeding wounds.

Here was a sight for one man in a lonely spot! For a moment Anne was bewildered; then, picking up Penelope, who he saw was the most injured, he carried her with all the speed he could back to his own house. But he was full of a double dread, for to the most casual eye it was plain that the child was seriously injured, and the sight of her, bruised, bleeding, and unconscious could not but be a shock to his mistress.

But Mademoiselle bore the shock well. "Let me attend to her while you and Laura go to poor Miss Esther and the dear dog," she said promptly; and Penelope was taken up to her own room, where she undressed her and got her to bed, and bathed her cuts, while they went out and brought in the other two.

Esther was in a swoon, but quite uninjured, so they laid her on the couch in the little sitting-room and administered restoratives, while Guard was taken to the kitchen to have his wounds bathed and dressed, and Anne hurried off for a doctor and Miss Ashe, for Penelope's injuries were far too serious for home dressing. She was bleeding so profusely from the cuts on her head that there was real cause for alarm; her arm was broken, and her collar-bone, too, they feared, while her poor body was bruised and crushed all over.

When Esther came back to consciousness twilight had fallen. She looked about her for a moment in the dimness, bewildered and incredulous. That she was in the dear familiar room she loved so well, she felt sure, yet how came she there? and what had happened? She lay still for a moment, wondering; then, her head growing confused, she raised herself a Little and looked again. This time she recognised a figure seated by the window, but so quiet and drooping she scarcely seemed alive.

For a second or so Esther gazed in sheer bewilderment, then raising herself still more, she whispered, half-alarmed, half-questioning, "Mademoiselle, is that you?"

Mademoiselle rose at once. "Are you better, darling?" she said, bending over and laying a soft hand on her head. Esther noticed that she spoke in a strange, hushed voice.

"Are you ill, Mademoiselle?" she asked anxiously.

"No, darling. I am well, but—" she paused, as though listening, and then for the first time Esther noticed the sounds of strange voices and many footsteps overhead, and with the same, memory returned.

"Penelope!" she cried frantically. "Oh, Penelope! where is she? Is she—is she—oh,"—burying her face in her hands as memory returned to her—"I thought she was killed—I saw her—under their hoofs. I saw them trampling on her—is she—killed?" in a hushed, gasping voice.

Mademoiselle laid a soothing hand on her. "No, dear, she is alive and safe. She is badly injured, but she will recover, please God. The doctor is with her now, and Miss Ashe, so I came down to see my poor Esther. My child, we have much to be thankful for that things are not worse. It might have been—"

"Oh, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle," cried Esther, "I can never tell you how bad I have been—" but she found herself clasped in a warm embrace that told of pity and love and sympathy unbounded. Mademoiselle asked no questions, but the whole story had to be told. Esther knew she would know no rest until she had unburthened her heart and humbled herself, and was possessed by a feeling that if she did not do it then she might never again be able to. And Mademoiselle, with complete understanding, let her talk.

"I saw her fall. I heard her scream. She tried to get up, but was knocked down again. She called 'Esther, Esther,' but I couldn't help her—and I thought she was being killed. Oh, Mademoiselle, I shall never be able to forget it—never, never, never!" and Esther clung to her, shaken with terror and the shock of all she had gone through.

"Darling, you must try not to dwell upon it. You must try to be strong and brave, and get well, for Penelope will need you, and Angela and Poppy will need you—and Guard—"

"Oh! Guard?" gasped Esther, afraid to ask the question which filled her mind.

"Do you think you can bear to see him? He will be so much happier if he may be with you."

"Then he is—all right?" breathlessly.

"No, darling, not all right. He has come out of the battle alive, which is more than one could have dared to hope; but he is badly injured. You will not be shocked by the sight of bandages, will you? Guard looks a poor old battered warrior at present, but we hope he will soon recover."

A battered warrior indeed did he look as he came creeping, limping in, his head bound up in bandages, one leg in a splint, and bandages about his body and chest where big gashes had been stitched and strapped up. His pain was so great he could scarcely drag himself in, but he crept forward, wagging his tail bravely; and when Esther laughed a little weak, almost tearful laugh, at the sight of his long nose coming out of his 'nightcap,' as she called it, he smiled and wagged his tail again, and tried to raise himself to kiss her.

The other victim Esther did not see until the next day, for Penelope was too ill to bear anything more that night, and when Esther went into the sickroom the next day she could hardly recognise her bonnie, smiling sister in the pale, bandaged face on the pillow, so drawn with pain, so dark about the eyes, so wan and changed in even that short time.

She was too weak and exhausted even then to speak much, but the old smile flickered for a moment in her tired eyes, and the sound arm was stretched out to creep around Esther's neck.

"I am all—all right," she whispered. "I shall be well—soon. It isn't— so very—bad, now."

"Pen," Esther whispered back in an agony, "oh, Pen, you don't know all, but—I'll never, never—"

Penelope put up her lips to be kissed. "Never—mind," she whispered faintly. "Nothing shall—ever—come between us—again, shall it, dear?"

"Never," said Esther decisively, "if I can help it." And she honestly tried to keep her word.



CHAPTER XVIII.

It often happens that a big shock which pulls us up with a sharp jerk on the road we are travelling will show us the danger of the way before us, and teach us to walk warily all our days. So it was with Esther. The shock and horror, and the awful fear she endured that afternoon, showed her, as nothing else could, the way she was going. I do not for a moment mean to say that she conquered her unfortunate temper all at once, and became perfectly good and gentle and free from all jealousy from that moment. That would have been impossible to any one, certainly to a child of such strong feelings, so reserved and sensitive, so full of failings as Esther. But she did try, and if she failed she did her best to conquer next time, and only those who have tried too know how hard that is.

Others helped her a little without her knowledge. Penelope tried to restrain herself in a half unconscious habit she had got into of putting herself before her shyer elder sister.

Mademoiselle was careful, too, to show her how much she valued her, and to try not to wound her sensitive, loving heart; so was Cousin Charlotte. And Esther, on her part, taught herself the lesson that one person can love two without loving either the less.

So when Penelope was at last able to creep about again, and Guard seemed as hale and hearty as ever, a new era of peace and happiness dawned for Moor Cottage, and never could there have been a happier, busier, more united little household than that was.

The summer went by like a golden flash, so it seemed to the children, so full was every day of work and play, picnics, lessons, walks, gardening, and a dozen other occupations. No matter what the weather, or how busy she was, Esther never failed to go to Mademoiselle Leperier's three times a week, and twice a week Penelope went for her singing lesson. Penelope was having French lessons of Mademoiselle too, and she and Esther studied together.

Miss Row came back from her journeyings, and, entirely oblivious apparently of all that had passed, sent for Penelope to recommence her organ lessons, and was quite annoyed that she had not kept up her practising. But at this Miss Ashe's gentle spirit rose, and she talked to Miss Row so frankly and seriously that that eccentric lady became very repentant, and to make up for her unkindness promised Penelope the post of organist, at a salary of twenty-five pounds a year, as soon as ever she was capable of filling it.

To Penelope this was success indeed, and as soon as her arm was strong enough to bear it she practised with an assiduity which promised that the time was not so very far distant when she would be fitted to take over her appointment.

Angela, before that summer was over, acquired three more chicks and a fowls' house of her own, and already saw visions of herself presiding over a farm—which should adjoin Moor Cottage—well stocked with fowls and ducks, geese and turkeys, cows and pigs, horses and dogs.

"And I shall write out to daddy and mother to come home," she would say triumphantly. For Angela never grew reconciled to the thought of her parents' exile. "It must be so sad and lonely and uncomfortable out there," she would say. "Mother might find it dull here, but she would have lots of books to read, and that would make her happy."

"I should live wiv you, shouldn't I, Angela?" Poppy inquired eagerly.

"Oh yes, we should all live together."

"But what about Cousin Charlotte? I am sure she would be very unhappy wivout us; so would Anna." Poppy found matters very difficult of arrangement, owing to her incapacity to live in two places at the same time. "I shouldn't like to leave Cousin Charlotte and Anna and Guard and Ephraim."

"I should stay with Cousin Charlotte," said Esther one day, when the matter was under discussion. "You see, there would be so many of you, you wouldn't want me, but Cousin Charlotte would, and we should be next door, so it would be almost the same."

But all these premature plans were thrown that autumn into confusion by a letter from Canada. Instead of waiting to be sent for by his prosperous daughters Mr. Carroll wrote to say he had made up his mind to come.

"Your cousin cannot reconcile herself to the life here," he wrote, "and says she can never be happy here; and as I am not doing well enough to warrant me in staying on in spite of her objections, I am thinking of selling out and coming home with her very soon. For the time, to give me an opportunity to look about me, I can think of no better plan than to come near you, my dear cousin, if a small house can be found for us. I cannot describe to you my longing to see my children again, nor with what pleasure I am filled at the prospect of coming home, even though I have to write myself down a failure here."

Then he went on to thank her in most grateful and feeling terms for her goodness to his children, terms which drew tears from the gentle little lady's eyes and set her to wondering what she could do really to help this almost unknown cousin and his children.

When she told the children the news their excitement was great; but when, a week later, came another letter, asking, if there was a cottage at Dorsham or close by to be found, that it should be taken for them, if it would possibly do, their excitement grew intense.

"Oh, if only I had my farm!" cried Angela, and she went out and looked at the ground, as though expecting the foundations might have already begun to show.

But no cottage was to be found next door or in Dorsham. There were not very many all told, and those there were were always full, so that if one family wanted to change they had to wait until another was in the same mind, and then just walk in to each other's houses. But up at Four Winds there was a square, sturdy cottage built expressly, one would think, to defy those winds that blew over the village. It was the only one, but all the four girls agreed that it would be just the very thing. It had a sitting-room and kitchen and scullery and three bedrooms, tiny rooms all of them, but to the children it was one of the most fascinating little places ever built; and when stocked with the simple furniture Miss Charlotte had had instructions to purchase it really did look a dear, cosy little house.

And such it seemed to the weary travellers when they arrived, the father tired, disappointed with his last attempt, and bowed under a burden of care, but so glad to see his children again that nothing else seemed to matter. Such it seemed, too, to the mother, so disgusted with the roughness and want of comforts in the life she had been leading lately that everything seemed luxurious and replete with comfort.

Cousin Charlotte and the girls had certainly done their best to make the place look homelike, and Anna had helped to clean it from top to bottom, to lay carpets, hang curtains, and polish everything that could be polished, so that it really was in a perfect state of order and cleanliness.

It was in the spring that the travellers finally reached Four Winds, just when the brooks were beginning to run with a cheerful note, and the scent of wet moss and primroses to fill the air.

As they drove from the station on the memorable day of their arrival Mr. Carroll drew in the sweet fresh breeze as though it were the breath of life to him, and almost shouted with pleasure at the sight of the catkins on the nut-bushes, and the 'goslings' on the willows, and the yellowhammers and thrushes hopping in the hedges.

They got down for a moment at Moor Cottage to see the children's home, and be introduced to Anna and Guard.

"You noble old fellow, you saved my girls' lives," said Mr. Carroll, patting the dear old dog's rough head; and Guard wagged his tail and looked as pleased as though he quite understood.

Then Mrs. Carroll and Miss Ashe mounted the quaint old carriage again, and drove slowly on with the luggage, while Mr. Carroll and his girls, and, of course, Guard, walked on behind. The elder girls were a little shy and constrained just at first, perhaps, and Angela was silent with happiness. If she talked much she should weep, she felt; but she showed her father her hens and hen-house before they started on again. "And in time I shall have a whole farm, father," she said seriously, "and then I want you to come to live with me on it, and we will have all kinds of animals."

"A capital idea," said Mr. Carroll gravely, without a trace of a smile as he looked at the very modest beginning so much was to spring from.

But, if the others were silent Poppy, when once her tongue was loosened, made up for it, and she trotted along by her father's side, holding his hand, and chattering to him as freely as though he had never been away.

The greatest joy of all though was when they reached the new cottage, and displayed their arrangements there—the sitting-room, with its easy-chairs, and table spread with dainty white cloth, shining tea-things, and some of Anna's nicest cakes. A fire was burning in the grate, making it warm and cheerful for the strangers. Upstairs the simply furnished bedrooms looked equally attractive and spotlessly clean, and then last of all came the cheerful, cosy little kitchen, looking a perfect picture, with its bright tin and copper and china reflecting the firelight on all sides; and where, oh crowning delight, sat the neatest of neat little maid-servants, her rosy cheeks growing rosier and rosier as her new master and mistress and all the young ladies trooped in. She rose and curtseyed when she saw Mr. and Mrs. Carroll, for she was a well-trained country child, not yet contaminated by the modern 'Board-school manners.' So she curtseyed civilly, and stood while her master and mistress were present; and when Mr. Carroll asked her her name, she answered, "Grace, if you please, sir," and blushed again; and when he said, "Well, Grace, so you have come to help us. I hope we shall all be very happy and comfortable together," she curtseyed and said, "Yes, thank you, sir. I'll try my best."

The bedrooms, all but Mr. and Mrs. Carroll's, were very tiny. One was so small it would only hold one little bed.

"But where is the fourth chick to roost?" asked their father anxiously. "You don't expect one to sit up while the other sleeps, I hope?" laughing.

But Cousin Charlotte, to whom he spoke, did not laugh back. "I—I wondered," she said, looking up at him very wistfully, as though she knew she was asking a great deal—"I wondered, Ronald, if you would spare me one, at—at least until I have got used to losing them all. I know it is a good deal to ask you, but—I shall be so very lonely—" poor Cousin Charlotte's voice quavered—"and as your house is so small I wondered if you would let me still keep my Esther?"

Esther started, and a sense of disappointment made her heart sink. Remembering her mother's dislike of housekeeping, and her incapacity, Esther had all this time been picturing herself as housekeeper and real mistress of this dear little home, presiding over the kitchen and the neat little maid and generally distinguishing herself as cook and housewife. She had known, of course, that there was only room for three of them there, but she had, somehow, thought of Angela as being the one to remain with Cousin Charlotte, because, perhaps, of her fowls, and her position as mistress of the poultry yards.

For the first few moments, therefore, when she heard Cousin Charlotte's request, she felt a deep pang of disappointment. "But mother will need me here," she was just about to say, when there rushed over her the memory of all Cousin Charlotte had done for them, her goodness and patience, her generosity and unselfishness, and now her loneliness,—and all her feelings changed.

"She is my right hand," Cousin Charlotte went on pathetically. "I do not know what I should do without her now!"

Then how glad Esther was that she had not spoken, and oh! the joy and pride that filled her heart, the deep, deep happiness of knowing that she had been of real use and comfort, that some one really needed her. With only a little effort she put aside all her feeling about the new home, and determined, if her parents consented, to go blithely with Cousin Charlotte, and never, never, never let her know of that moment's unwillingness.

Consent was given, of course. How could they refuse to spare one to her who had taken them all and made her home theirs when they had no other, and had loved and cared for them, and guided them so well and faithfully without hope of reward?

Mr. Carroll was only too happy to be able to do something in return.

"I think it will be good for Penelope, too, to have a few housekeeping duties," said Cousin Charlotte, smiling as she laid her gentle hand on Pen's shoulder. "It will help to balance the dreamy side of her—at any rate until Angela grows older; while Angela—well, Angela is a born housekeeper and farmer combined, and I prophesy that within a year or so she will be keeping the house and all of you in such order and comfort as to be a pattern to the country round."

Angela's face grew radiant. "I'd love to," she said joyously; "but I wish—the only thing I wish is that we could all live together. I don't want to leave you, Cousin Charlotte, yet I want to be with—you understand, don't you?"

Yes, Cousin Charlotte understood. They all felt the same; but when the three had left their old home for the new one it was only, as one might say, to live in two houses instead of one, for never a day passed but what they were down at Miss Charlotte's, and so the change was not such a wrench as all had feared. Miss Charlotte insisted on continuing to teach them all—at any rate, she said, until they were obliged to go away to school.

Mademoiselle Leperier, who actually went to call on Mrs. Carroll, declared her health and spirits were so much improved by the new interest the children had provided her with that she begged to be allowed to give them all lessons in French, and singing, too.

"I foresee that I shall have no housekeeper after all," said Mrs. Carroll with a sigh, "but I suppose I shall manage somehow, and the children are being educated, which is something. One must think of them first, I suppose."

Esther felt a pang of doubt when she heard the words. Ought she not, after all, to give up her happy home with Cousin Charlotte, where by this time she had completely settled down, and come up to take care of her mother? She would see but little of Mademoiselle if she did, she saw that plainly, and there would be very little time for study, but there was her father to think of, and his comfort.

But when she laid her doubts before her father and Cousin Charlotte, they bade her put them out of her head. She tried to, though she doubted their advice; and it was only years later, when she was a well-educated, cultured woman, full of interests and good aims, that she understood the wisdom of Cousin Charlotte's plan in taking her away, at least until her education was complete, from where she would have become little but a household drudge, worked beyond her strength, her talents, her greatest interests undeveloped, her temper irritated and ruined as it was when first she came to Dorsham; and she felt deeply grateful for the understanding and loving care which had surrounded her at so critical a time.



CHAPTER XIX.

Five years have gone by since Mr. and Mrs. Carroll returned from Canada to the little house on the moor which they have never left, or desired to leave, since.

Mr. Carroll's health suffered severely from the long strain and the rigour of his life abroad, and he was never again fit for hard work. But grandpapa Carroll, recognising the brave fight he had made, forgave him the misfortunes he had met with earlier and altered his will, so that when he died, not long after Mr. Carroll's return, the little family, though still obliged to be economical, and not above being glad of the girls' little earnings, were placed beyond all want.

Esther still lived with Cousin Charlotte, the prop and mainstay of the house, for Anna had married Ephraim and moved into the cottage next door to Mrs. Bennett's. Angela, pulling her bow at a venture on that birthday night, so long ago now, had hit the truth when she said that Anna could not think better of Ephraim after that evening because she thought so well of him already. A truth Ephraim found out for himself in time, though it took him two years longer to do so.

Finding it was no use waiting to speak until he found her in a gentle mood he spoke out then and there, and no one could decide whether Anna was most astonished at being asked or Ephraim at being accepted. However, when once the need for concealment of her true feelings was over Anna's manner to Ephraim changed so markedly that Ephraim often stopped to wonder if the woman he had married could possibly be the one who had led him such a life before. Love can work miracles, Ephraim found, and came to the conclusion that whether she was the same or not he was quite content.

It was a great blow to Miss Charlotte to lose her Anna, but more than one nice little maiden was only too anxious to come to 'a place' where the last servant had stayed twenty years; and Esther, and the fortunate maid chosen to fill Anna's shoes, combined to prevent Miss Charlotte feeling her loss too deeply.

Esther's hands had grown very full as time had gone on, and the fuller they grew the happier she was. Slowly and almost imperceptibly Miss Charlotte gave up more and more of her work, and took life easily, feeling she could leave all to her Esther, and know that all was well.

Angela's hens were moved to Four Winds, and Esther took over the responsibility of the poultry yard as well as the house and the kitchen and the new maid. But in the midst of all her duties she contrived to give a good deal of her time to her dearly loved Mademoiselle, for Mademoiselle was failing, and those who loved her best knew that not for very much longer would they have the joy of her presence.

Penelope was away in London, studying with all her heart and strength, for in the sweet pure air of the moor her voice had developed beyond everyone's expectation, and Mademoiselle Leperier never rested until she had been sent to study under a distinguished master. The question as to ways and means had been a very serious one, but while it was being anxiously discussed, and almost abandoned in despair, Miss Row came forward, and with unwonted delicacy asked to be allowed to play the part of fairy godmother to her favourite.

"I shall only be laying out a little to buy myself a big return some day," she pleaded. "If you will let me have a share in Penelope's success the kindness will be all on your part."

So Penelope went away from their midst to stirring scenes of life and work, weeping at leaving her beloved moor, and vowing to return as soon and as often as might be,—a vow she never forgot.

Angela's dream in time was realised too. Her dream poultry farm became a real one, and the most successful in the country. Very slowly at first she added penny to penny, then shilling to shilling, then pound to pound, until at last, instead of building more hens' houses, she bought a cow. It was an experiment, and one those about doubted the success of; but Angela never doubted, and presently another cow was added to her stock, and soon after that they all moved to a small farm, where Poppy had to become the little housewife, for Angela's time was quite taken up with her dairy.

Poppy's market-gardening scheme never got beyond the bed of parsley. With that one success she decided to be satisfied. "It was a most wonderful pennyworth," she often remarked, "for it brought me quite a lot of money, and Mademoiselle as a friend, and nothing could have been better than that."

"Nothing," said Esther softly. "Life is very wonderful, Poppy dear, isn't it?"

"Very," answered Poppy sagely, with a serious shake of her curly head.

One last scene before we bid them all good-bye!

It is Easter time once more. In the orchards and woods the daffodils are bowing their golden heads, as though awed by the beauty of the pear-blossom spreading between them and the glorious blue sky. The hedges are starred with primroses, daisies, and king-cups, the air is sweet with the scent of flowers and the fresh earth. Everything seems brimming over with sunshine and happiness and joy of living. Easter is in the heart of all things animate and inanimate.

Up in 'the Castle' the four girls are gathered as of old, but with one big gap in their circle. Guard, dear old Guard, will never accompany them more in their wanderings. He sleeps his last long sleep in the breast of the moor he loved so well. Yet he is with them in spirit and thought, for he lies buried close beside 'the Castle,' and they feel he is near them whenever they go there.

Easter is in their hearts, too, for Penelope is home for her holidays and Angela has just returned from a much-dreaded duty visit to Aunt Julia, and their joy at being together again is intense.

Penelope lies in her old attitude, flat on the moor, one cheek pressed close to its breast, her eyes gazing in a perfect rapture of delight over the length and breadth of it.

"I almost think," she says softly, "it is worth going away to have the joy of coming home again; to step out of that dear little station, and then to turn the corner and see—this," waving her hand in a wide sweep. "Oh, girls, shall you ever forget the first time we came, and how we dreaded it, and how shy we were, and frightened—"

"Until we saw Cousin Charlotte," chimed in Esther. "I never felt frightened after that."

"And do you remember," burst in Angela, "our dear little rooms, and how lovely it all looked when we came that night, and dear old Guard,"—her voice wavered and dropped—"came out to meet us, and Anna?"

"And I was so troubled about our clothes because we were so shabby, and— but it never seemed to matter much. Cousin Charlotte made everything come right. Isn't it wonderful, all that has happened just through mother's writing to Cousin Charlotte, and Cousin Charlotte being able to take us!"

"Wonderful," said Penelope softly; and back to her mind as through a vague dream came a vision of a child lying amidst the long coarse grass of an untidy garden, with butterflies, yellow and white and brown, flitting about over her head, while through her mind as she watched them passed visions and dreams of the future, and vague wonderings as to what it would bring.

"And this is what it has brought," she thought to herself. "I shall not be afraid to take the next step now. God has been so good to us."

THE END