Then he handed her over to Marie's care, telling her that the little girl had better have a hot bath and something nice and hot to drink as soon as possible, while he went straight to Monsieur Gen's room.

An hour later, while Una lay in bed listening for the slightest sound from her father's room, the Vicar fetched her to say good-night to him.

"Good-bye, darling," said her father. "God bless you, little one."

"Good-night, father—dear father!" said the child, crying softly, she knew not why; and then Mr. Carew carried her back to bed, and she slept soundly until awakened the next morning by the sunshine pouring through the window on to her bed.

But, although the sun shone brightly out of doors and birds sang gaily in the trees, it was a sad, sad day within the house, for Monsieur Gen had died during the night, and little Una was an orphan.

Oh, how slowly the hours of that day dragged by for Una! No one had much time to spare for the little girl, and she walked drearily from room to room, feeling that it was cruel of the sun to shine and the birds to sing so merrily when her father was dead and she would never, on earth, hear him speak again.

She fell asleep at last—curled up in one of the large study chairs—worn out with crying and want of sleep; for often during the last fortnight she had kept herself awake in case her father should want anything and call for her in the night.

There, some hours later, Mr. Carew found her—fast asleep, and with her arms tightly folded round one of her father's coats.

Very gently he lifted the little girl in his arms and carried her down the lane to the vicarage; and when Una awoke she found herself in Norah's little bed, with Mrs. Carew bending over her with loving looks and tender words of sympathy.

She was to live with them always now, Mrs. Carew told the little girl, and she must try and be as happy as she could among them, and look upon Norah and Dan and Mary and Ruth and Tom and Philip and Stephen as her own brothers and sisters.

In a few days' time, as soon as the little girl was well enough for the journey, she was sent with old Marie to stay at a little seaside place called Bembies. Dan went with them also, partly because Mrs. Carew had thought that it would be good for Una to have a child's company, and partly because the little boy really needed a change.

And at Bembies Una told Dan her father's secret.

What it was must be kept for a new chapter.



CHAPTER XII.

HER FATHER'S SECRET.

At the top of a high six-barred gate sat Tom, swinging his legs and whistling softly in a thoughtful kind of way, while he watched Una and Dan, who were seated below him on the grass, making a wreath of red berries, hops and nuts.

The Harvest Thanksgiving was to be held at the little church the following evening, and Ruth—like her namesake of long ago—was gathering the few stray ears of corn left among the stubble. She was helping to make a sickle to hang in front of the pulpit.

"Una," began Tom hesitatingly, "you said once—before you went away—that when you came back again you'd tell us about your father's secret. Will you?"

"Oh, will you, Una?" asked Norah, who had just joined the others with a fresh supply of berries and hops from the hedge.

Dan said nothing; for had not Una talked to him often about her father when they had sat on the bench at Bembies, or side by side in the deep window-seat overlooking the quaint little western bay? The little boy remembered all that she had told him, and often thought to himself that he too would try and do some good in the world, even though he would never be able to run so fast as Tom, or to play football or cricket like Stephen and Philip.

Una looked up from the wreath with a sad little smile on her face.

"It is funny you should ask me just now," she said; "I was just thinking about it, and wondering if I should tell you."



"Will you tell us, then?" said Tom, as he swung himself off the gate and sat down on the grass by Una's side.

"Father used to tell me about it when he was so ill," said the little girl. "I used to sit in his room, you know, in case he wanted anything; and sometimes I thought he was asleep, and then he would open his eyes all at once and begin to talk to me; and he told me lots and lots of things he had never told me before—about things he had done, I mean, and about my mamma—and——"

A big tear rolled down Una's cheek and splashed on to the bunch of crimson berries she was holding.

"Don't tell us, Una, if you would rather not," said Norah softly.

"Oh, yes," said Una, "I do want to tell you—only I thought of papa then, and just how he used to look. His face looked always so tired, Norah, so very tired; and his voice used to get tired too, and then he would shut his eyes and go to sleep again. But he told me so many things, I don't know where to begin."

The little girl was silent for some moments.

"I know! I will begin about the man in the garden!" she said suddenly. "You remember the black-haired young man whom we found under the ash-tree, the day 'Snoozy' was lost?"

"Yes, I remember," said Tom.

"Oh, yes, Una!" chimed in Norah. "Can you tell us now what he told you? It was a secret then, you know."

"Yes," said Una. "I couldn't tell you then, because it was part of papa's secret, you know. But now it doesn't matter, it isn't a secret any more—not papa's, I mean.

"Isn't it? Are you sure, Una?" asked Norah.

"Quite sure. I said to papa: 'Is it a secret?' And he said: 'Not when I'm gone, little one.' So you see I may tell you now," said Una sadly.

"Will you tell us who the man was, then, Una?" asked Tom after a little pause.

"He was a Russian," said Una. "So was papa; and that sad country, a long, long way off, which he told me about, was Russia. Do you remember?"

"Yes, the country where the little children are sometimes quite sad and miserable because their fathers are taken away from them, and their homes are taken away from them too," said Norah.

"Yes," said Una. "Well, that man had done all he could to try and make the people who look after the country be kinder to the poor people, and it would have been all right if he could have gone to the King himself—no, I don't mean the King, I mean the——"

"I know," exclaimed Dan. "You mean the Czar. It's the 'Czar' of Russia, and the 'King' of England, and the 'Emperor' of Germany, and——"

"Don't, Dan! Let Una go on," said Tom impatiently. "Why didn't the man go to the Czar himself, Una?"

"Because there are a lot of men—noblemen, and people like that—who do the Czar's business for him, only they don't do it well at all; many of them are bad, wicked men, really, and they only think about what they can do for themselves, and don't mind a bit about the poor people being in trouble and being treated badly—and when they found that this man was trying to do things for the poor people they were angry, and they made up a lot of stories about him and had him put in prison."

"Oh, Una, how wicked of them!" cried Norah.

"And then," said Una, sitting up very straight, with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks: "papa got him out of prison again. That was papa's secret! When people were put in prison, in Russia, when they hadn't really done anything wrong, papa used to help them to get free again, and he used to write letters to the Czar and tell him how his poor people were being treated, and he used to write books too—big books—to send all over the world, so that everyone should know what sad, sad lives many of the people in Russia led, and should try and help them if they could."

"And the yellow country at the top of Russia, Una? You haven't told about that," said Dan.

"The yellow country? What do you mean?" said Tom.

"He means Siberia; it's yellow on the map I showed to him," said Una. "Yes, very often people are sent to live in that cold country—not because they have done anything wrong, but because there are lots of salt mines there and they can't get people to go and live there and work in the mines. And so they send men to live there who don't want to go at all, and they have to leave their wives and children and go and live in that cold country, and work in the mines without getting any money for doing it."

"But, Una, couldn't the wives and children go and live in that country too?" asked Norah.

"Oh, yes," said Una; "very often they do go and live there, but it is hundreds and hundreds of miles away from their homes, and they have to walk all the way; no one pays for their journey or gives them homes when they get there."

"Oh, Una, it's dreadful!" said Norah. "And did your father help the man to get away from prison, and from that horrid, cold country? But how could he, when he was in England?"

"Papa used to help them to get away when he lived in other countries nearer Russia," said Una. "And he used to let them come and live in his house until they were well again, because they often got quite ill in that country, with having only poor food to eat and being treated so badly; and then papa used to fetch their wives and families out of Russia and give them enough money to begin to earn their own living again in another country.

"But often the cruel people I told you about used to find out where papa was living and prevent him helping the poor people to escape, and then we used to have to go and live in another country until he was found out again; and then at last he got ill and came to live in England, and could only write books and have the poor prisoners to stay here and get strong and well again; and other people had to help them to get away from Siberia and from prison."

"It sounds like a story out of a book," said Tom.

"What a rich man your father must have been," said Norah. "It must be very nice to have lots of money, and be able to help people."

"It wasn't all papa's own money," said Una. "Papa belonged to what he called a society, and that society used to give him money to give to the poor people. Someone in that society has found homes for Ivan and Peter, our old servants, you know, who used to live here. It is very nice that Marie is going to live with me always," added the little girl.

Norah drew a long breath.

"So that was your father's secret, Una?" she said. "It's a very nice one."

"Papa would have helped the poor Russian people somehow," said Una, with a wise little nod of her head, "even if he hadn't had any money. Papa said once that everybody ought to try and help other people somehow."

The children walked back across the fields and through the woods—not talking much, but thinking of all that Una had told them—until they came to the gap in the fence and saw that it had been boarded up.

"Oh, Una, look!" cried Tom.

"We shan't have any more picnics," said Norah dolefully.

Dan leant out of his small carriage and put his hand into Una's with a happy little laugh.

"I don't mind a bit about the gap," he said. "We've got Una on this side of it now."



THE END.