Primrose nodded, and Poppy dropped on to the edge of the nearest chair, and, clasping her red and hard-worked hands in front of her, prepared herself to listen.

"First of all, Poppy," began Jasmine, after waiting for her sister to speak; but Primrose was strangely silent.

"First of all, Poppy, you must go to the places which improve your mind; now, I do hope you are not going to be giddy, running just after pretty things; but I suppose your aunt, who is so wise, and who keeps the boarding-house, will see to that. Well, first of all you had better go to Westminster Abbey. Oh, Poppy! I have read such glorious descriptions of it—the lights from the painted windows—the wonderfully ancient look of the old pillars, and then the music; it peals down the aisles and echoes through the fretted roofs; you will be greatly overpowered at Westminster Abbey, Poppy; but you must remember that you are a very privileged person, and be thankful for being permitted to see with your own eyes such a lovely, lovely, glorious place!"

"It do sound, from your description, very awe-inspiring, Miss Jasmine," answered Poppy. "Is there no other place where one might get more, so to speak, into the festive mood, miss?"

"Oh yes, you silly Poppy, lots and lots; but we'll come to those presently. You'll have to see the Houses of Parliament, where our laws are made—if you don't feel grave there, you ought. Then you must visit the Tower, where people's heads were cut off—it's very solemn indeed at the Tower; and, of course, you will pay a visit to the Zoo, and you can see the lions fed, and you can look at the monkey-house."

"I likes monkeys," said Poppy, whose face had been growing graver and graver while Jasmine was talking; "and if you'll throw in a little bit of gazing into shop windows, Miss Jasmine, and learning the newest cuts of a bonnet, and the most genteel fit of a mantle, why, then, I'll do even that dreadful Tower, as in duty bound. My mother calls London a vast sea and a world of temptation, and nothing but vanity from end to end; but when I thinks of the beautiful ladies in aunt's boarding-house, and of the shop windows I feels that it is dazzling."

"I wish that I were going," repeated Jasmine, whose cheeks were flushed, and her starry eyes brighter than usual; "I wish I were going. Oh, Primrose, think of you, and Daisy, and me saying our prayers in the Abbey!"

"We must not think of it," said Primrose; "God hears our prayers wherever we say them, Jasmine, darling."

"Yes," answered Jasmine; "and I am not going to complain. Well, Poppy, you are a very lucky girl, and I hope you'll be as good as gold, and as happy as the day is long."

"And if ever you does come to London, Miss Jasmine," said Poppy, rising to her feet, "you'll remember aunt's boarding-house, for ladies only; and proud I'll be to wait on you, miss."

"But we can't come, Poppy dear—we are very poor now—we have only got thirty pounds a year to live on."

To Poppy, who had never been known in her life to possess thirty pence, this sum sounded by no means modest.

"Might I make bold to inquire, miss," she asked, "if the thirty pounds is once for all, or if it's a yearly recurrence?"

"Oh, it's an income, Poppy—how stupid you are!"

"Then I'll consult my aunt in town, miss, and try to find out if you three dear young ladies couldn't contrive a London visit out of part of the savings."

After this sapient speech Poppy bade the Mainwarings good-bye. They looked after her retreating form down the street with many regrets, for they were very fond of her, and Jasmine at least envied her.



CHAPTER X.

WAYS OF EARNING A LIVING.

That night, after her sisters were in bed, Primrose again sat up late—once again she read her mother's letter; then burying her face in her hands, she sat for a long, long time lost in thought.

Jasmine and Daisy, all unconcerned and unconscious, slept overhead, but Hannah was anxious about her young mistress, and stepped into the drawing-room, and said in her kind voice—

"Hadn't you better be getting your beauty sleep, missie?"

"Oh, Hannah! I am so anxious," said Primrose.

"Now, deary, whatever for?" asked the old servant.

Primrose hesitated. She wanted to talk to Hannah about her mother's letter; she half took it out of her pocket, then she restrained herself.

"Another time," she whispered to herself. Aloud she said—

"Hannah, Mrs. Ellsworthy and Miss Martineau hinted to me what Mr. Danesfield said plainly to-day—we three girls have not got money enough to live on."

"Eh, dear!" answered Hannah, dropping on to the nearest chair, "and are you putting yourself out about that, my pretty? Why, tisn't likely that you three young ladies could support yourselves. Don't you fret about that, Miss Primrose; why, you'll get quite old with fretting, and lose all your nice looks. You go to bed, my darling—there's a Providence over us, and he'll find ways and means to help you."

Primrose rose to her feet, some tears came to her eyes, and taking Hannah's hard old hand, she stooped and kissed her.

"I won't fret, Hannah," she said, "and I'll go to bed instantly. Thank you for reminding me about God." Then she lit her bedroom candle and went very gently up the stairs to her bedroom, but as she laid her head on the pillow she said to herself—"Even Hannah sees that we can't live on our income."

The next morning early Primrose said rather abruptly to her two sisters—

"I have found out the meaning of Miss Martineau's fussiness and Mrs. Ellsworthy's kindness. They are both sorry for us girls, for they know we can't live on thirty pounds a year."

"Oh, what nonsense!" said Jasmine; "any one can live on thirty pounds a year. Didn't you see how Poppy opened her eyes when we mentioned it;—she thought it quite a lot of money, and said we could come to London out of the savings. I am sure, Primrose, if any one ought to know, it is Poppy, for her mother is really very poor."

"Mr. Danesfield, too, says we can't live on it," continued Primrose; "and when I asked Hannah last night, she said 'Of course not'—that no one expected us to. Now look here, Jasmine, this is all quite fresh to you and Daisy, but I'm accustomed to it, for I have known it for twenty-four hours, and what I say is this, if we can't live on our income we have got to make some more income to live on. If thirty pounds a year is not enough for us at the end, neither is it enough for us at the beginning, so we had better see about earning an income at once, or we'll get into debt, which will be quite awful. Jasmine, I am afraid the days of our merry childhood are over, and I am so sorry for you and Daisy, for you are both very young."

"Oh, I don't mind," said Jasmine—"I—I—I'd do anything—I fancy I could make dresses best, or—Oh, suppose I wrote poetry, and sold it? You know you and Daisy do like my poems. Do you remember how you cried over the one I called 'An Ode to the Swallow?'"

"No, I didn't cry over that one," interrupted Daisy. "I thought that one rather stupid—I cried over the one in which you spoke about my darling Pink being caught in a trap, and having her leg broken."

"Oh, that one," repeated Jasmine—"I thought that one a little vulgar. I only made it up to please you, Daisy. Primrose, don't you notice what a lot of poems there are in all the magazines, and of course, somebody must write them. I should not be a bit surprised if I could add to our income by writing poetry, Primrose. All the books, nearly all the magazines and newspapers, come from London. Poppy will not be going to London until to-morrow—I'll run round this morning and ask her to try and find out for me which of the publishers want poems like my 'Ode to the Swallow.' Perhaps they'd like it in the —— Review; only the —— Review is so horribly deep. My ode is deep too, for Daisy cannot understand it. Perhaps I could send my poem about Pink to one of the other magazines. Oh, Primrose! may I run round to Poppy, and see if she can help us?"

Primrose smiled very faintly, and it dawned across her again in rather a painful manner what a mere child her little sister was.

"I think I wouldn't, darling," she said. "Poppy could not really help you about publishers. Look here, Jasmine and Daisy; here is a letter I found in mamma's cabinet yesterday—it is directed to me, but the news it contains is for us all; will you and Daisy go out into the garden and read it together. You will be very much astonished when you read the letter—poor mamma, what she must have suffered! While you are reading I will go out. Mr. Danesfield says I may consult him, and as I know he is a wise man, I will do so."

"Would you like to take my ode with you?" inquired Jasmine.

"No, not to-day, dear—if I am not in to dinner, don't wait for me."

"I know one thing; we'll be very saving about that dinner," remarked Jasmine, shaking back her curly locks. "If you are not in, Primrose, Daisy and I will divide an egg between us—I read somewhere that eggs were very nourishing, and half a one each will do fine. Come into the garden now, Eyebright. Oh, Primrose! I don't feel a bit low about adding to our income. If we choose we can eat so very little, and then if the —— Review likes my poetry, I can spin it off by the yard."



CHAPTER XI.

BREAD AND BUTTER.

Primrose, her head a little more erect than usual, her step firm, and a proud bright light in her eyes, went quickly down the little rambling village street. The plain black dress she wore set off her yellow hair and extremely fair complexion to the best advantage. She had never looked sweeter or more independent than at this moment, when, for the first time in her young life, she was about to ask for help.

Mr. Danesfield was not so busy this morning, and he saw his young visitor without delay.

"Sit down, my dear," he said; "I am very pleased to see you. You want to ask for my advice? I will give it with the greatest pleasure."

Primrose raised her head slowly. "I have been thinking over what you said yesterday," she began. "As it is quite impossible for my sisters and me to live on our little income, even with the help of what you have in the bank, we must try to help ourselves, must we not?"

"This is a brave thought, my dear—of course you must help yourselves, and you will be none the worse for doing so."

"We must earn money," continued Primrose. "How can girls like us, who are not educated—for I know we are not really educated—add to our incomes?"

Mr. Danesfield knit his brows. "Child," he said, "you ask me a puzzler. I have no children of my own, and I know very little about young folk. Of one thing, however, I am quite certain; Daisy can earn no money, nor can Jasmine. You, Primrose, might with some difficulty get a little place as a nursery governess; you are a nice, presentable-looking girl, my dear."

Primrose flushed, and the tears, wrung from great pain, came into her eyes.

"There is just one thing," she said, in a tremulous voice; "whatever happens, we three girls won't be parted. On that point I have quite firmly made up my mind."

Mr. Danesfield again knit his brows, and this time he fidgeted uneasily on his chair.

"Look here, Primrose," he said: "I am an old bachelor, and I don't know half nor a quarter the ways in which a woman may earn her living. I have always been told that a woman is a creature of resources. Now it is a well-known fact that an old bachelor has no resources. You go and put your question to Miss Martineau, my dear. Miss Martineau is a kind soul—'pon my word, now, a very kind soul—and she has managed wonderfully to exist herself on absolutely nothing. You go to Miss Martineau, Primrose, and get some secrets from her. Everything in my power you may depend on my doing. I will exert my interest, and my purse is at your service."

Here Primrose got up.

"Good-bye, Mr. Danesfield," she said. "I know you mean to be very kind, but we three must keep together, and we must be independent." Then she left the office, and went again down the street.

Mr. Danesfield looked after her as she walked away.

"Poor, proud young thing!" he said to himself. "Life will be a tussle for her, or I am much mistaken. She is really growing wonderfully nice-looking, too. How she flushed up when I said she was presentable—poor child! poor child! That mother of theirs might have done something to provide for those girls—lady-like girls—distinguished-looking. I expect the mother was a weak, poor soul. Well, I hope Miss Martineau will think of something. I must call and see Miss Martineau; 'pon my word I don't know what to suggest for the children to do."

When Primrose arrived at Miss Martineau's, that lady was just dismissing the last of her morning pupils. She was standing on her steps in her neat brown alpaca dress, over which she wore a large black apron of the same material with a bib to it. This apron had capacious pockets, which at the present moment were stuffed with her pupils' French exercises. On her head she had an antique-looking cap, made of black lace and rusty black velvet, and ornamented with queer little devices of colored beads.

She was delighted to see Primrose, and took her at once into her little sitting-room. "Now my dear, you will stay and have dinner with me. You don't mind having no meat, dear. My middle-day meal to-day consists of a salad and a rice soufflee. You are welcome to share it with me, Primrose."

"Thank you," said Primrose, "but I am not at all hungry. If you do not mind, I will talk to you while you dine. Miss Martineau, I have come to ask your advice."

Miss Martineau came up instantly and kissed the young girl on both cheeks.

"My love, I am delighted. It gives me the sincerest pleasure to give counsel to the young and inexperienced. Have you come from Mrs. Ellsworthy, dearest?"

"Not at all," answered Primrose. "Mrs. Ellsworthy has nothing to say to me. She is only a friend, nothing more. Miss Martineau, we have discovered that we cannot live on our little income. Please will you tell me how we can add to it, so that we three can keep together?"

"Keep together—impossible!" replied Miss Martineau. "There is nothing whatever before you, Primrose, but to face the inevitable. The inevitable means that you must break up your home—that you obtain, through the kind patronage of the Ellsworthys, a situation as governess, or companion, or something of that sort—and that the little girls, Jasmine and Daisy, are put into a good school for the orphan daughters of military men. The Ellsworthys will use their influence toward this end. They are very kind—they have taken up your cause warmly. Primrose, my dear, it sounds hard, but plain speaking is best. You must be parted from your sisters. This is inevitable. You have got to face it."

"It is not inevitable," answered Primrose—then she paused, and her face turned very white.

"It is not inevitable," she repeated, "for this reason because neither you nor Mrs. Ellsworthy have the smallest control over my sisters or myself. I asked for your advice, but if this is the best you can give, it is useless. Mrs. Ellsworthy never cared to know my mother, and she is not going to part my mother's children now. Good-bye, Miss Martineau—no, I am not hungry, I have a headache. Oh, I am not offended—people mean to be kind, but there are things which one cannot bear. No, Miss Martineau, the inevitable course you and Mrs. Ellsworthy have been kind enough to sketch out, my sisters and I will certainly not adopt."



CHAPTER XII.

THEY WOULD NOT BE PARTED.

Primrose walked down the street, passing by the little cottage which for so many years had been her home. Her sisters did not expect her to return to dinner, and her heart was too full to allow her to go in just then.

So they were to be parted—this was the advice of those who called themselves their friends. Primrose, Jasmine, and Daisy, her three flowers, as mother had called them, were no longer to grow sweetly in one garden together. They were to be parted—Primrose was to go one way, and the little ones another. Impulsive Jasmine would no longer cry out her griefs on Primrose's neck, or tell her joys and griefs, her hopes and aspirations, to the calm and elder sister. Daisy—their baby, as Primrose called her—might be ill or sad, or lonely, and she, Primrose, would no longer be there to comfort her.

Parted! No, they should not be parted—all their young lives they had lived together, and whether they starved, or whether they feasted, they would live together still. Thank God, no one had any real control over them—their very loneliness would now, therefore, be their safety—they might sketch out their own career, and no one could prevent them.

Primrose said to herself—

"After all, I am glad I know the very worst. People mean to be kind; but, oh! how can they understand what we three girls are to one another?"

She walked quickly in her agitation, and passing the village green, came suddenly upon Poppy Jenkins, who was hurrying home to her mother's cottage.

"Well, Miss Primrose, I'm off to-morrow," said Poppy, dropping one of her quick curtseys, and a more vivid red than usual coming into her bright cheeks.

"Yes, Poppy," answered Primrose; "I hope you will be very happy in London"—then a sudden thought occurring to her, she ran after the young girl and laid her hand on her shoulder.

"Poppy, give me your London address—I may want it."

"Oh law! Miss Primrose, do you think you'd be saving out of the thirty pounds regular income and coming up to London on a visit?"

"We may come to London, Poppy—I can't say," answered Primrose in a sad voice—"anyhow, I should like to have your address—may I have it?"

"Surely, miss—aunt lives in a part they call central—she says the rents are very high, but it's all done for the convenience of the beautiful ladies who boards with her. Aunt's address is Penelope Mansion—Wright Street, off the Edgware Road. It's a beautiful sounding address, isn't it, Miss Primrose?"

Primrose smiled again—a smile, however, which made poor little Poppy feel rather down-hearted, and then she continued her walk.

"It is very difficult to know what to do," she said to herself—"it makes one feel quite old and careworn. If only that brother who was lost long ago was now living, how nice it would be for us girls. I wonder if he is really dead—I suppose he is, or mamma would have heard something about him. Twenty years ago since it happened—longer than my whole life. Poor mother! poor, dear mother! what she must have suffered! I understand now why her pretty sweet face looked so sad, and why her hair was grey before her time. What a pity my brother has not lived—he certainly would not wish us girls to be parted."

Primrose walked on a little farther, then she retraced her steps and went home. She found Jasmine and Daisy in a state of the greatest excitement. Mrs. Ellsworthy had called, and had been nicer and sweeter and more charming than ever—she had brought Daisy a doll of the most perfect description, and had presented the flower-loving Jasmine with a great bouquet of exotics, which looked almost out of place in the humble little cottage.

"And there is a long letter for you, Primrose," continued Jasmine; "and she says she hopes you will read it very quickly, and that she may come down to-morrow morning to talk it over with you. She says there is a plan in the letter, and that it is a delightful plan—I wonder what it can be? Will you read the letter now, Primrose?—shall I break the seal and read it aloud to you?"

"No," answered Primrose, almost shortly for her—"Mrs. Ellsworthy's letter can keep," and then she slipped the thick white envelope into her pocket.

"Why sister darling, how pale you look!—are you tired?"

"A little," said Primrose—"I had no dinner—I should like a cup of tea."

Jasmine flew out of the room to get it for her, and Daisy nestled up to her elder sister's side.

"Primrose," she whispered, "Jasmine and I read that letter in the garden together. Oh! we were so surprised to know we had a little baby brother long ago. We went to Hannah and asked her about him, and Hannah cried—I never saw Hannah cry so long and so hard. She said he was the sweetest baby. Oh, how I wish we had him now!—he would be much, much nicer than my new doll."

"But if he were with us now he would be a man, Eyebright—a big, brave man, able to help us poor girls."

Daisy considered—

"I can only think of him as a baby," she said. "Hannah said he was lost in London. How I wish we could go to London and find our brother!"



CHAPTER XIII.

MRS. ELLSWORTHY'S LETTER.

The girls had finished tea, and Hannah had removed all traces of the evening meal before Primrose would even glance at the thick letter which was addressed to her. She did so at last, at the earnest entreaties of her two sisters—for Daisy climbed on the sofa beside her, and put her arms round her neck, and coaxed her to read what dear Mrs. Ellsworthy had written, and Jasmine took the letter and placed it in her lap, and seated herself on a footstool at her feet, and the two young girls looked interested and excited, and their eyes were bright with anticipation, and even some impatience.

Primrose, on the contrary, appeared indifferent. She broke the seal of the thick letter languidly, and began to read its contents aloud, in an almost apathetic voice.

This was what Mrs. Ellsworthy had written:

"MY DEAR PRIMROSE,

"(You remember our compact that I was to call you Primrose.) I had not courage to say to you the other day all that was in my heart. My dear child, it seems rather absurd to say it, but I felt afraid of you. In the eyes of the world I am considered a great lady—for I have riches, and my husband holds a good position—whereas you, Primrose, would be considered by that same world nothing but a simple village maid. Nevertheless, the innocent and unsophisticated girl contrived to keep the woman of the world at a distance, and to let her see very plainly that she thought her curious questions impertinent. When I read this expression of opinion so plainly in your eyes, Primrose, I felt afraid, and questioned no further. My dear, it is a fact that cowards always resort to pen and ink when they want to express a frank opinion. I am now going to say on paper what I feared to put into so many words the other night. First of all, you are mistaken about me. I am not what you think me.

"Oh, yes! I know very well what that proud little heart of yours tells you about me. It says, 'She is great and rich, and she is curious about us girls, and she wants to patronize us—'"

Here Primrose had to put down her letter, for she was interrupted by an exclamation from Daisy—

"But we don't think like that of our darling, pretty Mrs. Ellsworthy—do we, Jasmine?"

"Go on reading, Primrose," said Jasmine.

Primrose continued—

"You are all wrong about me, my dear, dear girls, and yet, after a measure, you are right; for in a certain sense I am curious about you; and most undoubtedly I want to help you. I know already a certain portion of your story, and already I can partly read your characters. The part of your story I know is this: You are ladies by birth—you are very ignorant of the world—and you have not at all sufficient money to live on. Your characters are as follows:

"Primrose, I am not at all afraid of you on paper. You, Primrose, are proud and independent. You are also sadly obstinate, and it is extremely probable that you will take your own way, which I can see beforehand will not be a wise one."

"Oh! oh! oh!" came interruption No. 2 to the reading of the letter, and Jasmine's arms were flung tightly round Primrose's neck.

"How can she talk of you like that? How little she knows you, my 'queen of roses.'"

Primrose smiled, kissed Jasmine between her eyebrows and went on reading.

"Jasmine's character," continued Mrs. Ellsworthy in her letter, "is as yet unformed. She has high aspirations and generous impulses—if she is well managed, and if you don't spoil her, Primrose, she will probably develop into a very noble woman. I love Jasmine very dearly already.

"As to your little sister, she is as fresh, and innocent, and dainty as her name; but take warning, Primrose, she is not over strong—there is a look about the little one which makes me dread the thought of her encountering any of the roughnesses of life.

"Now, my dear girl, I have read my little bit of a lecture; you are probably extremely angry with me, but I don't care. I now come to the practical part of my letter; I am desirous to help you three, and I want to help you in the way most suited to your individual characters. The sad fact cannot be gain-said—you must give up your home—you must earn your livings. May I help you to find a way to put bread into your mouths? I have thought it all out, and I think I know a plan. If you will agree to it, you may keep your independence, Primrose; Jasmine may be developed into the kind of woman God meant her to become; and little Daisy need not fear the rude blasts of adverse fate."

Here Daisy, who only partly understood the letter, burst into tears, and Primrose, taking her in her arms, allowed the closely written sheets to fall on the floor.

"I know what it means," she exclaimed, speaking with sudden fire and passion; "the same thing has been said to me by two different people already to-day. Mr. Danesfield said it after his fashion, Miss Martineau after hers, and now Mrs. Ellsworthy repeats the words. Oh, yes, I know what it means—separation—I will never consent to it!"

Jasmine had been kneeling on the floor and picking up the scattered sheets of Mrs. Ellsworthy's letter; she now raised her eyes in utter astonishment to her elder sister's face. Primrose was not accustomed to giving utterance to strong feelings. Primrose's words were wont to be calm and somewhat measured. Jasmine knew that she herself flew into tempests of grief, or anger, or excitement—she was always being chided for not restraining her feelings—she was always being gently lectured for using too strong expressions. What did Primrose mean by throwing down this kind though somewhat mysterious, letter, and by making use of so ghastly a word as "separation?" Who was going to divide them? Certainly not kind Mrs. Ellsworthy.

"Had we not better hear what she says, even though you don't seem quite to like her, Primrose?" asked Jasmine, holding up the sheets.

"There are two sheets more, quite full of writing—shall I read them aloud to you and Daisy?"

But Primrose had not got over the excitement which was growing within her all day; she took the letter out of Jasmine's hands, folded it, and returned it to its envelope.

"I must speak," she said; "we can finish that letter afterwards—the letter does not greatly matter, after all. Do you know, Jasmine, and do you know, Daisy, that these people who all mean to be so kind, and who, I suppose, really feel good-natured towards us, are trying to take our lives into their own hands? They are not our guardians, but they want to rule us—they say we cannot live on our income, and they will show us how we are to live. Mr. Danesfield will give money, if needed; Miss Martineau will give us heaps and oceans of advice; and Mrs. Ellsworthy will give patronage, and perhaps money too. They mean to be kind, as I said, and they think they ought to guide our lives. Of course, they consider us very young and very ignorant, and so they say they will provide for me in one way, and Jasmine in another, and Daisy in another. Now what I say is this; let us choose our own lives, Jasmine and Daisy; don't let us do anything rude to our friends, for I know they are our friends, but let us be firm and keep together. These people want to divide us; I say, let us keep together."

"Of course," said Jasmine; "is that really what the letter means—separation? Here, give it to me—" She snatched it from her sister, and flung it with energy to the other end of the apartment. Daisy nestled her soft little face up close to her eldest sister's—Daisy was still feeling things incomprehensible, and was also a little frightened.

"Go on," continued Jasmine, "go on talking, Primrose—we are quite with you, Daisy and I—what nonsense the people must have in their heads if they think we three are going to part!"

"But we are in a very painful and difficult position," continued Primrose. "We have certainly got to earn our bread, and we don't at all know how to earn it. We are not educated enough to go anywhere as governesses, although Miss Martineau did say that I might perhaps get a little place in the nursery; but in any case people would not want three governesses in one family, and, of course, Daisy is too young to earn anything for many a long day. Jasmine, I have been thinking over all this most seriously—I have been thinking over it for some hours, and it seems to me there is nothing at all for us to do but to go to London."

"Where Poppy is going?" interrupted Jasmine; "delicious—lovely—my dream of dreams! Go on, Primrose darling; I could listen to you all night."

"But we mustn't go only for pleasure," continued Primrose; "indeed, we must not go at all for pleasure. We must go to work hard, and to learn, so that bye-and-bye we may be really able to support ourselves. Now, there is only one way in which we can do that. We must take that two hundred pounds which Mr. Danesfield has in the bank, and we must live on it while we are being educated. We can go to a cheap part of London, and find poor lodgings—we won't mind how poor they are, if only they are very clean, with white curtains, and dimity round the beds. We'll be quite happy there, and we'll make our two hundred pounds go very far. With great care, and with our thirty pounds a year, it might last for four or five years, and by that time Daisy will have grown big, and you, Jasmine, will have grown up, and—and—perhaps you will have found a magazine to take your poems."

"Oh! oh! I never heard of anything so delicious!" exclaimed Jasmine. "Long before the five years are out I'll be on the pinnacle of fame. London will inspire me; oh, it is the home of beauty and delight! Where is Mrs. Ellsworthy's letter?—we will never finish it? I am going to burn it on the spot rather than allow any other idea to be put into your head, Primrose?"

Primrose smiled again, and before she could prevent her, her impetuous sister had torn Mrs. Ellsworthy's letter into ribbons, and had set fire to it in the empty grate.

"We must not be too sanguine about London," she said; "only it does seem the only independent thing to do. Then, too, there is that letter of dear mamma's and all that sad account of the little baby brother who was lost so long ago. Hannah says that he was lost in London—he must be a man now; perhaps we shall meet him in London. It certainly does seem as if it were right for us to go."



CHAPTER XIV.

QUITE CONTRARY.

"I have done it, my dear Joseph," said Mrs. Ellsworthy. "I went to see the children, and I wrote to that little proud princess Primrose. It will be really very nice if they all come here. We have such heaps and heaps of money, more than we know what to do with; money becomes uninteresting when you have so much. I think I have tried most of the pleasures that money can buy. I have heaps of dresses, and quantities of jewels, and my lovely country home, and my season in town, but what I have never yet had, and what I have earnestly longed for, was a daughter. A boy, after all, has to go to school, and to fight his way in the world—our boy is at school, and a very good place for him—but a woman wants a girl of her own to quite satisfy her heart.

"Now it seems to me that I may have three girls. We must keep up the fiction of Primrose being useful to you in your library, Joseph—you must give her letters to write, and you must be very patient with her when she makes mistakes, for the dear child has not been educated, and will probably make the worst of secretaries. Never mind, you must try to appear delighted, and to seem as if you never could have got on until Primrose Mainwaring came to help you.

"Then the little ones—of course they are coming under the supposition that they are only to stay until I have found them berths in one of those horrid charity schools for the orphan daughters of military men—but I promise you those berths shall be hard to find. The three will insensibly consider themselves our adopted children. Oh, what a delightful plan it is! and how picturesque I shall feel with my girls! Joseph, did you ever see a brighter or more bewitching little soul than our Jasmine?"

"Our Jasmine?" repeated Mr. Ellsworthy; "she is by no means ours yet, my love. Well, I trust your plan will succeed—they are nice girls, and I like to feel I am doing a kindness to poor Mainwaring's daughters. I shall be very pleased indeed if they make your life any happier, Kate."

Mrs. Ellsworthy stooped down and kissed her husband's brow—she was all impatience for the morning to arrive, for surely early then would come an answer to the letter she had written.

But Mrs. Ellsworthy was doomed to disappointment. The next day brought no answer from the Mainwaring girls. The good little lady bore her suspense as best she could until noon, then she ordered her carriage and drove into the village.

Jasmine herself opened the cottage door for her. Jasmine was looking excited, and there were red rings round her eyes as if she had been crying, and yet at the same time those bright eyes of hers were shining, and her lips were quivering between smiles and tears.

"Oh, you have come!" she exclaimed; "Primrose is in the village—she has gone to Mr. Danesfield about our money. Please come into the drawing-room. We are rather upset, for we are beginning to pack, and Hannah is washing out the anti-macassars and the white muslin curtains, for we think the muslin curtains will look so nice in our cheap lodgings. We are very busy, awfully busy, but do come in and sit down. Eyebright, here is Mrs. Ellsworthy. Mrs. Ellsworthy, isn't Eyebright a silly?—she is quite fretting because she won't see those last seeds of hers come up in the garden. Now, if she was asked to leave the Pink I would say nothing, but of course the Pink comes too."

"Yes, dear, and Daisy shall have plenty of garden ground for fresh seeds. Oh! my dear children," continued Mrs. Ellsworthy, "I shall be so delighted to welcome you all to Shortlands, only I think you might have replied to my letter."

Mrs. Ellsworthy was by this time seated in a low arm-chair by the window, and Jasmine was standing before her, while Daisy sat demurely on the floor, and folded up the anti-macassars.

"We might have answered your letter?" repeated Jasmine. "Well now, do you know, to be quite frank and open, your letter was a little bit of a lecture. You did give it to darling old Primrose, and somehow or other you made Daisy cry. You spoke about a plan, and you said it was a delightful plan, but—but before we read that part of your letter Primrose thought of another plan of her own, and it was so exquisite, so perfect, that we tore up your plan for fear we should be tempted by it. We don't know your plan, Mrs. Ellsworthy, and we don't want it, for we have made our own, and ours is—yes, ours is lovely!"

Mrs. Ellsworthy had an expressive face, and while Jasmine was talking it changed and grew anxious; her husband's words, "She is not our Jasmine yet," returned to her. Like many rich and pretty women, she was unaccustomed to opposition, and when it came it but whetted her desire, and made her also feel irritable.

"It is rude to tear up the letters of kind friends," she said. "I made a proposal which would have been in every way suitable to you girls, and you did not even trouble yourselves to read it. No, my loves, I am not angry. Daisy, come and give me a kiss; Jasmine, hold my hand. Now shall I tell you the little plan which you would not read about last night?"

"Oh, we would not be rude to you for the world," said Jasmine. "Daisy, come here, and give Mrs. Ellsworthy one of your sweetest kisses. Of course I will hold your hand—I love you, and so does Daisy, and so does—"

"No, so does not Primrose," answered Mrs. Ellsworthy. "Primrose is the opposing element—still I trust I may conquer her. Now, my children, may I tell the plan?"

"Oh yes, do tell us," they both answered; but Jasmine added, "It will not be of the slightest use, for we have made our own."

"Well, dear, plans of girls as young as you are made to be altered. Now listen to my scheme.

"Mr. Ellsworthy writes for the papers and for one or two magazines. He has scientific tastes, and writing in this way gives interest to his life; but his eyes are not very strong, and he has for some time been wishing for some nice girl to whom he can dictate his thoughts. It seems to him, and to me too, that Primrose is just the sort of girl he wants, and if she will come and live with us at Shortlands, he will pay her something for giving him a couple of her hours daily—thus, you see, she will be earning her living and will be quite independent. You and Daisy, Jasmine, are to come to us on a visit, until we can find a school where, for your father's sake, your education may be finished."

"You mean a school for the orphan daughters of army men," said Jasmine, "I know. Well, thank you very much, but I'm afraid your plan won't answer. Neither Daisy nor I would at all like to go to a school for orphans. We don't fancy the idea of school, and dear mamma once said that she would never allow her girls to be taught at school, so, of course, that point is settled. Then you know we could not always remain with you on a visit, for we are no relations of yours—you never heard of us at all until a few days ago, although we have lived here most of our lives. Of course you don't mean to keep us always on a visit, so it would be very silly to begin a thing which could not go on. Then about Primrose—may I be quite honest with you about Primrose?"

"Oh yes, my dear."

"Well now, she doesn't write well—not really—her hand moves so slowly, and I have seen some spelling mistakes now and then in her letters—I fly over the page myself, but then I only can read my own writing. I am greatly afraid that poor Mr. Ellsworthy would find Primrose a bad secretary. No, no, no; ours is a much, much better plan. You see, Mrs. Ellsworthy, you must not be angry with us—we love you very much—we are greatly obliged to you, but we have quite made up our minds—we will not be separated. Ah! here comes Primrose. Primrose, darling, here is Mrs. Ellsworthy—she is just going to listen to our plan—she has told us hers, and I have been explaining to her that it will not answer, for Daisy and I are determined not to go to school, and you know, Primrose, you are really stupid with your pen."

"How do you do, Mrs. Ellsworthy?" said Primrose—she came in looking fagged and tired, and with a worried expression between her eyebrows. "Mrs. Ellsworthy," she said, "I am most grateful to you for being so kind to us. I know you won't approve at all of our plan—you will agree with Mr. Danesfield, who said he thought we had taken leave of our senses, but I think we have made up our minds, and as we have no guardian, there is no one to prevent us doing as we please."

"Oh, Primrose, how sad you look!" said Jasmine. "Has Mr. Danesfield been disagreeable to you? Well, I know our darling Mrs. Ellsworthy won't. Tell her our plan quickly. Primrose, she says you don't love her—tell her you do love her. Oh, she is sweet and dear and kind—tell her our plan—she won't throw cold water on what we wish to do—she won't think it wrong that we three girls should wish to keep together."

"Our plan is this," said Primrose, "I have asked Mr. Danesfield to give us what money he has of ours, and then we three are going to sell our furniture here, and to give up the cottage, and say good-bye to dear Hannah, and we are going to London. In London we shall learn. I am going to have lessons in painting, and Jasmine shall study English composition, and she shall be taught how to write properly; and Daisy, too, must be taught, and we will do that with our money which is now in the bank, and when it is spent we shall be able to support ourselves. After all, it is a very simple plan, and the best thing about it is that it will keep us together."

When Primrose began to talk Mrs. Ellsworthy threw down her hands in her lap with a gesture of great impatience. Now she asked in a short dry voice, "May I ask what money you have in the bank?"

"Yes, certainly—we have two hundred pounds—a little of that must be spent in paying one or two small accounts, but then we shall have the money as well from the sale of our furniture. Yes, I think we shall have quite two hundred pounds to take to London."

"And we are going to be very economical," interposed Jasmine. "We are going at first for a couple of nights to a boarding-house for ladies only. It is called Penelope Mansion, and is in a street off the Edgware Road—we have a friend, she is only a village girl, but we call her our friend—her name is Poppy Jenkins, who has just gone to Penelope Mansion to help her aunt, who is the owner of the boarding-house. While we are there we will see the sights, for of course that must be part of our education. We will go to Westminster Abbey to be solemnized, and we will go to the Tower to perfect our knowledge of the tragical part of English history, and we must take Daisy to the Zoo, for she has always longed to see a lot of monkeys all together. I don't think we'll have any time for looking in at the shop windows, for we shall be very busy, and very, very earnest, but these places we must see. I daresay Poppy and her aunt, and some of the nice ladies in the boarding-house, will go with us. When Poppy has dusted up and put things straight in the morning, of course she'll have lots and lots of time. Oh, it does seem such an easy, sensible plan."

"My poor, poor children!" exclaimed Mrs. Ellsworthy, "my poor, deluded, silly, obstinate children!" and then the good little woman burst into tears.



CHAPTER XV.

IN SPITE OF OPPOSITION.

But although Mrs. Ellsworthy wept and lamented, although she tried both persuasions and scoldings, and finally left the cottage in a state of deep offence, vowing within herself that she would never trouble her head again over the affairs of such silly and obstinate girls, she could not in the least shake Primrose's quiet resolve.

Primrose said over and over again: "Two things are absolutely indispensable—we must be independent, and we must keep together. I can think of no better plan than this—it may fail, but we can but try it—we are certainly going to try it."

Mrs. Ellsworthy kept up her offence for twenty-four hours, then she began to soften, and to agree with her husband, whose solitary remark was, "My dear, you cannot coerce the children, and upon my word it's a plucky notion, and if those girls are brave enough to carry it out they must have real stuff in them."

"They may have plenty of stuff, and the plan may be as plucky as you like, Joseph," replied his excitable little wife. "I am quite willing to admire it in the abstract, but I am quite determined, if I have any influence whatever, to prevent them carrying it through."

Then she went off to Miss Martineau, invading the schoolmistress in the sacred hour when she was engaged with her pupils. Mrs. Ellsworthy carried Miss Martineau away from her school, and shutting the door of that lady's little parlor, clasped the governess's thin hands, and poured her troubles into her ears.

"Joseph calls it plucky," said Mrs. Ellsworthy at the end of her narrative.

But Miss Martineau's face was perfectly aghast.

"Plucky!" she ejaculated. "Dear Mrs. Ellsworthy, pardon me, but your husband is a man—what can a man know about the intricate workings which go on within the breast of a perverse girl? Plucky!—I call it wicked—I call it wanting in all decorum, in all right sense. Primrose Mainwaring has disappointed me deeply; she showed undue temper when I spoke to her here the other day—oh yes, this thing must be prevented by main force, if necessary."

Miss Martineau's pupils could not imagine what was the matter with her that morning. She was known to be a most strict disciplinarian, she was reported to have the sharpest eyes, and the quickest ears; her pupils believed that nothing ever could pass Miss Martineau's observation; nevertheless, after Mrs. Ellsworthy's visit she was distrait, she was indifferent to mistakes, and she allowed her naughtiest and most troublesome scholar to gabble through her French translation without once correcting her. School over, Miss Martineau discovered that she had no appetite for her dinner; she left quite a nice little repast, cooked in French style, untasted on the table, and hurrying up to her bedroom, put on her mantle and poke bonnet and went out. She had made up her mind to visit the Mainwarings, and to expostulate with these headstrong and naughty girls on their daring scheme. "Wicked, I call it," she ejaculated many times under her breath!—"a wicked scheme, wicked, and a tempting of Providence. Oh, my poor orphan children, I must do my utmost to prevent your having your own perverse way in this matter!"

She arrived at Woodbine Cottage to find the neat little house already in sad confusion. Hannah favored her with an expressive look, and a grave shaking of her head.

"I don't know if they'll see you," she said—"they won't see you if it is on a lecturing errand you've come, ma'am. Their minds is made up, ma'am, and obstinate is no word for them. Dear Miss Martineau, you means well, and you has known them most of their lives, poor darlings, so sit you down in the hall, and I'll see if I can get them to have a word with you."

Jasmine, however, had heard her old governess's voice, and now running out, looking extremely untidy but very pretty, she exclaimed in her eager tones—

"Now, you dear Miss Martineau, say you're not—do say you're not!"

"Not what, my dear?" asked the governess, who really felt quite angry with Jasmine at this moment. "If you mean that I am not displeased—I am displeased; and if you mean that I am not to oppose you, my dear, I should not be doing my solemn duty, the duty which I owe to your poor dead mother, if I did not oppose you to the very uttermost. My dear, Mrs. Ellsworthy has told me all about your mad scheme; my poor child, it cannot be allowed for a moment."

"Come into the drawing-room and hear what Primrose has to say," answered Jasmine, in quite a meek and unruffled voice. "Primrose is very busy, for she is dusting and packing all our books and little knick-knacks. Do you know, Miss Martineau, that just when I heard your ring at the hall-door I came across a pincushion which you gave me ages and ages ago. You gave it to me when I could say, Le the est chaud with a Parisian accent. It was such a pretty pincushion made of pink silk, and dotted over with steel beads to look like pins. Just when you were ringing the bell I had it in my hand, and I felt so soft and loving towards you, and of course I had to run out to see you, and—; Primrose, dearest, here is Miss Martineau. She is dreadfully opposed, and she says she won't let us go."

Primrose was bending over a battered old trunk which had been hauled down from the lumber-room. She was filling it with books, and her fair face was slightly flushed, and her eyes were brighter than usual.

"How do you do, Miss Martineau?" she said, rising to her feet. "It is very kind of you to call. I feel sure you are annoyed, and think us girls rather silly, but I'm afraid we must do what we think right ourselves in this matter. We have taken our first steps, and now that we have quite and absolutely made up our minds, mean to leave Rosebury as quickly as possible. It is very kind of you to be interested in us, and I am sorry that I spoke bitterly the other day, but the plan which was to divide us girls was of course impossible, and we could not listen to it for a moment. We have made our own little scheme, and perhaps we shall not fail. Daisy, darling, hand me dear old 'Sandford and Merton,' I have just got a nice corner for it here."

Primrose went down again on her knees, and serenely continued her packing, while Miss Martineau, standing over her, then and there gave way to a burst of passion.

She was well aware that she lost ground with her pupils by not controlling her temper, but as she said afterwards, she really could not help herself. Such coolness, such perversity, such a headstrong flying in the face of their elders, she had never encountered in three young girls before.

Poor Daisy quite sobbed, and even Jasmine felt a little frightened at Miss Martineau's bitter and angry words; but no language she could use, no threats of the direst failure she could utter, had power to shake Primrose's resolve.

"We have no guardian, and we can go if we please, and we have really made up our minds to go," replied that perverse young lady.

As a last resource Mr. Danesfield was appealed to, but he, being an old bachelor and not quite at home with girls, although in his heart he was very fond of them, declined to interfere.

"I gave Primrose Mainwaring some uncalled-for advice when she came to see me the other morning," he said. "She is perfectly at liberty to choose her own life, and I, for one, am not going to add to her troubles by needlessly opposing her. Very likely the girls will get on in London—they are spirited girls, and they may do better for themselves by struggling for independence than by living with the Ellsworthys. I always did maintain that work hurts no one."

So Primrose carried out her little plans, and made all arrangements, and her friends, when they found she would not yield, came round her, and began to counsel her as to the best place to go to.

Mrs. Ellsworthy was, after all, the first to forgive the girls. She felt very indignant, and stayed away for more than a week; but one evening, when the day's packing was over, and the three, rather tired but quite cheerful and full of hope, were sitting down to their tea, her carriage was seen to draw up to the door, and the little lady, bustling and good-natured as ever, entered the drawing-room.

"My dears," she said, holding out a hand each to Primrose and Daisy, but imprinting a kiss on her favorite Jasmine's brow, "my dears—Oh, of course, I am still very angry! I see, too, that you are at that horrid packing; but if you must go, there is a Mrs. Moore—such a good soul, a widow, and quite a lady—indeed, I may say highly connected. She lives in Kensington, and I have written to her. My dears, she would be charmed to take you all into her family. She would give you comforts—oh! I don't mean luxuries, but the necessary comforts that young girls who are using their brains require. She would feed you well, and chaperone you when you went out, and, in short, see to you all round. I know her house so well. It is very pretty—indeed, charming—and she would take you in for a pound a week between you. She would give you board and lodging, and all you require, for a pound a week. I hope, my dear Primrose, you don't consider that too dear. It is, I believe"—here Mrs. Ellsworthy coughed slightly—"considered cheap for Kensington."

This torrent of words, poured forth with rapidity and yet with distinctness, rather astonished the girls. They were afraid they had lost Mrs. Ellsworthy for their friend, and they, every one of them, hailed this overture of kindness with delight. Innocent Primrose never even suspected that a pound a week for the lodging and maintenance of three girls was at all unusually cheap. She little guessed that Mrs. Ellsworthy had written to her special friend, Mrs. Moore, telling her the girls' story, begging of her to give them a home, to provide them with every comfort, and even luxury, and asking her to look to her, Mrs. Ellsworthy, for the necessary payment.

Jasmine began to dance about, and to say, softly—

"Oh! this is too delightful! You darling Mrs. Ellsworthy, you are beginning to approve of our scheme. Oh, yes; I know you are, although you were too proud to say so. Now, is it not a little bit wrong of you to be proud after the way you lectured Primrose? Well, Primrose, shall we go to Mrs. Moore? I don't know anything about Kensington, but I suppose it is as good as any other place. I don't suppose, either, a pound a week is too much for the three of us. Shall we go to Mrs. Moore, Primrose?"

Daisy also joined her voice in favor of going to Mrs. Ellsworthy's friend, and after all, but for that obstinate young person Primrose, the good little lady might have had her way, but Primrose, although she was quite ignorant of fashionable localities or of any London expenses, was very firm, very firm indeed, when she made up her mind.

"It is most kind of you to call and say all this to us," she answered. "Oh, yes, we would come if we had not quite decided on an altogether different plan. That being the case we cannot go to Mrs. Moore—thank you so much."

When Jasmine heard her sister speak her face first fell and then brightened up considerably. "How stupid of me to forget!" she said. "Oh, yes, we have made a lovely plan, and of course we could not go to anybody whom anybody knew. Oh, no, of course not. I cannot think how I came to forget."

Again Mrs. Ellsworthy tried persuasion and even entreaty, but again she had to own herself vanquished by that most obstinate girl Primrose. "I really cannot make out why I care for them all," she said to herself as she drove away. "I do care for them, poor children! I would do anything to help them, but I am simply not allowed. Well, Primrose, no doubt you would be a great trial to me if you were my daughter; I could never bear obstinate characters, and yet to a certain extent I admire you."

Miss Martineau also made up her mind to forgive these naughty girls, and to give them the benefit of her most sapient counsel. She too wrote a private letter to a London friend, and arrived at Woodbine Cottage primed with what she considered valuable information. "Now, my dears, you must go to Shepherd's Bush—that is the place, and the only place where you can live within your means. My friend Constantia Warren has rooms there, and she says—I have written to her, my loves—she says if you will let her accompany you in your search she may be able to secure you a clean, respectable bedroom in a fairly good locality. Constantia is an excellent woman; she is fifty, and plain in her tastes, and has no nonsense about her. She has promised me, for my sake, to accompany you to church in the evenings, and to see that you wear your veils down when you go out, and that you are back in your bedroom—you can't afford a sitting-room, so don't think of it—that you are back in your bedroom by five o'clock in the evening, as all girls who have any idea of what is correct and proper are of course in by that hour in London. Now, my dears, Constantia will be a sort of protectress to you three, and I had better write to her at once. My dears, it is a relief to me to know you will be near Constantia, for London is a pit—a pit, and a snare."

Miss Martineau had talked herself quite out of breath, and looked quite pleading, but the same obstacle which had prevented the girls' acceding to Mrs. Ellsworthy's request now debarred their taking up their quarters near Constantia Warren.

They spoke of their plans, but would not tell what they were, and Miss Martineau again went away offended.

"There is no secret in the matter," she said, when talking over the affair with Mrs. Ellsworthy. "Primrose tries to make a mystery, and Jasmine likes to look mysterious, but there is not the smallest doubt that all the girls really want is to have their own way, and to be beholden to none of us."

"Nevertheless, I love them, and shall always love them," answered Mrs. Ellsworthy.

"Oh, for the matter of that, so will I always love them, Mrs. Ellsworthy. It seems to me they want a lot of pity, poor misguided young things!"

Primrose, Jasmine and Daisy all this time felt wonderfully serene. They were very sorry to hurt their friends, but it is quite true that they did want to have their own way. They had made distinct plans, but they must go to London to carry them out. They thought their wisest course was to go up to Penelope Mansion for a few days, and make their final arrangements from there.

"I'd be very lonely in London if I wasn't near Poppy," said Jasmine; and Primrose too said that she thought their wisest course was to go up to Penelope Mansion, and make their plans from there.

Accordingly, one afternoon, when Poppy Jenkins had been three weeks in her new place, she received a letter from Primrose Mainwaring, to which she sent the following reply. Poppy's spelling need not be copied, but her language ran as follows:—

Penelope Mansion, Wright street, off the Edgware Road, July 22.

HONORED Miss,—

"Your letter was that gratifying. I am so glad you have put by your savings, and are coming to visit this vast Babylon. Miss Primrose, it will do me a sight of good to see your face, and the face of Miss Jasmine, and the face of Miss Daisy. The ladies here, miss—for I must own to the truth—are not as beautiful as was to be expected. Neither in their visages nor in their manners are they beautiful. Sharp's the word from morn till night here, and many a time I cry. I hasn't had no moment yet to visit the sights, for aunt's hands are very full, and she looks most natural to me to assist her, which I do, as in duty bound. I'm told that there isn't much of the real London to be seen from Penelope Mansion, so I live in hopes that it is as beautiful as we pictured it beyond these dull walls. Miss, I has spoken to my aunt, and she will be very pleased to receive you three, and will put you in a bedroom to the front of the house. You'll be fretted by the roar from the continuous multitude which passes these windows all day and all night, but otherwise the room is cheerful, although somewhat hot. Miss Primrose, I'll give you all such a welcome.

"Your humble and most devoted friend, "POPPY JENKINS."

This letter was received by the girls while they were eating their breakfast. Primrose read it aloud to her sisters, and the effect of Poppy's words was certainly not enlivening. Jasmine was the first to recover her spirits.

"Never mind," she said; "Poppy feels a little dull and it is more than ever our duty to go up to London, and try and cheer her. Poor Poppy! it is very wrong of her aunt not to let her go out to see the sights, and you see, Primrose, she really knows no part of London yet, except Penelope Mansion. Poor Poppy! how she did long to go to see the wonderful city; but she was a little frivolous, and seemed only to want to look at the shop windows and to examine the newest fashions. We go to this grand, great London in a different spirit—we go determined to conquer, don't we, Queen Rose?"

"We go to do what seems to be our duty," answered Primrose, solemnly. "Oh, Jasmine! I hope we are doing right—I hope, I pray that God may help us."

Then a letter was written to Poppy, in which the noisy room was secured for the following Thursday, and as this was Monday, the girls were too busy packing to give many mere thoughts to poor Poppy's somewhat melancholy epistle.



CHAPTER XVI.

PENELOPE MANSION.

The last time in the funny little old-fashioned garden, the last loving look at Jasmine's carnations, the last eager chase of the Pink across the little grass-plot, the last farewell said to the room where mother had died, to the cottage where Daisy was born, the final hug from all three to dear old Hannah who vowed and declared that follow them to London she would, and stay in Devonshire any longer she would not, and the girls had left Woodbine Cottage.

Notwithstanding all their obstinacy, and their determination to have their own way, quite a bevy of friends accompanied them to the railway station—Miss Martineau was there, looking prim and starched, but with red rims round her eyes, and her lips only stern because they were so firmly shut, and because she was so determined not to show any emotion—Mrs. Jenkins, Poppy's mother, was also present; she was sending up a great bouquet of wild flowers and some eggs and butter to Poppy; and a lame boy, whom Jasmine had always been kind to, came hobbling on to the platform to bid the young ladies good-bye; and Mr. Danesfield drove up on his trap at the last moment in a violent hurry, and pushed an envelope, which he said contained a business communication, into Primrose's hand. Last of all, just at the very end, Mrs. Ellsworthy arrived panting on the scene; a footman followed her, also hurrying and panting, and he put into the railway carriage a great basket containing hot-house flowers, and grapes, and peaches, and then Mrs. Ellsworthy kissed the girls, giving Primrose and Daisy a hurried salute, but letting her lips linger for a moment on Jasmine's round cheek. During that brief moment two tears dropped from the kind little lady's eyes.

It was in this manner that the girls went away.

They arrived in London in the evening, and after a surprisingly successful search for their luggage at Waterloo, managing not to lose anything, got into a cab, and drove to Penelope Mansion.

Poppy's aunt boasted of the pleasing name of Flint, and when the girls drove up with their cab piled with luggage to the door of the mansion, Mrs. Flint herself came out to welcome them.

Jasmine, whose excitable temperament had been going through many changes during the journey to town, had now worked herself up into an ardent desire to see Poppy—she jumped out of the cab first of all, and, running up the steps of Penelope Mansion, said eagerly—

"Oh, if you please, Mrs. Flint—I know, of course, you are Mrs. Flint—may I run down to the kitchen, and find Poppy?"

"My niece will come to you presently, Miss Mainwaring," answered Mrs. Flint.

Somehow Mrs. Flint's calm and carefully modulated voice had an instant effect in subduing Jasmine. The mistress of Penelope Mansion resembled perhaps more a cushion than a flint—she was fat, round, and short, had a good-humored and unruffled face, and a voice which was always pitched in one key.

"We call my niece Sarah in these premises," she said; "Poppy signifies nothing whatever but a weed, untidy, straggling, the worry of the farmers. Sarah will see to your comforts presently, young ladies. At the present moment tea is on the table. We tea at six o'clock precisely—we sup at nine. Will you like to go upstairs and wash your hands, or will you come at once with me, and partake with the other inmates of the meal which is now going forward?"

"I don't like her, but she seems to speak very correct English," whispered Jasmine to her sister: "I wonder, does everybody in the great city speak like that? I suppose she'll do as a study in style. I must study style, mustn't I, if I'm to make money by writing?"

This speech was tumbled into Primrose's ear with wonderful rapidity, while Mrs. Flint stood gently by, looking most contented and uninterested.

"Hush, Jasmine!" whispered Primrose. "Daisy darling, hold my hand. Thank you very much, Mrs. Flint; we will have some tea now, if you please, and then go at once to our room."

"Does Poppy—I mean Sarah—wait at the tea-table?" inquired Jasmine, as their hostess led the way up a flight of stairs, and down a passage. "I hope she does—I want to see her so badly."

"Sarah's duties at the present moment are in the kitchen," responded Mrs. Flint, with some graciousness. "Now, young ladies, let me precede you, and introduce you to my guests. Miss Mainwaring, Miss Jasmine and Miss Daisy Mainwaring—Mrs. Mortlock, Mrs. Dredge, Miss Slowcum. Young ladies, will you seat yourselves at the table?"

Mrs. Flint moved to her place at the head of the board; the three girls dropped into seats, and were stared broadly at by Miss Slowcum and Mrs. Mortlock. Mrs. Dredge, however, did not stare, but stretching out one rather plump white hand, took Daisy's within her own and gave it a little squeeze.

"Tired, pretty little dear!" she said; "tired and cold. Ah, I know all about it."

"No, she's not cold, she's hot," responded Jasmine; "this is the hottest, closest room I've ever been in. You are Mrs. Dredge, are you not? Please, Mrs. Dredge, can you tell me how near we are to the real glories of the city from here?"

"I don't know, my dear—I fancy a very long way," answered Mrs. Dredge, with a sigh—this sigh was instantly taken up by Mrs. Mortlock and Miss Slowcum, and Miss Slowcum remarked that the situation might certainly be considered the worst in London.

"Ha, ha!" said Mrs. Mortlock, "you will have to come down in your prices after that, Mrs. Flint. Ha, ha! your question was a very leading one, Miss Jasmine Mainwaring."

Poor Jasmine began to feel quite alarmed, and instantly resolved not to open her lips again during tea.

The meal proceeded, and very dull it was; nor was the fare appetizing, for the tea was weak and the bread was stale. The three young faces, so fresh from the country and from home, began to reflect the general dulness. Mrs. Flint always made it a rule never to speak except when obliged—Daisy was nearly asleep, Primrose felt a dreadful lump in her throat, and Jasmine's dark curly head was bent low, and her bright eyes were not seen under their long lashes, for she was very well aware that they were full of tears.

She was a most impulsive creature, however, quick and variable in her moods, unselfish in her character. Suddenly it dawned upon her that it was not fair to the rest of the party that she should be so dull. She had always been considered the sunbeam at home; why should she not try to become the sunbeam of Penelope Mansion?

"I know what will do it," she exclaimed, jumping from her seat, and nearly upsetting her own tea and Daisy's. "Of course, how silly of me!—I know what will alter things directly." Then she flew out of the room, returning the next moment with Mrs. Ellsworthy's great basket of fruit and flowers.

"Primrose," she said, "mightn't we share these with the ladies? They are all quite fresh from the country. Oh yes, of course we may share them. Mrs. Flint, which will you have, some flowers, a bunch of grapes, or a peach?"

Mrs. Flint selected a good-sized bunch of grapes with a placid smile, and a "Thank you, Miss Jasmine"—Mrs. Mortlock also took grapes, Miss Slowcum selected flowers, and Mrs. Dredge partook of a peach with great relish, calling it, as she did so, a "sweet reminiscence of the blooming country."

After this little incident the ladies of Penelope Mansion and the Mainwaring girls became quite friendly; nevertheless the three cried themselves to sleep that night.



CHAPTER XVII.

ESCORTED BY MISS SLOWCUM.

"Within the house at least," remarked Poppy Jenkins, "it ain't what we dreamt of."

She was standing the next morning in the room where the three sisters had slept—it was early, only five o'clock in the morning, but this was Poppy's London hour for rising. Jasmine was sitting up in bed and regarding her earnestly, Primrose was also awake, but Daisy slept like a cherub.

"It ain't what we dreamt of," continued Poppy—"it's work, and it's dirt, and it's dust, and it's smuts. Oh, my word! the smuts is enough to turn one crazy. Nothing is white here, as you calls white in the country—speckled is more the word. No, no. Penelope Mansion is, taking it all in all, a biting disappointment."

"Well Poppy, Penelope Mansion is not the whole of London," said Jasmine, in a rather quavering, but would-be wise voice.

"Yes, but it's the London I has got to do with," answered Poppy Jenkins—"and oh! the worst of all is, that aunt won't have me called by my home name—she speaks of it most bitter as a 'weed.' She says poppies are what are meant in the Scripter by the tares. Don't it sound real awful?—I trembled all over when she told me that. So Sarah I am here, and Sarah Ann, and Sarah Jane, and Sarah Mary the ladies calls me. When they're in a very good humor I'm Sarah Mary, and when they're a bit put out it's Sarah Jane they calls for, and now and then I'm Sarah Ann—then I know I'm in for a scolding. Oh yes, Miss Primrose, London is not what we thought it."

"Never mind," said Primrose sweetly; "you'll always be Poppy to us, dear, and I know the tares were not poppies, so don't you fret—the poppy is a sweet flower, and Poppy is a sweet name for a girl. Why we four are all called after flowers, and we must just be very friendly, and very brave and loving and sweet in this London, and then, perhaps, it won't disappoint us."

"You're real kind, Miss Primrose," said Poppy. "Yes, it's a great ease to me to know as you three are in the house. I won't be so lonesome-like now, and I won't be dreaming that I'm a tare. It's awful to think of yourself as a tare, but I know now that aunt made a mistake. Oh, ain't Miss Daisy beautiful in her sleep? Now look here, you're all tired, and I'll bring you up your breakfasts in bed. You shall have some of mother's fresh eggs and real country butter. I'll run downstairs, and bring you up some breakfast the very first thing."

The girls spent that morning in their room. They unpacked a few of their things, and put their mother's picture on the mantel-piece, and Primrose opened Mr. Danesfield's letter. It contained an enclosure within and on this enclosure was written, in a funny little printing hand, "When you want me, use me; don't return me, and never abuse me."

Primrose's face grew rather red. She read the funny little motto two or three times, then put the enclosure unopened into her trunk.

"I think," she said, looking at Jasmine, "that we will not send this back. I had a queer dream last night. It seemed to me that mother came to me and said, 'Are you not foolish to cast away all your kind friends? Try to remember that true independence is not too proud to lean on others. Primrose, for my sake do not be over proud.' Mr. Danesfield was always a friend of mother's," continued Primrose, "so I will keep his letter until we want it, and will write him a little note to thank him for it."

Then the girls sat down by the open window and looked out into the street. It was a very dull street, and the day was warm and murky, with no sun shining.

"This afternoon we will go out," said Primrose. "I shall speak about it at lunch, and ask Mrs. Flint to allow us to take Poppy with us. I am so sorry Poppy feels dull. Now, girls, we must just make up our minds not to do that—we must keep up brave hearts, and not sigh and look dismal; that would never do. We have elected our own course, and if we are not courageous we shall be beaten. I for one am determined not to be beaten."

"I've always heard," said Jasmine, "that to sigh was very weakening. What I propose is this—that we give each other a fine whenever we are heard sighing, and another much more severe fine if we grumble, and the worst fine of all if we cry. Now, what shall the fines be?"

After a little consideration the girls decided that the fines might as well lead in the direction of their education. Accordingly they marked out for themselves some of the most ponderous passages in "Paradise Lost" to learn by heart, and as a severe punishment they selected little bits of a very incomprehensible book, called Butler's "Analogy." When they had carefully made these selections a rather feeble bell was heard to tinkle in the mansion, and they went downstairs to lunch.

"I hope you are comfortably unpacked now, young ladies?" inquired Mrs. Flint.

"And I trust you have recovered from the fatigues of your long journey?" questioned Mrs. Dredge. "It is a weary way from Devonshire—a long and weary way."

"You speak of it as though it were a kind of disappointment to come from Devonshire to London," remarked Miss Slowcum, "whereas London is the place for aspiring souls."

"Oh, I'm so delighted to hear you say that!" said Jasmine—"Poppy—I mean Sarah—spoke quite dismally this morning, but I knew she must be wrong."

"The young country servant," responded Miss Slowcum, "Sarah Jane, I think her name is—oh, well, her judgment need scarcely be depended on. Yes, London is the place of places. I have lived here for years, and I ought to know."

"We quite believe you," said Jasmine—"don't we, Primrose?—we have come up here because we quite feel with you; we are going out after lunch to see the beauties of the city."

"May I ask, young ladies, if this is your first visit to the metropolis?" suddenly inquired Mrs. Mortlock.

Primrose answered her "Yes; we have never been here before."

"Then, Mrs. Flint, I put it to you, is it safe to allow these young unfledged birds out into this vast and bewildering place? ought not some one to chaperon them?"

"We thought of asking for Poppy," answered Jasmine.

Here Mrs. Flint frowned at her.

"Allow me to make one request, Miss Jasmine Mainwaring; the young person you speak of is not known here by a name which signifies a tare or a weed. Yes, I shall be pleased to allow Sarah to go out with you this afternoon for a short time, but she knows as little of London as you do. I cannot go myself, as Friday is a busy afternoon. I can, however, give you a map, and if you all keep close together and don't wander too far, and are careful only to inquire of policemen your destination you may get back safely. Don't forget, tea at six."

Here Miss Slowcum, turning her eyes slowly, looked carefully all over the three girls.

"I am most particular," she said; "I never wander abroad without carefully choosing my company, but on the whole I feel satisfied a kindred spirit to my own lurks in your eyes, Miss Jasmine. Permit me, young ladies, to escort you forth this afternoon."

This offer was accepted very gladly, although Jasmine had quickly to remember her fine, or she would have given a very deep sigh when Miss Slowcum pointed a comparison between them. In the delight, however, of going into real London all these minor considerations and discomforts were forgotten.



CHAPTER XVIII.

IN ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL.

Miss Slowcum was right in saying that she was very particular with regard to her company. She prided herself on having select taste. She thought it well to assume distant airs to the other inmates of Penelope Mansion—Mrs. Dredge she thought quite beneath her notice, Mrs. Mortlock was slightly more tolerated, but Miss Slowcum never really unbent to either of these ladies. As she said to herself, she could never forget that she came of the Slowcums of ——shire that her father had been Captain Slowcum of the Royal Navy, and that, all things considered, her true position in society was with the county folk. What, therefore, could a lady of such patrician birth have in common with a Mrs. Mortlock or a Mrs. Dredge? Alas! however, Miss Slowcum was poor—she was very poor, and she was a great deal too genteel to work. The terms at Penelope Mansion were by no means high, and in order to live she was obliged to put up with uncongenial company. She was a very tall and angular person—her face was long and thin, her eyes small, her mouth undecided, but in her heart of hearts she was by no means wanting in good nature; and when, the night before, Jasmine, with her charming little face, offered her some of the country flowers, she began to take an interest in the fresh girls who had come to the rather antiquated house in Wright Street.

It was really good-natured of Miss Slowcum to offer to accompany the girls on their first walk in London. She had the greatest horror of ever appearing remarkable and she felt really alarmed at the thought of taking four unsophisticated country lasses abroad. It was bad enough to offer to escort the Mainwarings, who, however gauche they might appear, were undoubtedly ladies, but to take Poppy, alias Sarah, as well, was really trying. Without Poppy, however, the girls refused to stir. There was no help for it, and Miss Slowcum only trusted that their first walk might be short and uneventful.

"It is an unpleasant arrangement, but I do not see any help for it," she said, addressing her little party as they assembled in the hall; "we must sally forth as though we were a school. You, Miss Jasmine, will have the goodness to walk in front with me. Miss Mainwaring and her youngest sister can immediately follow us, and Sarah, you will please to keep behind."

"Oh, lor!" ejaculated Poppy, "I thought me and Miss Jasmine was to stay together—it's what I has been looking forward to through all the toils of the work, and the smuts and the Sarah Janes, and the Sarah Marys this morning. It is another biting. Well, London seems to be made up of them. All right, Miss Slowcum, I'll keep behind. I suppose there's nobody to forbid me gazing well into the shop windows. I hope you'll take us into a gay street, miss, where there are lots of new bonnets and hats to be seen."

"I'm going to walk with you, Poppy," said Jasmine; "Miss Slowcum is very kind, but I should not think of walking with any one else. Please, Miss Slowcum will you go in front, with Primrose and Daisy, and Poppy and I will promise to behave very well behind."

In this order the little party did set out, and in an incredibly short space of time they left the dull region of Penelope Mansion far behind, and found themselves in Oxford Street, and then in Bond Street, and finally walking along Piccadilly towards the Park.

Primrose could always restrain her emotions, but Jasmine and Poppy, notwithstanding their promise to behave well, were certainly guilty of many extravagant exclamations. Jasmine became nearly as excited over the new bonnets as her companion. The picture-shops were marvels of wonder and delight to her, and poor Miss Slowcum was obliged to draw up short on many occasions, or she would have lost the little loiterers, as they stood still to gaze. At last she made a proposition which nearly took her own breath away with the magnitude of its generosity. She would treat the entire party to a drive in the omnibus to St. Paul's Cathedral. Poppy earnestly begged to be allowed to go with Jasmine on the roof, but this the good lady negatived with horror. She finally ushered her young charges into the seclusion of an omnibus going citywards, and then was conscious of breathing a sigh of relief. Inwardly she made a vow that never again should her good-nature lead her into such a troublesome adventure.

"We must be solemn here, Poppy," said Jasmine, as they were entering the cathedral; "we must forget the beautiful bonnets, and those dear little tight-fitting jackets, and those muslin dresses. We must forget the little story we made up of imagining ourselves rich enough to buy all these things. Perhaps we may think a very little of one or two of the pictures, but we must forget the vanities now. It has always been one of my dreams to come in here—oh! oh!—Poppy." Jasmine clasped her companion's hand, and her excitable little face grew white—the magnitude of the great cathedral, the solemn hush, and quiet, and sense of rest after the rushing noise outside, was too much for her—her eyes filled with tears, and she was very nearly guilty of committing the offence which would have obliged her to learn some of Butler's "Analogy" by heart. The rest of the party wandered about the cathedral, and looked at the monuments, and presently went up into the Whispering Gallery, but Jasmine felt suddenly tired and disinclined to move about.

"Go on with Daisy, Poppy," she said to her companion; "I will rest here for a little;" then she seated herself on one of the chairs, and in a moment or two went down on her knees and covered her childish face with her hands.

Not at all long was Jasmine's prayer, but somehow it was very fervent, and it certainly reached a Presence which gives strength and peace. She was no longer oppressed by St. Paul's—she was comforted and strengthened.

"I do hope God will help us," she said to herself. "Oh! was it very, very rash of us to come up here?—and yet, what else could we do? It was Primrose's thought, too, and she is always so wise, and so grown-up."

Jasmine looked round the cathedral, hoping to see her party—they were, of course, nowhere within sight, and the little girl began to walk about by herself, hoping soon to rejoin them. She dropped her umbrella, and a gentleman who had been watching her for some time with interest stooped to pick it up. He was a young man of about six-and-twenty, with a bright and pleasant face.

"This is your first visit here?" he said, looking kindly at the child.

"Oh, yes," said Jasmine. Then feeling that she had a sympathetic listener, she continued—"It is so beautiful here!"

"Yes," answered her companion; then he added, with a second glance at the forlorn little figure, "Are you alone, or have you lost your party?"

Jasmine half laughed.

"I cannot find my party at the present moment," she said; "but I am by no means alone—my two sisters have come here also to-day for the first time, and a friend is with us, and a lady has very kindly brought us here."

"I see," said the stranger. "Well, it is a curious coincidence, but neither am I alone—I have brought a little lad here to show him the cathedral—he has gone into the Whispering Gallery, and I am waiting for him. Perhaps your friends have also gone into the gallery. While we are both waiting, shall we look round this delightful place? and may I tell you a little of what I know about it?"

It was in this manner, and apparently quite by accident, that Jasmine made the acquaintance of Arthur Noel, who turned out to be one of the best friends the girls were to make in London. Mr. Noel had taken a fancy to Jasmine's sweet little face, and Jasmine, when she met with a sympathetic listener, could be only too communicative. Before Miss Slowcum and her sisters and Poppy joined them Mr. Noel knew something of Jasmine's ambitions and of Primrose's modest hopes. Jasmine had even confided to him the brave resolve the three sisters had made not to sigh, or grumble, or wear themselves out with useless tears. He was very kind, although he could not be persuaded to say that he thought Primrose's scheme a wise one, but this chance encounter might never have led to anything further but for a little coincidence which shows what a small place the world is, after all. When Primrose and Daisy, Poppy and the sedate Miss Slowcum, joined Jasmine, as she stood with her companion examining Nelson's monument, they were accompanied by a handsome, bright-faced boy, who ran up to Mr. Noel, and linked his hand within his arm. This boy turned out to be young Frank Ellsworthy, and, as the girls all exclaimed on hearing the name, Mr. Noel assured them that the Ellsworthys were his greatest friends—that he loved Mrs. Ellsworthy almost as if she were his own mother.

"I felt that I must speak to you," he said to Jasmine. "I cannot tell you why nor wherefore, but your face seemed familiar—I did not think you would turn out to be an absolute stranger."

Thus the girls made a very valuable acquaintance; nevertheless, owing to circumstances, it was many a long day before they met Arthur Noel again.



CHAPTER XIX.

A BRIGHT DAY.

Last times are always sad to write about and think about, but first times are generally pleasant. Notwithstanding a certain sense of disappointment which certainly did assail the three girls on their entrance into London, notwithstanding the fact which Jasmine only too quickly discovered, that the streets were not paved with gold, nor the air replete with promises, yet there was still something left in that same London air, a sort of mystery and wonder about it. There was still something of untold fascination in the busy and crowded streets, which brought a great sense of delight and exhilaration to the three young adventurers.

Jasmine spoke about the stories which met her at every turn; she felt almost melted to tears at the sight of the sadness in the eyes of some women, and some little children. But again, beautiful ladies driving past in carriages made of almost fairy lightness caused her to laugh with pleasure.

Primrose was more gravely impressed by London than Jasmine. Her emotions were not so keen as her younger sister's, her purpose was far more steadfast; and even in the first few days when the girls gave themselves up to seeing the wonderful sights of the great metropolis she could never forget the real object for which they had come.

Daisy, when she had become reconciled to the smuts and disagreeables, and the slights to which the Pink was exposed all day long in Penelope Mansion, began to enjoy life in a serene but unqualified manner. Each of the girls had her own particular tastes; and these they were by no means slow to express to one another.

Primrose, who intended to study china painting—to make it, in short, a profession—liked to stand opposite some large shop in Oxford Street, and to study and try to carry away in her mind's eye the shape and beauty of the many lovely things displayed in the windows.

Jasmine, who during the first few days had quite made up her mind not to worry at all about the future, did not much care for these gazing fits of Primrose's. She wanted to get into the parks. She exclaimed in ecstasy over the horses, and those picture-galleries which were free to the public quite enchanted her. Daisy frankly admitted that she liked toy-shops, and of all toy-shops those which displayed rows of dolls in their windows the best. Primrose had decided that the three should have one week's holiday, and it was during this week that they began to make a certain first acquaintance with London. "It is the heart of the world," Jasmine was heard to say. "Primrose, it is what we pictured it; in many ways it is even greater than what we pictured it. Oh, don't your cheeks glow, and don't you feel that your eyes are shining when you look down Oxford Street? Yes, it is lovely and grand, and I think we ought to show poor dear Poppy some more of its delights."

Primrose was only too glad to give Poppy all the happiness in her power, and she and Jasmine arranged that they would take the little girl out with them on another expedition before they settled down finally to the great work of their lives.

"We'll spend five shillings," said Primrose, "we must not on any account spend more, but we will be extravagant, and give poor Poppy a real treat with one crown piece."

"We had better ask her to come to-morrow," said Daisy; "five shillings seems a lot of money. Do you think there will be enough over, Primrose, to buy me a tiny, tiny little doll?"

Primrose kissed Daisy, and said she would try somehow to manage the doll, and Jasmine was elected to go downstairs and sound Poppy on the subject of the morrow's treat.

The little maiden had made herself pretty well at home in the Mansion by this time, and she soon discovered Poppy in what was called the back scullery. The ladies had all finished their mid-day meal, and were out. Even Mrs. Flint had sallied forth to a distant market to secure some cheap provisions, and Poppy had the back scullery to herself. She was handling the dinner-plates in a rather clumsy manner, and, after the fashion of a discontented little girl, was sighing over her work, and not doing it properly.

"Oh, let me help you!" said Jasmine, dancing up to her: "I hate washing china, or delf, or whatever you call it, after people have eaten, but I like wiping it if the cloths are clean. Poppy, I have come to you about a most delicious and important scheme."

"Lor, Miss Jasmine," said Poppy, her fingers trembling violently, and the large dish which she was washing nearly slipping out of them. "Lor, miss, you do startle me. I was in the dumps, and you are for all the world like the sun coming out. Why, deary me, the back scullery ain't by no means such a bad sort of place when you're in it, Miss Jasmine."

"It is very damp and gloomy, all the same," answered Jasmine. "I do hope you will be quick, Poppy, in washing up those uninteresting dinner-plates. Now, look here, Primrose and Daisy and I have been making up such a lovely plan. We want to take you out with us to-morrow; we are going to spend five shillings, quite lots of money, you know, and we are going to have dinner out, and perhaps tea out; and we are going a good long way. Can you come with us to-morrow, Poppy?"

"Hold me," said Poppy, suddenly stretching out her hand, "the scullery is damp and close, and my head a-going round. Let's get out into the back yard, Miss Jasmine. Now I can breathe. Oh, didn't I say that London was dazzling, and isn't it you three that has got the hearts of gold. Say it all over again to me, please, Miss Jasmine. What is it we're all a-going to do to-morrow?"

"Oh, what a silly, Poppy, you are," said Jasmine; "why even I do not get as excited as you do. We are going out, and you are coming with us, and we are going to spend five shillings."

Poppy's cheeks flushed a vivid crimson, her eyes sparkled, and her small feet began involuntarily to dance.

"I has set my heart on something beauteous," she said, "and, oh, dear, Miss Jasmine, you will do it, won't you? You won't let none of them biting disappointments with which the air is choke full, as full as it is of smuts, come in the way. If you three darling ladies spend a crown piece, and take me abroad, we'll be on pleasure bent, and on pleasure alone. Say so, do, Miss Jasmine."

"Why, Poppy, of course we are going for pleasure; what do you mean?"

"Only that we won't be going Cathedraling and Towering. I don't say nothing ag'in them places, but when I wants real pleasure, and a crown piece spent on me, I don't go in for no Cathedraling."

Jasmine laughed. "I tell you what," she said, "you shall choose the pleasure yourself, Poppy. It's your treat, and you shall choose. Now, do say what hour you will be ready to start to-morrow, for we want to go early, and have a real long day."

"Let's think," said Poppy. "To-morrow is, yes, to-morrow is Thursday. Cold joint to-morrow, and a salad made with stale lettuce which we gets cheap; potatoes boiled plain and not mashed, and a apple dumpling to follow. The ladies is very particular that their pastry should be light. Miss Slowcum says she can't sleep a bit at night if her pastry is heavy. She called me Sarah Martha Ann the last time I made it, and she looked most vinegary. Yes, Miss Jasmine, the dinner's plain to-morrow, and I'll get up with the daybreak, and do my cleaning. I don't see why Aunt Flint shouldn't let me go with you, miss."

Mrs. Flint, when properly attacked, proved herself quite vulnerable. She was anxious to please the Mainwarings who she hoped would take up their abode with her, for naughty Primrose had by no means divulged her real plans. Accordingly, Poppy was allowed to get her dinner beforehand, and a very happy little quartet left the Mansion soon after eleven o'clock.

They had gone some little distance from Penelope Mansion, and found themselves in a far more cheerful and bright-looking street, before Poppy divulged her plans.

"I has got to choose," she said, "and as I stated distinct to Miss Jasmine yesterday, I don't go in for the glooms of the Tower, nor the solemns of the Cathedral. I'd like to walk from end to end of Oxford Street first, and then I'd like to take a penny boat on the river."

"A penny boat!" exclaimed the three sisters in a breath, "that does sound delightful, and so cheap. Where did you hear of penny boats, Poppy?"

Poppy's face became radiant.

"It was the last charwoman at the Mansion," she answered. "She said that if you wanted a pleasure, and a pleasure cheap, there was nothing in all the world like a penny boat. You sit in it, and there you are, as snug as snug; plenty of room and plenty of company, and plenty of sights. Mrs. Jones said that if there was a pleasure to rest a tired charwoman it was to be found in a penny boat."

"Well, we are not charwomen, but we may as well have a little rest and fun while we can," answered Jasmine. "I think yours is a lovely treat, dear Poppy, and we will try and get into the penny boat as fast as possible."

"I don't know how we are to reach the boats," said Primrose. "I begin to know my way a little about Oxford Street, but how are we to find the river?"

Poppy, however, had made good use of her acquaintance with Mrs. Jones the charwoman. She knew the name as well as the color of the omnibus which would safely convey them near to the pier at Westminster. She also knew, being instructed by Mrs. Jones, that a policeman was the right person to give her information as to where this special omnibus was to be found. She was by no means shy in making her desires known to one of these useful and worthy members of society, and in a short time the four found themselves bowling away in the direction of Westminster, and then, without any insurmountable difficulty, secured comfortable seats on one of the river steamers.