The day was perfect, neither too hot nor too cold, and the summer breezes fanned the young cheeks pleasantly, and raised the youthful spirits to an exhilarating height. Poppy forgot her troubles in Penelope Mansion, her difficulties with regard to the name of Sarah. She forgot the gloom of the back scullery, and the discontented frown quite vanished from her brow. London was again dazzling in her eyes, and her own future was replete with hope.

Primrose also ceased to worry over the anxieties and cares of the future; she ceased to reflect on the plan which was so soon to be carried into execution. Her serene face looked sweet and careless as in the happy days of her mother's lifetime. She leaned back in her seat, gazed at the beauties of the river, and gave herself up to the happiness of the hour.

The two younger girls, being never over anxious and being always more or less full of hope, were to-day only more hopeful and bright than usual. Many people turned to look at the pretty sisters, and to laugh at Poppy's innocent expressions of rapture.

They landed at Battersea, and wandered about the pretty park, and had refreshments in a quaint restaurant, where they really managed to satisfy their hunger at a very moderate charge.

That evening they returned to the Mansion, having kept within the limits of the prescribed five shillings, and each of them declaring that she had never known a happier day.

"But now," said Primrose, addressing her two sisters solemnly, "we must remember that after to-night we have done with pleasure. To-morrow we must seriously set about forming our plans."



CHAPTER XX.

GETTING LOST.

Primrose's scheme had, of course, been considered most wild and most foolish by all her friends at Rosebury but even they were not prepared for her crowning act of folly. She, Jasmine and Daisy had a consultation together. This consultation was really nothing but a matter of form, for Primrose, quiet as she appeared could lead her two sisters as she willed—her slightest word was law to them, and the most outrageous plan proposed by her would have been delightful in their eyes. Her suggestion to them was as follows:

"We will go to London," she said—"we will try to be independent, and to earn our own living, and in order to do so really, and to prevent ourselves being tempted by Mrs. Ellsworthy's riches, or by Miss Martineau's advice, we will not give our address. We will stay for a short time at Penelope Mansion, and then we will go away. We will find those nice, clean, cheap lodgings, where we can hang up our muslin curtains, and keep things lovely and fresh, even though we are in London, and we will stay there without troubling our friends about us until we have succeeded. The moment we have succeeded in earning enough to live on we will write home."

Jasmine, and of course little Daisy, approved of this idea—Jasmine said it was both romantic and strong—Daisy said she only wanted to be with her own Primrose and her own Jasmine, and if the Pink might always stay with her too she would be quite happy.

Accordingly, when the girls' week of pleasure had quite come to an end, Primrose reminded her sisters that it was time for them to begin to get lost.

"We are not really lost here," she said. "Mrs. Ellsworthy thinks nothing of coming to town, and she could come to us at the Mansion any moment; and now that we have met that friend of hers, that Mr. Noel, she may be sending him to see about us—so you see it is more important than ever that we should find a place where we can really commence our work."

"I don't dislike Mr. Noel at all," said Jasmine. "It is a great pity he is related to our darling Mrs. Ellsworthy, for we might have had the comfort of his advice without being considered dependent. Oh, Primrose! is it possible that we are too independent—I can't help it, Primrose; I do feel lonely. I must cry just for a minute. I'd rather do a page of the 'Analogy' to-night than not cry for a minute."

"My darling," said Primrose, putting her arms round Jasmine, "I am sure that girls like us cannot be too independent, but I won't go on with it if it really breaks your heart, Jasmine."

"Oh, but it doesn't really," said Jasmine; "I think it's a noble plan; I wouldn't give in for the world. I have had my cry now, and I'm better—but, Rose, how are we to look out for these nice, clean, cheap lodgings if we aren't to consult any one?"

"We can consult people, and find out the locality we want, but we need never tell the people we consult what number in the street we really choose. Oh, there are lots of ways of finding out what we really want to know."

"I'll talk to Mrs. Dredge to-night," said Jasmine. "I think Mrs. Dredge is very practical and kind, and I don't know why Miss Slowcum should dislike her so much. I'll get her all by myself this evening, and talk to her."

Accordingly that evening, after the inmates of Penelope Mansion had, as Mrs. Flint styled it, "tea'd," Jasmine sat down on a footstool at Mrs. Dredge's feet, and laid herself out to be bewitching. No one could be more charming than this little maiden when she chose, and she had tact enough to adapt herself on most occasions to her company.

"I'm sure you have lots of experience, Mrs. Dredge," she began; "you look as if you had—your face tells me that you have gone through many episodes"—(Jasmine was rather proud of this expression; she began to consider that her style was forming).

"Episodes, my dear, and experiences?" answered Mrs. Dredge. "Well, well, I'm not to say over young, and years bring knowledge; but if you mean, Miss Jasmine, that I'm up to the acquirements of the present day, that I'm not, and I never will be,—no, thank Heaven! that I never will be."

"Do you mean with regard to education?" remarked Jasmine. "Is the education of the present day wrong?—is that why you're so thankful you are not up to it?"

"My dear Miss Jasmine," answered Mrs. Dredge, with great solemnity, "the education of the present day is to the heart hardening, and to the mind demoralizing. No, no; none of it for me. Miss Slowcum, now! Miss Jasmine, between you and me I don't admire Miss Slowcum."

"Oh, she's very kind," answered Jasmine; "but look here, Mrs. Dredge, what I want to consult you about has nothing at all to say to education, and it has a great deal to say to experience. It's a great secret, Mrs. Dredge, but we want to find cheap lodgings."

"Oh, my dear! and don't you want to abide at the Mansion—all things considered, it's a respectable and safe quarter—you are all three young and attractive, my dears, and you have the advantage of being guarded here by women who have years on their shoulders. Yes, my dear Miss Jasmine, with the exception of your three selves and the maid Sarah, there is no one in Penelope Mansion who will ever see fifty again. Don't talk to me of Miss Slowcum being younger than that—I know better."

"Dear Mrs. Dredge, it is a secret, but we are really not going to stay here long, and we want, if possible, to find very cheap lodgings."

"Very cheap, love; and you think I can guide you? Well, well, I have had, as you wisely say, my experiences. About what figure would you be inclined to go to, my dear?"

"I don't know," answered Jasmine. "Our house in the country was twelve pounds a year—I don't think we ought to pay as much as that, for of course we should not want a whole house, only two rooms. A nice, large, airy bedroom, and a cheerful sitting-room. We should not mind how plain the furniture was, if only it was very, very clean. You know the kind of place, with snow-white boards—the sort of boards you could eat off—and little plain beds with dimity frills round them, and very white muslin blinds to the windows—we have got our own white muslin curtains; Hannah washed them for us, and they are as white as snow. Oh! the place we want might be very humble, and very inexpensive. Do tell us if you know of any rooms that would suit us."

While Jasmine was speaking Mrs. Dredge kept on gazing at her, her round face growing long, and her full blue eyes becoming extended to their largest size.

"My dear child," she said, "wherever were you brought up? Don't you know that the kind of lodgings you want are just the hardest of all to get? Yes, my dear, I have experience in London apartments, and about them, and with regard to them, there is one invariable and unbroken rule—cheapness and dirt—expense and cleanliness. Bless you! you innocent child, you had better give up the notion of the cheap lodgings, and stay on contented and happy at the Mansion."

Jasmine smiled faintly—said "Thank you, Mrs. Dredge," in a pretty gentle voice, and a moment or two later, with a deeper carnation than usual in her cheeks, she quietly left the room.

"Primrose," she said upstairs to her sister, "we mustn't ask advice about our lodgings; we must take the map with us, and go and look for them all by ourselves. Mrs. Dredge says that clean lodgings are very, very dear, and it is only dirty lodgings that are cheap."

When Jasmine ran into the room Primrose was standing by the dressing-table, and in her usual methodical fashion was putting tidily away her own things and her sisters'; now she faced Jasmine with a little smile on her face.

"There is just one thing," she said, "that we can do—we can with our own hands make the dirty lodgings clean. Never mind, Jasmine darling, we won't ask anybody's advice; we'll go out and look round us to-morrow."

Early the next morning the three sisters set out—Daisy having first locked the Pink in their room. It may be remarked in parenthesis that the Pink did not like her new quarters, and had already made herself notorious by breaking two saucers and a cup, by upsetting a basin of milk, and by disappearing with the leg of a chicken. In consequence, she was in great disgrace, and Mrs. Flint had been heard to speak of her as "that odious cat!" The Pink, however, was safe for the present, and the girls set out on their little pilgrimage of discovery.

"London," said Primrose, in a somewhat sententious voice, has "points of the compass, like any other place. It has its north and its south, its east and its west. The west, I have been told, is the aristocratic and expensive quarter, so of course we won't go there. In the east, the miserably poor and dirty people live—we won't trouble them—therefore our choice must lie between the south and the north. On the whole, I am inclined to try the north side of London."

"For dark and true and tender is the North,"

quoted Jasmine with enthusiasm. "By all means, Rose, we will go northwards, but how shall we go?"

"We'll inquire at the post-office just round this corner," answered Primrose, with decision.

Accordingly, having received some rather lucid instructions the girls found themselves in a few moments in an omnibus going towards Holloway. About noon they were landed there, and then their search began. Oh, the weariness of that long day! Oh, the painful experience of the three! They knew nothing about London prices—they had not an idea whether they were being imposed upon or not.

"On one point we have quite made up our minds," said Jasmine, sturdily; "we won't go back to the Mansion until we have found rooms."

The truth of Mrs. Dredge's prophecy became only too apparent. All the apartments that were bright and clean and cheery were quite too expensive for Primrose's slender purse. At last she came to a resolution.

"Girls," she said, "we must take rooms that look dirty, and make them clean. We have at least been taught how to polish, and how to scrub, and how to clean. You know, Jasmine, how shocked Miss Martineau was when she saw you one day with a pair of gloves on down on your knees polishing the drawing-room grate at Rosebury. You said you liked to do it. How distressed she was! and how that grate did shine!"

"Don't let us talk about Rosebury just now," said Jasmine, with a quiver in her voice. "Yes, Primrose darling, of course we can make our own rooms clean—we can even re-paper the walls, and we can whitewash the ceilings. Now we know exactly what to do. At the very next house where we see 'Apartments to Let,' we'll ask for dirty rooms, then of course we'll get them cheap."

"Those attics that we saw at that last house?" questioned Primrose, thoughtfully. "They were rather large, and not very dark. If we took down that paper, and put up a fresh one, and if we whitened the ceilings and scrubbed the floors, why, those rooms might do. They were not very expensive for London—only twelve shillings a week."

"A frightful rent!" said Jasmine. "No wonder the people here look careworn, and pinched, and old. We'll go back to that house, Primrose. On the whole, the rooms may suit us. What is the landlady's name?—Oh, Mrs. Dove. We'll go back to Mrs. Dove and take her rooms."

Accordingly, in a funny little street off the Junction Road, the three Mainwaring girls found a nest. It was a queer nest, up at the top of a tall and rambling house; but Mrs. Dove appeared good-natured, and had no objection to the young ladies doing their own papering and white-washing, and as Primrose took the rooms on the spot, and paid a week's rent in advance, she became quite gracious. Every morning, as soon as ever breakfast was over at Penelope Mansion, the girls started off to the new home they were preparing for themselves. There they worked hard, papering, white-washing, and, finally, even painting. By the end of a week Mrs. Dove scarcely knew her attic apartments—elegant she now called them—a charming suite. The enthusiasm of the three young workers even infected Mrs. Dove, who condescended to clean the windows, and to rub up the shabby furniture, so that when, at the end of the week, the attics were ready for occupation, they were by no means so unlike Jasmine's ideal London rooms as might have been expected. The girls kept their own counsel, and during the week they were preparing for their flight to Eden Street—for No. 10 Eden Street would be their future address—they told no one at Penelope Mansion of their little plans. The good ladies of the Mansion, Mrs. Flint excepted, were very curious about them; they wondered why the girls disappeared every day immediately after breakfast, and came back looking hot and tired, and yet with bright and contented faces, at night; but Jasmine had ceased to confide in Mrs. Dredge; and Primrose, when she chose to be dignified, had quite power enough to keep even Miss Slowcum at a distance. Mrs. Mortlock, who was stout, and rich, and good-tempered, tried the effect of a little bribery on Daisy, but the sweet, staunch little maid would not be corrupted.

"Oh, thank you so much for those delicious chocolate creams," she said. "Yes, I do love chocolate creams, and you are so kind to give them to me. Where do we spend our day?—but that is Primrose's secret—you would not have me so naughty as to tell!"

So the week drew to an end, and the nest, as the girls called their rooms, was finally ready for its inmates. The snowy-white muslin curtains were really put up to the now clean windows—the walls, covered with a delicate paper, had a soft, rosy glow about them—some of the pretty home ornaments were judiciously scattered about, and the rather small bedroom had three very small, but very white, little beds in it.

"We'll go in for lots of flowers, you know," said Jasmine. "I don't suppose even in London flowers are very dear."

At last there came a morning when the girls went away from Penelope Mansion as usual, and only Mrs. Flint and Poppy knew that they were not returning in the evening. Mrs. Flint felt rather indignant with the young ladies for deserting her—not that she said anything for she always made it a rule not to wear herself out with unnecessary words, or with fretting, or with undue excitement; nevertheless, on this occasion she was a little indignant, for surely, what place could compare with the Mansion? Poor Poppy bade the young ladies, whom she loved, good-bye with an almost breaking heart.

"It's all one, Miss Jasmine," she exclaimed; "if it was my dying breath, I'd have to own that London is not what we pictered it—vanities there is, and troubles there is, and disappointments most numerous and most biting. But for the one happy day I spent out with you dear young ladies, I hasn't known no happiness in London. Oh, Miss Jasmine," drawing up short and looking her young lady full in the face—"what dreadful lies them novels tells! I read them afore I came, and I made up such wonderful picters; but I will own that what with the ladies in this mansion, as worrit me almost past bearing, and what with you going away all secret like, and what with me being no longer Poppy the tare, but Sarah Jane the drudge, even if I was to get one of the bonnets that they show in the shop windows in Bond Street, why, it wouldn't draw a smile from me Miss Jasmine!"



CHAPTER XXI.

HOW TO PAINT CHINA AND HOW TO FORM STYLE.

Mrs. Dove had a great many lodgers—she let rooms on each of her floors, and she called her lodgers by the name of the floor they occupied—first floor, second floor, third floor came and went to 10, Eden Street. The girls were known as "the attics," and Jasmine felt very indignant at the name.

"It's almost as bad as being a tare," she said to Primrose. "Dear, dear! I never thought I should turn into an attic! What an unpleasant place London is! I begin to think Poppy is quite right in what she says of it."

"I begin to suspect," said Primrose, "that London, like all places, has its shady side and its bright side. We are in the shady side at present, dear Jasmine—that is all."

Mrs. Dove had not only lodgers who seemed to worry her from morning to night—for, unlike her name, she was always fretting or scolding somebody—but she also had a husband, and this husband made his presence felt by every lodger in the house. He was often away for a whole week at a time, and then comparative peace reigned in No. 10; but he would come back at unexpected moments—he would enter the house, singing out, in a loud rasping voice—

"Mrs. Dove, My only love!"

And then poor Mrs. Dove would get flushed and uncomfortable and lose what little self-possession she ever had, and would own in confidence to the first floor, or the second floor, or the attics, just as they happened to be present, that Mr. Dove's honeyed phrases were only words after all, and meant quite the contrary.

The girls were not a week at No. 10, Eden Street, before it became very apparent to them that there was little of the real Eden to be found in the place. They kept themselves, however, quite apart from the other lodgers; they began to get out their books and their employments, and what with housekeeping, and what with cleaning their rooms, and going out for long rambling walks in all directions, they were busy from morning to night. Primrose said they would spend a fortnight in the attics, and then the education which was by-and-by to lead to bread-winning must commence. Never did three more ignorant girls gird themselves for the fray. Primrose had a natural love for painting. She had none of the knowledge, none of the grounding, which is essential for real success in all departments of art in the present day; but she had a quick and correct eye for color, and all that Miss Martineau knew she had imparted to her. Primrose looked in at the shop windows, and saw the lovely painted china, and resolved to take lessons in this art. After some little difficulty, and after questioning first Mrs. Dove, and finally the much-dreaded Mr. Dove, she was directed to a teacher, who promised to instruct her at the rate of three pounds three shillings for twelve lessons. Primrose did not know whether her teacher was good or bad, or whether she was paying too much or too little—she resolved to take the lessons and to spend some of her little capital in buying the necessary materials.

"After I've had my twelve lessons Mr. Jones thinks I may begin to offer some of my plates and things for sale; he says he will be very glad to put them up in his own shop window. He thinks," continued Primrose with her sweet, grave smile, "that I may be able to recoup myself for the expense of learning at the end of a few months."

"And now," said Jasmine, "what am I to do? It's all settled for you, Primrose—you will be an artist—and you shall paint a breakfast set for our nest in your odd moments, and I'll buy it from you when my ship comes home. Oh! and we are both going to be very successful, are we not, darling? and we won't have any trouble at all in supporting our pet Daisy and her kitty-cat. You know, Primrose, my gifts lie in the poetic and novelistic line. I have really thought of a glowing plot for a story since I came to London, and Mr. Dove is to be the ruffian of the piece. I'll introduce Mrs. Dredge and poor Miss Slowcum too, and, of course, you'll be the heroine, my beautiful sister. I mean to buy some paper, and work away at my novel in the evenings next week; but as we have come up to London expressly to have our education perfected, and our gifts developed, don't you think I ought to be having some lessons in English style? After all, Primrose, I do not think Mrs. Flint's way of speaking was correct. Arthur Noel did not talk in the least like her, nor did dear Mrs. Ellsworthy; and after all, they are a real lady and gentleman. I wonder, Primrose, who would teach me proper style. I wish I could meet Arthur Noel again, that he might tell me!"

"Oh, Jasmine, it is dreadful of you to speak of a perfect stranger by his Christian name! Don't do it, dear—I know it is not right."

"He did not seem the least like a stranger," said Jasmine, pushing back her curling locks. "Well, Rose, who is to teach me style?—you see, if I am to earn money by my pen I must be polished up. I have got a poem now in the back of my head which would exactly suit the —— Review. It's almost exactly on the lines of one they published not long ago by Tennyson; but I'd rather not send it until I've had a lesson or two from some gifted person here—who shall I go to, Primrose?"

"You must go to a school, of course," answered Primrose. "There is a seminary for young ladies just round the corner—we will call there this afternoon, and find out if the lady can give you lessons."

Miss Egerton, the principal of the seminary in question, opened her eyes a good deal at Jasmine's modest request.

"I don't want French, nor German, nor music," quoth the young lady, "but I do want to be helped to make very smooth and flowing verses, and I want to have the plots of my novels cut up and criticised—for I don't mind telling you," continued Jasmine, looking full into Miss Egerton's deeply-lined and anxious face, "that I mean to live by my pen. My sister is to be an artist, and I am to be a novelist and poet."

Miss Egerton owned to herself afterwards that she had never met such extraordinary girls; but then they were so pretty, and so fresh, and the times were hard, and the High Schools were carrying off all her pupils, so though she knew little or nothing of making up verses or developing plots, she promised to receive Jasmine as a pupil, to direct her reading, and to help her to the best of her ability. She was a good and kind-hearted woman, and she made a further suggestion.

"What is to become of your little sister while you are both so busy, young ladies?" she said.

"Oh, Daisy promises to be very good," said Primrose with a tender smile at the little one. "Daisy will stay at home, and take care of the Pink, and she is learning to sew very nicely. When Daisy is good and stays quietly at home she helps our plan, and does as much for our cause as any of us."

Miss Egerton looked straight into Daisy's eyes. Long ago this dry and hard-looking old maid had a little sister like Daisy—a pretty little lass, who went away to play in the heavenly gardens many and many a year ago. For the sake of little Constance Miss Egerton felt a great kindness welling up in her heart towards Daisy Mainwaring.

"Your little sister must not stay at home by herself," she said. "She shall come to me. While I am teaching Miss Jasmine, Daisy can play or work as she pleases, only not by herself in your lodgings, young ladies, but in the room with her sister."

So it was arranged, and the three girls might fairly have been said to commence their work.

When Primrose had gone to Mr. Danesfield and asked him to allow her to draw their little capital out of his bank, he had made wonderfully few objections. Of all their friends, he was the one who had opposed Primrose's scheme the least, and perhaps for that reason she was more willing to take his advice, and to be guided by him, than by either Mrs. Ellsworthy or Miss Martineau. Mr. Danesfield had said to her: "My dear, you and your sisters are in some particulars in a very unique and unfortunate position. You are all three very young, yet you are absolutely your own mistresses. No one in all the world has any real control over you. If you ask me for your money, I cannot refuse you—I have absolutely no choice in the matter; the money is yours, and when you want it you must have it. Now I tell you plainly that Mrs. Ellsworthy and Miss Martineau are dreadfully shocked with your scheme. I may be wrong, but I confess I am not shocked. I fancy that you are the kind of girls who will come out victorious, and that though you will have rather a hard struggle, you will not be beaten; but there is one thing I am most anxious to do for you, and that is to keep part of your money. You have exactly two hundred pounds. How much of this little capital do you propose to spend a year?"

"As little as ever we can," answered Primrose.

"Yes, my dear young lady, but you must have some sort of idea with regard to your expenses. I would counsel you on no account to spend more of your capital than seventy pounds a year; by restricting yourselves to this sum you will have a very tiny but certain, income for two years, and will have something to fall back on even in the third year, if you are not then earning enough. Suppose I divide your seventy pounds into four quarterly instalments, and send it to you as you require it. You know nothing of keeping a banking account yourself, and it will absolutely not be safe for you to live in London lodgings, and have a large sum of money with you. Take my advice in this particular, Miss Primrose, and allow me still to be your banker."

"There is one little difficulty," said Primrose; "we really want to be independent, and as we know that there will be difficulties and discouragements in the career we are marking out for ourselves, and that we may often grow faint-hearted and lonely, Jasmine and I feel that we had better put ourselves quite out of the way of temptation. We have, therefore, made up our minds not to give our address to any one in Rosebury for at least two years. How can you send us the money, Mr. Danesfield, if you don't know where to send it?"

"My dear young lady, I fear you are a little bit too headstrong, and though I admire your spirit, I cannot quite approve of your cutting yourselves off from all communications with your friends. However, it is not for me to interfere. Will this satisfy you, Miss Primrose?—shall I give you my solemn promise only to use the address with which you favor me to forward your money each quarter, and never to divulge your secret to anybody else?"

Finally this plan was adopted, and Primrose received her small quarterly allowance with great regularity.



CHAPTER XXII.

CROSS PURPOSES.

After his interview with Jasmine in St. Paul's Cathedral, Arthur Noel went home to his very luxurious chambers in Westminster, and wrote the following letter to Mrs. Ellsworthy:—

"MY DEAR MOTHER-FRIEND,

"The most curious thing has happened. I came accidentally to-day across the three girls about whom you were so interested. I met them at St. Paul's, and could not help speaking to the second one. The brightness, and yet the melancholy, of her little face attracted my attention. She was not with the rest of her party, but sat for some of the time on one of the chairs, and then knelt down and covered her face. Poor little soul! I think she was crying. My sympathies were roused by her, and I spoke. She flashed up a very bright glance at me, and we became friends on the spot. I took her about the cathedral, and showed her one or two objects of interest. She was full of intelligence. Then her sisters joined her, and your boy came up, and, of course, his name came out; and there was confusion and wondering glances, and the girl whom I had spoken to turned first crimson, and then white, and her dark grey eyes became full of tears. 'I know the Ellsworthys; they are my dear, dear friends!' she exclaimed.

"I found out where the three lived before I left them. They were accompanied by a prim-looking maiden lady, who was introduced to me as a Miss Slowcum, and who appeared to be taking excellent care of the pretty creatures. All three are delightful, and I have lost my heart to them all.

"Can I do anything for them? Of course you have already told me what perverse creatures they are, and Miss Jasmine confirmed your story, only, of course, she put her own coloring on it. I pity them, and yet, to a certain extent—forgive me, mother-friend—I admire their spirit. That eldest girl had a look about her face which will certainly keep every one from being rude to her. Such an expression of innocence and dignity combined I have seldom come across. Now, can I help them? It is an extraordinary thing, but I have a wonderful fellow-feeling for them. I can never forget the old days when I too was alone in London, and you took me up. Do you remember how you met me, and took my thin and dirty hands in yours, and looked into my face and said: 'Surely this is a gentleman's son, although he is clothed in rags?' I could just remember that I was a gentleman's son, and that I used to put my arms round a beautiful lady's neck and kiss her, and call her mother. Between her face and me there was a great horror of darkness, and suffering, and ill-usage; and my memories were feeble and dream-like. I don't even now recall them more vividly. You took me up, and—you know the rest of my history.

"Well, it is a strange thing, but those girls, especially that little Jasmine, brought back the memory of the lady whose sweet face I used to kiss. Can I do anything for your girls? There are a thousand ways in which I could help them without hurting their proud spirits.

"Yours affectionately, "ARTHUR NOEL."

In a very short time Mr. Noel received a brief communication from Mrs. Ellsworthy:—

MY DEAR ARTHUR,

"Your letter has been an untold relief. It was a special and good Providence that directed your steps to St. Paul's on that afternoon. My dear little Jasmine!—she is my pet of all the three. My dear Arthur, pray call on the girls at that dreadful Penelope Mansion; they are so naughty and so obstinate that they simply must be caught by guile. You must use your influence to get them out of that dreadful place. Look for respectable and nice lodgings, and go beforehand to the landlady. If she is very nice, confide in her, and tell her she is to look to me for payment, but she is on no account to let out this fact to the girls. Kensington is a nice, quiet, respectable neighborhood; you might take the drawing-room floor of a very quiet, nice house, and ask the landlady to offer it to the girls for five shillings a week, or something nominal of that sort. Primrose is so innocent at present that she will think five shillings quite a large sum; but tell the lady of the house to let it include all extras—I mean such as gas and firing. I suppose you could not get a house with the electric light?—no, of course not; it is not used yet in private dwellings—gas is so unwholesome, but the girls might use candles. Tell the landlady to provide them with the best candles, and tell her I'll pay her something handsome if she'll go out with them. And, my dear Arthur, don't let them go in omnibuses. Do your best, and, above all things, take them away from that awful mansion as soon as possible.

"Your affectionate Mother-Friend, "KATE ELLSWORTHY."

But alas! when Arthur Noel, in accordance with Mrs. Ellsworthy's instructions, went to see the girls, he was confronted first by Mrs. Flint, who assured him in her soft and cushion-like style that the young ladies had left, and as they had been undutiful enough not to confide in her she could furnish him with no address. As he was leaving the mansion Poppy Jenkins rushed up to him.

"I heard you asking for my young ladies, sir, but it ain't no use, for they're gone. Flowers of beauty they was—beautiful in manner and in face—but they ain't to be found here no more. The Mansion didn't suit them, and the people in the Mansion didn't suit them, and that isn't to be wondered at. I suppose they has gone to a more congenial place, but the address is hid from me; no, sir, I know nothing at all about them. Yes, sir, it's quite true—I misses them most bitter!"

Here poor Poppy, covering her face with her hands, burst into tears and disappeared down the back staircase.

Noel wrote to Mrs. Ellsworthy, and Mrs. Ellsworthy wrote back to him, and between them they made many inquiries, and took many steps, which they felt quite sure must lead to discovery, but notwithstanding all their efforts they obtained no clue to the whereabouts of the Mainwaring girls.



CHAPTER XXIII.

DARK DAYS.

"How bitterly cold it is, Primrose!"

The speaker was Jasmine; she sat huddled up to a small, but bright fire, which burned in the sitting-room grate.

The girls had now been several months in Eden Street, and all the summer weather and the summer flowers had departed, and the evening in question was a very dull and foggy one in late November.

The little sitting-room still wore its rose-tinted paper, but the white curtains at the windows had assumed a decided and permanent tint of yellow, and the fog found its way in through the badly-fitting attic windows, and made the whole room look cloudy. The girls' faces, too, had altered with the months. Jasmine had lost a good deal of her vivacity, her expression was slightly fretful, and she no longer looked the spruce and sparkling little lass who had gone away from Rosebury in the summer. Primrose had lost the faint color which used to tinge her cheeks; they were now almost too white for beauty, but her eyes were still clear, calm, and sweet; her dress was still the essence of simplicity and neatness, and her bearing was gentle and dignified as of old. The alteration in Daisy was less apparent at this moment, for she was stretched on two cushions in one corner of the sitting-room, and with a warm rug thrown over her, and with the Pink curled up in her arms, was fast asleep.

"How cold it is, Primrose," repeated Jasmine; then, as her sister made no reply, but went on calmly darning some stockings, she continued, "I think you have really grown stingy. Why can't we have some more coal? this is much too small a fire for weather with snow on the ground, and a horrid, odious fog filling every corner."

"Hush!" said Primrose, laying down her work, and stooping towards her younger sister, who sat on the hearthrug, "I am keeping the coal to put on until Daisy wakes. You know, Jasmine, we resolved not to run up any bills, and I cannot get in any coal until Mr. Danesfield sends us our next quarter's allowance—wrap my fur cloak round you, darling, and then you will be quite warm."

Jasmine shivered, but rising slowly, she went into the bedroom, and returned in a moment, not with the fur cloak, but with a white woolly shawl. "The day for Mr. Danesfield's money will arrive in less than a week," she said. "Oh, Primrose! I thought you were going to be a good manager; I did not think you were going to bring us to this."

Primrose smiled.

"Jasmine, dear," she said, "you are not quite brave to-night, or you would not speak to me in that tone. You forget that we should not have been short of money had not that five-pound note been stolen from us. When Mr. Danesfield's allowance comes in we shall be able to go on as usual, and then you need not suffer from a short allowance of fire. Jasmine, I know what is the matter with you; you did not eat half enough dinner to-day. When I was out this afternoon I called to see Miss Egerton, and she gave me three delicious new-laid eggs—really new-laid—we'll have them for supper."

"No, we won't," said Jasmine, her eyes suddenly filling with tears, and her pettish mood changing to a tender and very sad one—"those eggs were given for Daisy, and no one else shall eat them. Do you know, Primrose, that Miss Egerton does not think Daisy at all strong?"

"Oh, she is mistaken," said Primrose. "No one who does not know her thinks Daisy strong; she has a fragile look, but it is only her look. All my courage would go if I thought Daisy were ill—she is not ill; look at her now, what a sweet color she has on her cheeks."

"Miss Egerton says she is like a little sister of her own," continued Jasmine. Then she stopped suddenly. "Oh! Primrose, you are not going to cry? oh, don't; it would be dreadful if you gave way! No, Primrose, she is not like little Constance Egerton; she is just our own Daisy, who never looks strong, but who is very strong—she shall never be cold, and she shall have all the nourishment—you and I don't mind how plainly we live, do we, Queen Rose?"

Primrose had quickly wiped away her sudden tears. She rose to her feet, and, going up to Jasmine, gave her a hasty kiss.

"We'll remember our good old resolution," she said brightly, "not to grumble, not to fret, not to cry. Ah! here is our dear little birdie waking from her sleep. Now, Jasmine on with the coals, and let us have a merry blaze while I see to the supper—porridge for you and me, and a nice fresh egg and a cup of warm milk for the Daisy-flower."

"The Pink must have some milk too," said Daisy, as she tumbled lazily out of her soft nest of cushions; "the Pink isn't half as fat as she used to be—I can feel all the bones down her spine—I know she wants cream. Oh, Primrose! I had such a darling dream—I thought the Prince came and found us!"

"The Prince, Daisy?"

"Yes; and he had the look of the gentleman we met long, long, long ago at St. Paul's Cathedral! Oh, Primrose, I'm so tired of London!"

"Never mind, darling," answered Primrose; "I'm always telling you you are only seeing the shady side at present. Only wait till Christmas comes, and Mr. Danesfield sends us our money."

"I wrote another poem last night," said Jasmine; "I called it 'The Uses of Adversity.' It was very mournful indeed; it was a sort of story in blank verse of people who were cold and hungry, and I mixed up London fogs, and attic rooms, and curtains that were once white, and had now turned yellow, and sloppy streets covered with snow, with the story. It was really very sad, and I cried a great deal over it. I am looking out now for a journal which likes melancholy things to send it to. I have not ventured to submit it to Miss Egerton, for she is so dreadfully severe, and I don't think much of her taste. She will never praise anything I do unless it is so simple as to be almost babyish. Now 'The Uses of Adversity' is as far as possible formed on the model of Milton's 'Paradise Lost'—it is strong, but gloomy. Shall I read it to you after supper, Primrose?"

"If you like, dear," answered Primrose; "but why do you try to write such very sad things, Jasmine?"

"Oh, I don't know; they suit me. Primrose, do you know of a very, very melancholy periodical?"

"Several of the periodicals seem to me rather melancholy," answered Primrose; "there is one I sometimes see on Mrs. Dove's table—it is called The Watch. I glanced at it one day, and I thought it seemed very morbid."

"Oh, I know," answered Jasmine; "but there is a worse one than that—Mrs. Dove showed it to me. Mrs. Dove is very fond of reading, and she told me that she would not give a farthing for any literature that could not draw forth the salt and bitter tear; she says the magazine she likes best at present is a new one called The Downfall. She says it is very little known, but its melancholy is profound. Shall I send my verses to The Downfall, Primrose?"

"If you like, dear; but I don't at all admire the name, and I really do not think Mrs. Dove ought to be your guide in such matters, Jasmine."

"Oh, she has very good taste," answered Jasmine; "she says that only real talent is admitted on the staff of The Downfall. Of course I'd rather write for one of the shilling magazines. Well, if you like, I'll send my poem to one of them first."

Before Primrose could answer Jasmine on this weighty point there came a knock on the sitting-room door, and Mrs. Dove, with her face wrapped up in a thick woollen shawl, entered the room.

"Very sorry to disturb you, young ladies," she said, "but could you oblige me with the loan of three and tenpence-halfpenny. Dove has put in no appearance, and unless I can pay three and tenpence-halfpenny on account to the baker he refuses positive to allow me sufficient bread to see Sunday through."

When Mrs. Dove made this request Primrose's face became intensely pale. She was silent for half a minute, then she said—

"I will lend you the money this time, Mrs. Dove, but please don't ask me again; you know that at this present moment you owe me very nearly two pounds."

"Thank you, my dear Miss Mainwaring," answered Mrs. Dove, in a very suave voice, as she hastily pocketed poor Primrose's few shillings. "You are always obliging, and this, with the other trifle due, shall be returned the moment Dove comes in—Dove is on a very good piece of work just at present, and the money is as safe as safe. Oh, Miss Jasmine, I have brought you this week's copy of The Downfall—the serial in it is really of the most powerful order. I have shed a deluge of tears over it. The lowest person of rank in the pages is a marquess; but the story mostly deals in ducal families. It was a terrible blow to come down to the baker from the duke's ancestral halls—you read it, Miss Jasmine; you'll be very much overcome."



CHAPTER XXIV.

DOVE'S JOKE.

Primrose had always been considered a very good manager. Her talents for contriving, for buying, and, in short, for making a shilling do the utmost that a shilling was capable of, had been observable from her earliest days. In the last years of her mother's life Primrose had been entrusted with the family purse, and the shopkeepers at Rosebury had known better than not to offer this bright-looking young lady the best that they had at the lowest price. Primrose, therefore, when she came to London, had felt pretty confident that the talents which she knew she possessed would stand her in good stead. She still hoped to find the cheapest shops and to get the best for her money. She laid her plans with accuracy and common sense, she divided the little sum which the three had to live on into weekly instalments—she resolved not to go beyond these. But, alas! Primrose had never reckoned on a certain grave difficulty which here confronted her. Hitherto her dealings had been with honest tradespeople; now it was her misfortune, and her sisters', to get into a house where honesty was far from practised. In a thousand little ways Mrs. Dove could pilfer from the girls—she would not for the world have acknowledged to herself that she would really steal; oh, no—but she did not consider it stealing to use their coal instead of her own—of course, by mistake; she by no means considered it stealing when she baked a little joint for them in her oven on Sunday to boil it first, and in this way secure a very good soup for various hungry young Doves; she did not consider it stealing to so confuse the baker's account that some of the loaves consumed by her children were paid for by Primrose; nor did she consider it stealing to add water to the milk with which she supplied the Mainwarings; above all things, and on this point she was most emphatic, she thought it the reverse of stealing to borrow. Primrose had not been a fortnight in her house before she began to ask first for the loan of an odd sixpence, then for half-a-crown, for a shilling here, and two shillings there. When she returned the half-crown it was generally done in this fashion—

"Oh, if you please, miss, I want to settle my little account. Oh, dear, dear! I was certain I had half-a-crown in my purse. Well, to be sure, I forgot that Dove took it with him when he went out to his work this morning. Please, Miss Mainwaring, will you accept one and sixpence on account, and we'll settle the rest in an hour or two. There, miss, that's quite comfortable."

Yes, the arrangement was certainly quite comfortable for Mrs. Dove, who could score out the half-crown debt from her slate, and quite stare when Primrose ventured to ask her for the odd shilling still owing.

Still, incredible as it may sound, Mrs. Dove considered herself a strictly honest woman. Perhaps, had the girls only to deal with her they might have struggled on, badly, it is true, but still after a fashion. But, alas and alas! if Mrs. Dove considered herself honest, Mr. Dove did not pretend to lay claim to this very excellent quality. Poor Primrose little guessed that that lost five-pound note, which had given her such trouble, and which had almost brought gray hairs to her bright yellow head, had been really taken by Dove, who had come up to the attics when the girls were away, had quietly taken the hinges off Primrose's trunk at the back, had lifted the lid, and had helped himself neatly and deftly to that solitary note!

When the girls discovered their loss no one had been more indignant than Dove. He had come up himself to speak to them about it, had examined the trunk in their presence, had told them that he had a cousin of his own in the detective business whom he would put on the scent of the thief, and in the meantime he'd be very pleased, although he was a remarkably poor man, to lend the young ladies ten shillings.

Although they would not think of accepting his loan, the girls thought that Dove had behaved rather kindly on this occasion, and they certainly never in the least suspected it was into his pocket their money had gone.

Without being at all, therefore, to blame, poor Primrose found herself, as Christmas approached, and the days grew short and cold, with very little money in her possession; of course, her quarter's allowance would soon be due, but some days before it came she had broken into her last sovereign. Still, she had a resource which her sisters had forgotten, and which, luckily for her, Dove knew nothing at all about—she still had that letter of Mr. Danesfield's. She had never opened it, but she always kept it safely locked up in her trunk. Not for worlds would she yet break the seal—no, no, this letter was meant for an hour of great need. Primrose fondly and proudly hoped that that dark and dreadful hour would never approach and that, having won success, she and her sisters might yet return the letter unopened to its kind donor. In these dark days before Christmas she kept up her heart, and worked hard at her china-painting, achieving sufficient success and power over her art to enable her to produce some pretty, but, alas! as yet unsaleable articles. Mr. Jones, her master, assured her, however, that her goods must ere long find a market, and she struggled on bravely.

Perhaps, on the whole, Jasmine was more tried by her present life than her sister. Jasmine's was a more highly-strung temperament; she could be more easily depressed and more easily elated—hers was the kind of nature which pours forth its sweetest and best in sunshine; did the cold blasts of adversity blow too keenly on this rather tropical little flower, then no expansion would come to the beautiful blossoms, and the young life would fail to fulfil its promise. Jasmine was never meant by nature to be poor; she had been born in Italy, and something of the languor and the love of ease and beauty of her birthplace seemed always to linger round her. She had talents—under certain conditions she might even have developed genius, but in no sense of the word was she hardy; where Primrose could endure, and even conquer, Jasmine might die.

The little sister, who was too young to acutely feel any change which did not part her from Primrose and Jasmine, was, perhaps, the only one of the three whose spirits were on a par with what they were in the old Rosebury days; but although Daisy's little mind remained tranquil, and she did not trouble herself about ways and means, nor greatly fret over the fact that the skies were leaden, and the attic room foggy, still Daisy also suffered in her rather delicate little body. She caught cold in the London fogs, and the cold brought on a cough, and the cough produced loss of appetite. The two elder sisters, however, were scarcely as yet uneasy about her, and it was only Miss Egerton who saw the likeness to little Constance growing and growing in Daisy's sweet face. Thus Christmas drew near, and the girls had not yet found their mission in life; they were by no means crushed, however, nor was Primrose tired of repeating what she firmly believed, that with the New Year some of the sunshine of London life would be theirs.

The quarterly allowance from Mr. Danesfield always arrived on the first of the month. On the first of December this year the welcome letter, with its still more welcome enclosure, was duly received. The girls celebrated the event with a little breakfast feast—they ate water-cresses, and Primrose and Jasmine had a sardine each to add flavor to their bread and butter. Whatever happened, Daisy always had her fresh egg, which she shared with the Pink, for the Pink had been brought up daintily, and appreciated the tops of fresh eggs. On this occasion Mrs. Dove herself brought up Primrose's letter. Letters came so seldom to the girls that Mrs. Dove felt it quite excusable to gaze very hard at the inscription, to study the name of the post town which had left its mark on the envelope, and lingering a little in the room, under cover of talking to Jasmine, to watch Primrose's face as she opened the cover.

"It is from Mr. Danesfield, is it not, Primrose?" exclaimed Jasmine—"Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Dove; no I didn't much care for that new story which is begun in The Downfall."

Mrs. Dove had a habit of dropping little curtseys when she meant to be particularly deferential—she now dropped three in succession, and said in a high-pitched, and rather biting voice—

"It isn't to be expected that the opinions of young ladies and of women who have gone through their world of experience, and therefore know what's what, should coincide. I leave you ladies three to read your refreshing news from absent friends."

Mrs. Dove then turned her back, and meekly shutting the door behind her, left the girls to themselves.

"Them attics have become rather too uppish for my taste," she said to Dove when she got downstairs. "I took them a letter just now, and, my word! they had not eyes nor ears for me, though I toiled up all the weary stairs, which my shortness of breath don't agree to. It wasn't even 'Thank you very much, Mrs. Dove,' but all three of them, their eyes was fixed on the letter as if they'd eat it. It's my belief, Dove, that they're short of funds, for when I went yesterday to ask for the trifling loan of tenpence three-farthings to pay the cobbler for Tommy's boots, Miss Mainwaring said, as pretty as you please, but very prim and firm—'I haven't really got the money, Mrs. Dove.' Well, well, I've done a deal for those girls—elbow grease I've given them, and thought I've given them, and books for the improving of their intellecs I've lent them, and that's all the return I get, that when I bring up a letter it isn't even 'Thank you, Mrs. Dove.' What I say is this, Dove, shall I give the attics notice to quit?"

"By no manner of means," answered Dove—"you mark my words, Mrs. Dove, my only love, that why they were so flurried over the letter just received was because there was money in it. Don't you turn away nice, genteel, quiet-spoken young ladies from this house. There's most likely a postal order in that letter, and my name ain't Dove if I don't get my gleanings from it."

"Oh, fie, Dove! you will have your joke," answered his wife; but she said nothing further about giving the Mainwarings notice to quit.



CHAPTER XXV.

DAISY'S PROMISE.

Mr. Danesfield always forwarded the girls' allowance in such a way that Primrose could easily obtain it—he did not trouble her with cheques or bank notes, but sent a money-order, which she could cash at the nearest post-office.

The three went out gleefully that day, and obtained their much needed money—then Primrose bought a new pair of boots for Daisy, and allowed Jasmine to spend sixpence on scribbling paper. Having obtained this delightful possession, Jasmine determined to begin her great work of fiction without a moment's delay; she felt that she had listened quite long enough to Miss Egerton's gentle warnings—that she had been discouraged sufficiently, and that what she had really to do was to prove the stuff which was in her, and to take the world by storm. She hesitated a little as to whether her great work was to appear before the world in the form of a novel or a poem. She thought that to produce a second "Evangeline" would be a matter of but slight difficulty, but on the whole she was inclined to give the world her experience in the fiery and untrammelled words of prose.

"My theme burns within me," she said to herself. "I won't be kept back by metres or rhymes, or numbers of feet, or any of those tiresome rules which Miss Egerton tries to instil into me. Oh, I shall be happy over my work! I will forget that we are poor, and forget that we live in attics. I will work with Miss Egerton in the daytime, and I will help Primrose in her house-keeping, and take Daisy for a walk, but morning and evening I will get into my Palace Beautiful, and write away, and forget the sordid cares of life."

The little maid had really a certain amount of genius to guide her, and although all her ideas were crude and unpractised, she managed to be happy in the castle which she built, and her dark eyes grew bright once more, and her pretty face resumed its animated and contented expression.

Primrose, who worked very steadily at her china-painting, was much cheered at this time with one or two small, but bona-fide orders for work. They came not through Mr. Jones, who pocketed her money and exhibited her wares in a dusty and uncertain fashion, but through Miss Egerton, who was proving herself a real friend to the girls. Primrose was immensely cheered by these little orders, and, in consequence, Christmas Day—the girls' first Christmas Day without a home and a mother—passed not uncheerfully. Things might have gone well with the three but for an incident which occurred just at the beginning of the New Year.

One morning Daisy awoke shivering, and complaining of fresh cold. She refused, however, to stay at home by herself, and begged of Jasmine to wrap her up, and take her across to Miss Egerton's, but when the two girls reached the kind mistress's door they were informed that she had been suddenly sent for to the country, and would not be back until the following day.

"You must go back now, my pet," said Jasmine. "I'll take you back myself, and I'll build up such a nice fire for you, and you shall look at the dear old scrap-book which we made when we were all happy at Rosebury."

"I wish we were back at Rosebury," said little Daisy, in a very sad and plaintive voice. "I don't think London is at all a cheerful place. We made a great mistake about it, didn't we, Jasmine? Oh, Jasmine, darling, you are not going to leave me by myself, for I really don't feel well this morning."

"I'll come back ever so quickly, Eyebright, but I really think I must do Primrose's shopping for her, now that I am not going to Miss Egerton. Primrose is working very hard at her china-painting order, and it is not fair she should be interrupted. You won't be selfish, will you, Eyebright? You know we arranged long ago that the way you were to help matters forward was not to hinder us older girls in our work."

"I know," answered Daisy, with a patient sigh. "I won't be selfish, Jasmine. Just kiss me before you go."

Jasmine went away, and Daisy, taking the Pink into her arms, sat down close to the fire. She was not exactly nervous, but she scarcely liked to be left in the attics by herself. She wished Mrs. Dove would come up, or even that Tommy Dove, who was a rude boy, and whom, as a rule, she particularly disliked, would pay her a visit. Any company, however she reflected, would be better than none, for she was feeling heavy and depressed with her cold. The warm feel of the Pink's furry little body, elapsed tightly in her arms, comforted her not a little. She remembered with some satisfaction that Jasmine had locked the door, and she began already to count the moments for her sister's return.

An hour passed, and still Daisy listened for Jasmine's light and springing step on the attic stairs.

She was very tired now, and her head ached. She thought she would go into the bedroom and, lying down on her little white bed, sleep away the weary moments. Taking the Pink with her, she did so, wrapping the counterpane well up over them both.

In a very few moments the child was in a heavy slumber.

She awoke, after what seemed to herself a very short nap, to hear sounds in the bedroom. She stirred sleepily, and, opening her eyes, said—

"Oh, Jasmine, what a time you've been away!"

No answer from Jasmine, but a smothered exclamation from some one else; a heavy tread on the uncarpeted boards, and Dove, his face red, his shoes off, and something which looked like a screw-driver in his hands, came up and bent over the child.

"Oh! what are you doing here, Mr. Dove?" exclaimed little Daisy. The man bent down over her, and stared hard into her wide open blue eyes.



"I didn't know you was here, missie; it was very cunning of you to feign sleep like that—it was very cunning and over sharp, but it don't come round me. No, no; you has got to speak up now, and say what you has seen, and what you hasn't seen. I allow of no nonsense with little girls, and I can always see through them when they mean to tell a lie. You know where the children who tell lies go to, so you'd better speak up, and the whole truth, missie." Dove spoke in a very rough voice, and poor Daisy felt terribly frightened.

"I didn't see anything," she began, in her innocent way. "I was fast, fast asleep. I thought you were Jasmine—Jasmine should have been back long ago. I have a bad cold, and I was trying to pass the time by going to sleep. I haven't seen anything, Mr. Dove."

"Let me look into your eyes, miss," said Dove; "open them wide, and let me look well into them."

"Oh! you frighten me, Mr. Dove," said Daisy, beginning to cry. "I was very lonely, and I'd have liked you to come up half an hour ago; but you look so queer now, and you speak in such a rough voiced—what is the matter? Perhaps you were bringing up some of those books for Jasmine. Oh! I don't know why you should speak to me like that."

Dove's brow cleared; he began to believe that the child had really been asleep, and had not seen the peculiar manner in which he had been employing himself for the last ten minutes.

"Look here, miss," he said, "I don't mean to be rough to you, you pretty little lady. Look here, what I was after was all kindness. I only spoke rough as a bit of a joke. I has got some lollipops in my pocket for a nice little maid; I wonder now who these yere lollipops are for?"

"For me, perhaps?" said Daisy, who, although she could not have swallowed a sweety to save her life at that moment, had sense enough to know that her wisest plan was to propitiate Dove.

"You're fond of lollipops then, missie? you didn't think as 'twas because poor Dove guessed that, that he travelled up all these weary stairs? Kind of him, wasn't it? but you're real fond of lollipops, ain't you, missy?"

"Some kinds," answered Daisy, who was really a most fastidious child, and who shrank from the sticky-looking sweetmeats proffered to her by Dove. "I like the very best chocolate creams; Primrose brings them to me sometimes, but they are rather expensive. Oh! and I like sticky sweets too," she continued seeing an ominous frown gathering on Dove's brow. "I'm very much obliged to you, Mr. Dove." Then making a great effort, she put out her little white hand to take one of the sweeties.

But Dove drew back quickly.

"No, no," he said, "not till they're arned—by no means until they're arned. You don't suppose as a poor man—a poor man with a large family, and an only love of a wife—can afford to bring sweeties all for nothing to rich little ladies like yourself. No, no, miss; you arn them, and you shall have them."

"But I'd rather not, please," said Daisy, "I'm not very hungry for sweeties to-day on account of my cold, and I think, on the whole, you had better keep them, Mr. Dove. Indeed, I don't know how to earn them—Primrose and Jasmine say I'm too young to earn."

Here Dove drew himself up to his full height, and stared hard at the child.

"There's one way of arning," he said, "and one only. Look you here, Miss Daisy Mainwaring, you are young, but you ain't no fool. Ef you please, miss, you has got to make me a promise—you has got to say that you will never tell, not to Miss Primrose nor to Miss Jasmine, nor to no one, that you've seen me in this room. I don't wish it to be known. I has my reasons, and whatever happens, you are never to tell. Ef you make me the promise true and faithful, why you shall have the sweeties, and I'll stick up for you, and be your friend through thick and thin. You'll have Dove for your friend, Miss Daisy, and I can tell you he ain't a friend to be lightly put aside. But if you ever tell—and however secret you do it, I have got little birds who will whisper it back to me—why, then Dove will be your enemy. You don't know what that means, and you won't like to know. I was my own boy Tommy's enemy once, and I locked him up in the dark for twenty-four hours, where no one could hear him screaming. Now, miss, you had better make me your friend; I'm real desperate in earnest, so you promise me."

Daisy's face had grown deadly white, her breath came in gasps, her eyes were fixed on the cruel man.

"You promise me, miss?"

"Oh yes, Mr. Dove."

"That's right, missy. Now you say these words after me:—'Mr. Dove, I promise never to tell as you came up to my room to give me the nice sweeties. I'll never tell nobody in all the wide world, so help me, God.'"

"Oh, I don't like that last part," said little Daisy. "I'll say it—I'll say all the words, only not the last ones, and I'll keep my promise as true as true; only please, please, please, Mr. Dove, don't ask me to say the last words, for I don't think it's quite reverent to say them just to keep a secret about sweeties."

"Well, missy, as you please. Now put your hands in mine, and say all the other words."

Daisy did so.

"That's right, miss; now my mind's easy. I have got your promise, miss, and I'll keep the little birds a-watching to find out if ever you go near to breathing it. There's a dark cellar, too, most handy for them children who turn out to be Dove's enemies, and you know where the people who tell lies go to. Now, good-bye, miss—eat up your sweeties."



CHAPTER XXVI.

A DELIGHTFUL PLAN.

Neither Primrose nor Jasmine could quite understand their little sister that night—her cold was worse, but that fact Primrose accounted for by Jasmine's imprudence in taking her out; but what neither she nor Jasmine could understand was Daisy's great nervousness—her shrinking fear of being left for a moment by herself, and the worried and anxious look which had settled down on her usually quiet little face. Primrose determined to do what she had never done yet since they had come to London—she would commit the unheard-of extravagance of calling in a doctor.

"I think Daisy is very feverish," she said to Jasmine; "only that it seems impossible, I would say she has got some kind of shock, and was trying to conceal something. You are quite sure that you locked the door when you left her alone here this afternoon, Jasmine?"

"Oh, yes," answered Jasmine, "and I found it locked all right when I came back. I was rather longer away than I meant to be, for I did such a venturesome thing, Primrose—I took my 'Ode to Adversity' to the Editor of The Downfall. I saw him, too—he was a red-faced man, with such a loud voice, and he didn't seem at all melancholy—he said he would look at the poem, but he wasn't very encouraging. I told him what Mrs. Dove said about his readers liking tearful things, and he gave quite a rude laugh; however, I shouldn't be surprised if the poem was taken; if it fails in that quarter, I must only try one of the very best magazines. Oh, what was I saying about Daisy? I think she was asleep when I came back—she was lying very quiet, only her cheeks were rather flushed. Of course, Primrose, nothing happened to our little Daisy; if there did, she would tell us."

"I will send for the doctor, at any rate," said Primrose; "I don't like her look. I will send for the doctor, and—and—"

But Primrose's brave voice broke, and she turned her face away.

Jasmine ran up to her, and put her arms round her neck.

"What is it, Rose darling?—are you really troubled about Daisy? or are you thinking of the expense? I wonder what a London doctor will charge? Have you got any money to pay him, Primrose?"

"I've got Mr. Danesfield's money," said Primrose; "I have always kept it for an emergency. I had hoped never to need it, but if the real emergency comes it is right to spend it. Yes, Jasmine, I can pay the doctor and you had better go down and ask the Doves the name of one, for I don't know a single doctor in London."

"Yes," said Jasmine, "I'll run down at once."

Mr. and Mrs. Dove were greatly concerned when they heard of Daisy's illness—in especial, Mr. Dove was concerned, and expressed himself willing to do all in his power for the sweet, pretty little lady. He said he knew a doctor of the name of Jones, who was a dab hand with children, and if the young ladies liked he would run round to Dr. Jones's house, and fetch him in at once.

Jasmine thought Mr. Dove very good-natured, and she expressed her great gratitude to him for the trouble he was about to take, and requested him to seek Dr. Jones and to bring him to see Daisy without a moment's delay. Accordingly, in a very short time the doctor of Dove's selection stood by Daisy's bedside and pronounced her to be suffering from nothing whatever but a common cold, ordered some medicine for her cough, and went away with the assurance that she would be as cheerful as ever on the morrow. But Daisy was not cheerful the next day; and day after day passed without bringing back either her sweet calm, or any of the brightness which used to characterize her little face. Daisy possessed in a certain degree Primrose's characteristics, but she was naturally more highly strung and more nervous than her eldest sister. After a little time her cold got better, but her nightly terrors, the look of watchfulness and anxiety, grew and deepened as the time wore on. Daisy's sweet little face was altering, and Primrose at last resolved to dismiss Dr. Jones, who was doing the child no good whatever, and to consult Miss Egerton about the little one. It may be added that Primrose was able to pay Dr. Jones's account without breaking into Mr. Danesfield's money.

Miss Egerton from the very first had taken a great interest in the girls, and when Primrose went to her, and told her pitiful little story, the kind governess's eyes filled with tears.

"My dear," she said, in conclusion, "whatever is or is not the matter with that nice little sister of yours, I am sure she wants one thing, and that is change. Now, I am not so greatly taken with those rooms of yours, Primrose. You remember I paid you a visit at Christmas, and you tried to show me all the beauties of your apartments. They were neatly kept, dear, and were clean, and were furnished with some little attempt at taste, but the ceilings were very low, the window sashes fitted badly, and there was such a draught from under the door—and, my dear child, now that you have come to me in confidence I may as well tell you that I did not admire your landlady Mrs. Dove."

"She is rather fond of borrowing money, certainly," said Primrose, in a thoughtful voice, "but on the whole I believe she is good-natured—she lends Jasmine books, and yesterday she baked a cake herself for Daisy, and her husband brought it up to her."

"All the same," repeated Miss Egerton, "I don't admire the woman. I have never seen the man; but I would rather you were in a nice house. Now I have a proposal to make. I too have got some attics—they are quite as large as Mrs. Dove's, and can soon be made as cheerful. I can also promise you that the windows will not shake, nor will a draught as keen as a knife come in from under the door. My attics, however, I grieve to say, are unfurnished. Now, my dear, what do you pay at Mrs. Dove's?"

"Twelve shillings a week," said Primrose.

"That is a great deal for such rooms; I knew you were being imposed upon. Now, I would let you have mine for five, only somehow or other you must contrive to help me to furnish them. I can give you a carpet for your sitting-room, and a warm rug for your bedroom floor, and I believe I can supply you with bedsteads and beds, and there is a famous deep cupboard in the sitting-room, and two in the bedroom where you could easily keep all your clothes; but do you think you could provide the rest of the furniture? I would help you to get it as cheap as possible and would show you how to make old things look like new; for, my dear, I've gone through the contriving experience a long time ago. Now what do you say to my plan? You will not be cheated, you will be cared for, and you will be in the house of a friend—for I want to be your friend, my dear girl."

"Oh, how kind you are!" said Primrose, her eyes glistening. "Yes, you know how to give real help—the kind of help we girls want. I should love your plan, but I must try and find out if we really have the money. How much money will it take to put in very simple furniture—just enough for us to go on with, Miss Egerton?"

"You might manage it for ten pounds, dear, perhaps even for less, if you have that sum by you; you will soon save it in your lowered rent. Go home, and think it over, Primrose. I know Daisy will be much, much better in my house than at the Doves'. Go and think about it, and let me know what you decide to-morrow."

Primrose thanked Miss Egerton, and went back to her lodgings with a full heart. This offer from so good a friend had come, she felt, at the right moment. Accept it she must; find the ten pounds she must; and once again she thought with a feeling of satisfaction of Mr. Danesfield's letter, and felt glad that she had been able to pay Dr. Jones's bill without breaking into its contents.

She went upstairs, and instantly told Jasmine of the proposed change.

"But we can't do it," said Jasmine; "you know that we have not ten pounds to spare."

"I think," said Primrose, "that perhaps the time has come when we should open that letter Mr. Danesfield put into my hand the morning we left Rosebury. You know, Jasmine, how we determined to keep it, and return it to him unopened some day if we possibly could; but we also resolved to use it if a time of necessity really came—we resolved not to be proud about this. You know, Jasmine, it has come over me more than once lately that I have been headstrong in coming to London, only I could not endure being dependent on any one."

"Of course you could not, darling," said Jasmine. "I am certain you have done right; of course we are rather depressed now with difficulties, but I think yours was a grand plan. I have a kind of feeling, Primrose, that our worst days are over; I think it more than probable you will have a great run on your china-painting bye-and-bye, and if The Downfall and the other magazines begin to wish for my poetry, why, of course, I shall earn two or three guineas a week. I am told that a guinea is not at all a large sum for a good poem, and I have no doubt I could write two or three a week; and then my novel—it is really going to be very good. Mr. Dove says that he would recommend me to put it in a newspaper first, and then offer it to a publisher to bring out as a book. I said I would only let my first work appear in a very high-class newspaper. I never much cared for newspaper stories, but I might put up with one of the illustrated weekly papers if it paid me well. Yes, Primrose, I feel hopeful; and I have not the smallest doubt that we can earn the ten pounds for our furniture very quickly, so let us borrow the money out of Mr. Danesfield's letter. But Rose, darling, how do you know there is any money in the letter? You have never opened it and you can't see inside."

"I've never opened it, certainly," said Primrose, "but from a hint Mr. Danesfield gave me on the last day I saw him, I believe there are three five-pound notes in the letter. Of course I am not sure, but I am nearly sure."

"Well, let us get the letter and open it," said Jasmine, "and then our minds will be at rest. Oh! there is Daisy waking out of her nice nap. Daisy, darling, would you not like to go and live at Miss Egerton's? You know you are fond of Miss Egerton, and she is turning out a very kind friend. Won't you like to live always in her nice house, Daisy love?"

Daisy's little face had flushed painfully when Jasmine began to talk, now it turned white, and her lips trembled.

"Are there—are there any little birds there?" she asked.

"Oh, Eyebright, what a silly question! Primrose had she not better have her beef-tea. I think Miss Egerton keeps a canary, but I am not sure."

"I'd rather not have any little birds about," said Daisy, with great emphasis, "and I'd greatly, greatly love to go. I like Miss Egerton. When shall we go, Primrose?"

"In a day or two," said Primrose. "We have just got to buy a little furniture, and I'm going to open my trunk now, and get a letter out which I know has money in it. Yes, we'll very soon go away from here, darling, and Miss Egerton has thought of this delightful plan entirely to please you. She says you will be much, much better when you are out of this house. Oh, Daisy! how bright your eyes look, and how pleased you seem."

"Yes," said Daisy, "I am delighted; we need never walk down this street again, need we, Primrose? and we need never to have anything to say to the Doves, most particularly to Mr. Dove; not but that he's very kind, and he's—oh, yes! he's my friend; yes, of course he told me he was my friend, but we needn't ever see him again, ever, ever again, Primrose, darling?"

"Oh, Daisy! what a funny child you are! If Mr. Dove is your friend, why should you not wish to see him? He is not my friend, however; indeed, I may say frankly that I don't like him at all. Now drink up your beef-tea, darling."



CHAPTER XXVII.

THE POOR DOVES.

The next morning early Primrose opened her trunk, and unlocking a certain little morocco case, which contained her mother's letter about her lost brother, one or two trinkets which had belonged to that same mother, and Mr. Danesfield's envelope, she took the latter out of the case, and slipped it into her pocket. After breakfast she went round to see Miss Egerton.

"An old friend," she said, "in the village where we lived—I would rather not say his name—gave me this. I believe it contains money. I have a kind of idea that it contains three bank notes for L5 each. I have never opened it, and I never wish to. I meant to return it some day to this kind friend—yes, I know he meant to be very kind. This is what he has written on the outside of the envelope."

Miss Egerton read aloud—"When you want me, use me; don't return me, and never abuse me."

"There must be money here, my dear," she said.

"Yes, I know there is money," said Primrose, "for he wanted to press fifteen pounds on me when I went to say good-bye; but I was too proud to accept it, so now I think he has thought of this way of helping us. We could buy our furniture out of some of that money, Miss Egerton."

"Quite so, dear," said Miss Egerton, in a very cheerful voice. "Give me the letter, Primrose, and I will put it carefully away for you; you need not open it just at this moment. I will order just as little furniture as possible, and have it sent in to-day, and then when the bill comes you shall pay out of this envelope. I should not be surprised if we did our furnishing for seven pounds; I thought of so many nice, cheap little expedients last night. Now go home, dear, and come to me again in the evening, and I will tell you what I have done. I have no doubt I can have your rooms ready by to-morrow; is Daisy pleased at the idea of coming?"

"Yes, she is delighted," said Primrose; "her dear little face quite changed when I spoke about it. I am sure you are right, Miss Egerton, and the change will do her lots of good."

"I mean to make your attics quite charming," said Miss Egerton. "They shall be converted into a kind of beautiful palace for my brave young workers. Yes, Primrose, I admire your spirit, and if I can do anything to aid you three girls to conquer fate, I will."

The moment her school duties were over Miss Egerton went out. She visited certain shops that she knew of—queer little, quaint, out-of-the-way shops—quite pokey little places; but from their depths she managed to extract one or two round tables, one or two easy-chairs, a few brackets, which could be easily converted into book-shelves, a certain sofa, with not too hard a back, a couple of fenders, some fire-irons, some cups and saucers, some dinner plates. These and a few more necessary articles she bought for what would have seemed a ridiculously low figure to any one who was not in her secret. The furniture was all conveyed to her neat little house that afternoon, and there it was absolutely pounced upon by her willing and hard-working servant who washed it, and scrubbed it, and rubbed it, and polished it; and, finally, Miss Egerton purchased bright chintz, and slipped it over the ugly little chairs, and covered up the antiquated old sofa, and that very night a certain amount of her work was got through, and the attics began already to look habitable.

"I mean to do a great deal more," thought Miss Egerton; "fortunately the paper is fresh and the paint clean; but I must put up two or three pictures, and I shall fill these book-shelves with the books I used to love when I was young. My own white sheep-skin rug shall go in front of the fire. Daisy will like to see the Pink curling down into the depths of that sheep-skin. Ah, yes! the girls shall have a good time—a cosy, home-like time—in these rooms, if I can give it to them."

Then Miss Egerton went downstairs to meet Primrose with a smile about her thin lips, and a serene, beautiful light in her kind eyes.

"They are getting ready—the rooms are beginning to look charming, dear," she said. "Oh no, you must not see them yet. It is my fancy not to show them to you until they are quite ready, and I fear that won't be until the day after to-morrow; but to-morrow, Primrose, you and Jasmine and little Daisy may occupy yourselves packing your trunks."

"It all sounds delightful," said Primrose. "You cannot think, Miss Egerton, how cheered we all are at the thought of coming to you. As to Daisy, I simply should not know her—she is a changed child. I told the Doves that we were leaving as I went out this afternoon. They looked rather cross, and Mrs. Dove asked for a week's rent, instead of the usual notice. But I can manage to pay that nicely. I won't stay now, dear Miss Egerton. I'm going round to see Mr. Jones about the plates he was to try and sell for me, and then I shall hurry back to Daisy."

"Take her this fresh egg and this little sponge-loaf for her supper," said Miss Egerton. "Now good-bye, dear. God bless you, dear!"

"It is wonderful what kind friends we girls seem to meet at every turn," thought Primrose to herself, as she hurried down the dirty, sloppy street. "It would be very strange if we did not succeed with so many people wishing us well. Oh! I feel in good spirits to-night. Even if Mr. Jones has not sold the plates I shall not complain."

Mr. Jones assured his industrious pupil when she entered his dark little shop that he had "all but" got a customer for her. The customer was a wealthy old gentleman, who had a passion for collecting china, and, in special, liked the work of beginners. The old gentleman had looked at Primrose's plates, and had said that they were very fine, and had a certain crudity or freshness about them, which, for his part, he took to; and if she had three or four more lessons he felt morally certain that he would purchase her wares.

"He's a splendid customer, but he was most explicit on the point of more lessons, Miss Mainwaring," said Mr. Jones.

"But you have found me so many 'all but' customers who just wished me to have a few more lessons, Mr. Jones," said Primrose, smiling sadly.

"None like the present man—none like the present man, my dear young lady," answered Mr. Jones, rubbing his fat hands softly together. "A man who likes crudity, and calls it freshness, ain't to be found every day of the week, Miss Mainwaring."

Primrose admitted this fact, and, bidding her teacher good evening, without committing herself to any definite promise of taking further lessons, she turned her steps homewards. Even Mr. Jones had scarcely power to depress her to-night. She felt brave and bright, and all her youth made itself manifest in her springing, elastic step. Now that she was about to leave them, she felt horrified at the thought of having lived so long with the Doves. Her sense of relief at the thought of making her home with Miss Egerton was greater than she could express.

She entered the house, and came upstairs singing a gay air under her breath.

At the door of their attics she was met by Jasmine.

"Oh, Primrose! I have been watching for you. I am so glad you have come. I cannot think what is the matter with Daisy."

"With Daisy?" echoed Primrose; "but I left her so bright two hours ago."

"She was bright an hour ago, Primrose; she was sitting on the floor with the Pink in her arms, and laughing and chatting. I put on my bonnet, and left her alone for about ten minutes while I ran round the corner to get what we wanted for our supper, and when I came back she was sitting with her hands straight before her in her lap, and the Pink standing by her side, and looking into her face and mewing and Daisy not taking a scrap of notice, but with her eyes fixed straight in front of her in quite a dreadful way. When I went up to her and touched her, she began to shiver, and then to cry, and then she said, 'oh Jasmine! we can't go away from here—we can't; oh, we can't! We mustn't do it, Jasmine; we must stay here always, always!'"

"Poor little darling!" said Primrose. "She must have had a bad dream; certainly Miss Egerton is right, and her nerves are very much shaken and she wants change as soon as possible. Is she in the bedroom, Jasmine?"