"Yes."

"Will you cook the supper, and I will go to her?"

Jasmine nodded, and Primrose went straight into the other room. Her little sister had once more flown to the Pink for consolation; she was holding the little animal tightly in her arms, and was rocking herself backwards and forwards, and sobbing under her breath.

Primrose knelt down by her.

"What is it, my own little darling?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing, Primrose," said poor little Daisy, raising her tear-stained face; "nothing really, dear Primrose, only I don't like to leave the poor Doves."

"Oh, is that all?" said Primrose, in a very cheerful tone. "Why, Daisy, you did not at all mind leaving them a couple of days ago; but if you are really fond of them you can still see them occasionally, for we are not going far away."

"I don't wish to leave the poor Doves," repeated Daisy, bending down over the Pink, and her tears falling afresh.

"But, Daisy dear, how very funny of you to speak like this! You know, darling, you must allow Jasmine and me to decide for you; we feel that you will be much happier and much more comfortable with Mrs. Egerton. Come, Daisy, these tears are very bad for you in your weak state. Let me wash your face and hands, and take you into the other room to a nice surprise supper sent by Miss Egerton."

But Daisy only shook her head, and bent lower over her cat, and repeated over, and over, and over:

"I can't go away from Mr. and Mrs. Dove."

Poor Primrose became really alarmed at last.

"Daisy," she said, "there must be some reason for this sudden change in your wishes. You were quite delighted at the thought of going to Miss Egerton's an hour ago, when Jasmine was here; Jasmine went out, and when she came back she found you in this state. Did you see anybody while Jasmine was out?"

"N—n—no—I mean—I mean I can't say. Don't ask me, Primrose. Oh, Primrose, I'm such a miserable little girl! but please, please, please don't take me away from the poor Doves."

Daisy cried herself nearly into hysterics, and Primrose had at last to pacify her by assuring her that they were not going away from the Doves just yet.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

All through her dreams that night Daisy sobbed and moaned. Primrose, lying awake by her side, felt more and more alarmed and concerned. What was the matter with her little sister? She felt completely puzzled. The bright little castle in the air she and Jasmine had been building; the cheerful thought of the cosy rooms which the girls were to share together in their friend's house; the dear delight of having furniture of their very own again; all these very healthful and natural dreams were fading and fading, for whenever Primrose even alluded to their leaving their present quarters Daisy clutched her hand, and looked at her with such pleading eyes, and used hurried words of such anguished entreaty, that at last the eldest sister felt obliged to say—

"We will stay where we are, Daisy, until you wish to leave."

Then the poor little thin face relaxed into a wan smile, the lids drooped over the tired blue eyes, and the child slept more peacefully.

When Primrose felt her head, however, it was feverish, and her little hands burned to the touch. She went into the next room and called Jasmine.

"Jasmine," she said, "I am going round to Mrs. Egerton's; I am going to tell her all about Daisy's alarm and terror. I am going to consult her, for I know she means to be a good friend to us. Jasmine, promise me one thing—don't leave Daisy alone while I am out. I cannot in the least understand how it happened, but I feel sure she must have got some fright when you were out last night."

"Oh, she couldn't have," answered Jasmine—"I locked the door after me. I never leave Daisy alone without locking the door. I won't leave her now, of course, Primrose—I will take my little writing table close to her bedside, and if she wakes I can read her a part of my novel."

Primrose gave one or two more directions, and then hurried out, and Jasmine, after she had washed up the breakfast things, and put the little sitting-room perfectly tidy, moved her small writing-table into the bedroom, and sat down by Daisy's side. She was in the scribbling stage of her great work, and with her head bent low, her cheeks flushed, and her fingers much stained with ink, was writing away with great rapidity, when she was startled by some very earnest words from the little sleeper.

"Oh, no, indeed, Mr. Dove—oh no, you may be quite certain. I know where I'd go if I told a lie, of course, Mr. Dove. Yes, yes, you are my friend, and I'm your friend—yes, yes."

"Daisy, do wake up," said Jasmine; "you are talking such rubbish about Mr. Dove, and about telling lies, and Mr. Dove being your friend—open your eyes, Daisy, and let me give you such a nice little breakfast."

"Is that you, Jasmine?" said Daisy—"I thought you were Mr. Dove—I was asleep, and I was dreaming."

"Yes, Eyebright, and talking in your dreams," said Jasmine, stooping down and kissing her.

Daisy held one of Jasmine's hands very tightly.

"Did I say anything, Jasmine—anything that you shouldn't hear—anything about—about sticky sweetmeats, Jasmine?"

"No, you silly pet, not a word. Now sit up in bed, and let me give you your breakfast. Daisy, I really do think my novel is going to be a great success. I am going to put Mr. Dove into it, and Mrs. Dove, and Tommy Dove, and our dear old Poppy, and of course ourselves. One reason why I feel so confident that the novel will be a success is that all the characters will be sketched from the life."

"But please don't put in about the Doves," said Daisy. "I think they are such dread—I mean, of course, they are my friends, particularly Mr. Dove, he's my real, real friend, but I mean that I don't think they'd come well into a book, Jasmine—I don't think they're book people a bit—book people should be princes and knights and lovely ladies, and there should be no houses, and no attics, only there might be fairy palaces, and all the little girls should be happy, and kept safe from ogres—the little girls in the books shouldn't even have an ogre for a friend. Oh, Jasmine, Jasmine! I'm so very miserable!"

Daisy again broke into weak sobs, and poor Jasmine could scarcely soothe her.

A little before noon Primrose and Miss Egerton, and a tall, grave, kind-looking man, who went by the name of Dr. Griffiths, and was a great friend of Miss Egerton's, came up the stairs.

Both Dove and his wife saw them go, and Dove shook his hand at Dr. Griffiths, as that gentleman walked up the stairs. They all three went into the attics, and the doctor had a long talk with the little patient—he felt her pulse and her head, and looked into her eyes, and tried to induce her to laugh, and did succeed in getting one little startled and half-frightened sound from the child; then he went back into the sitting-room, and had a long talk with Primrose and Miss Egerton. The upshot of this was that Miss Egerton went sorrowfully away, for the doctor absolutely forbade the girls to move from their present quarters for another week or fortnight. At the end of that time he said Daisy would be better, and might have got over the foolish fancy which now troubled her, but for the time being she must be yielded to, and at any risk kept easy in her mind.

Miss Egerton went very sorrowfully away, and upstairs to the rooms she meant to make so pretty.

"There is no special hurry about the furnishing, Bridget," she said to her servant. "Little Miss Daisy is too ill to be moved for the present."

"The men have come round to be paid for the bits of furniture, leastways, ma'am," answered Bridget, "and the foreman from the other shop is standing in the hall, and wants to know if you'll settle with him now, or if he shall call again."

"I'll settle with him now, Bridget. Dear Miss Primrose left some money in my charge yesterday morning, and I can pay the man at once."

One of the rules of Miss Egerton's life was never to leave a bill unpaid for twenty-four hours, if possible—she hated accounts, and always paid ready money for everything. She now ran downstairs, and unlocking her desk, took out Mr. Danesfield's envelope. Primrose had begged of her to open it when the bills came in, and pay for the furniture—Primrose seemed to have an absolute prejudice against unfastening that envelope herself.

Miss Egerton opened it slowly now, smiling as she did so at the quaint inscription on the cover. A folded sheet of paper lay within—she spread the paper before her, expecting to see the three five-pound notes folded within its leaves—blankness and emptiness alone met her view—no money was inside the envelope—the whole thing was a cruel fraud. The poor governess fairly gasped for breath—there lay the bill for six pounds nineteen shillings which she had incurred, making sure that she could meet it out of Primrose's money. Primrose had spoken so confidently about her little nest-egg, and behold, she had not any!—the envelope was a fraud—the girl had been subjected to a cruel practical joke.

Miss Egerton was extremely poor—it was with the utmost difficulty she could make two ends meet. She thought hard for a minute—then her brow cleared, and she rose to her feet.

"Better I than those orphan girls!" she said, under her breath, and then she went to her desk again, and filled in a cheque for the amount.

"I can do without my winter cloak, and my black merino dress will last me for some weeks longer if I sponge it with cold tea, and re-line the tail," she said to herself. "Any little privation is better than to hurt the hearts of the orphan girls."

She paid the man, who signed the receipt, and then she let him out herself. As she did so a young man came hastily up the steps—he had a bright face, and running up to the governess, he seized both her hands in his.

"Oh, Arthur, how glad I am to see you!" said Miss Egerton.



CHAPTER XXIX.

A BLESSING.

Miss Egerton took Arthur Noel—for it was he—straight back into her little sitting-room, and sitting down on her worn little horse-hair sofa, and raising her eyes anxiously to the young man's face, she told him the story of the attic upstairs, of the furniture she had purchased, of the girls she had meant to serve. She showed him, with hands that trembled, the envelope with its queer inscription, and she unfolded for his benefit the empty sheet of blank paper. She told her story at once without any reservation, even relating with a little hasty blush how she felt obliged to pay for the furniture herself.

Perhaps Arthur Noel was the only person in the world to whom she would have made this confession; for she was one of those who made it a practice never to let her right hand know what her left did, but she had known Arthur from his boyhood, and he was one of those men who inspire trust and sympathy at a glance.

He listened to the story with interest, and even excitement—he was naturally enthusiastic, but even Miss Egerton had never seen him so perturbed and so moved as he was at present.

"I know about those girls," he said at last; "what are their names?—I am sure I know about them. Nay, let me ask you a question—Is not one called Jasmine? Has she not a piquant face, and very soft and yet bright eyes, and a great lot of curly brown hair? Yes, Miss Egerton, I am sure the girls you speak of are in a certain sense my girls; for if they are the ones I mean I took them under my protection long ago."

"Their name is Mainwaring. My dear Arthur, where and how have you met them? My dear boy, I fully believe, I have always believed, in your good intentions, in your wish to do your utmost for every one; but if you have really known Primrose, and Jasmine and Daisy, and have taken them, as you say, under your protection, I must say that of late you have lost sight of them—you have not been as kind as you generally are to people in difficulties, for I never met three more absolutely friendless girls than these."

"It was a good Providence sent me here this morning," said Noel. "You are quite right, Miss Egerton; I did lose sight of the children. I tried to follow them, but they managed to hide themselves most effectually. Think of my coming up to see you this morning, with a message from Mrs. Ellsworthy, and finding that our lost lambs are all but safe in your kind fold. How relieved my dear mother-friend will be!"

"Mrs. Ellsworthy is the kindest and best of women," said Miss Egerton; "I will receive your message presently, Arthur, but you puzzle me more and more when you tell me that she too knows my girls. I came across them quite accidentally. They called to ask me to give Jasmine lessons in English composition, and I took a fancy to them, and, in particular, felt drawn to the little one—for she reminded me of—, but no matter! The girls have been in and out of my house ever since. I saw that they were fearfully independent, but in many trivial ways I tried to help them. Well, Arthur, it is most surprising—it is altogether incomprehensible, but never during the months we have been seeing each other daily have they alluded to you or the Ellsworthys. They seemed perfectly unconstrained, and chatted many times of their cottage home in the country, but they never spoke of the Ellsworthys."

"They would not be likely to do," answered Noel. "I think, Miss Egerton, I must now tell you Mrs. Ellsworthy's and my side of the story."

Certainly Miss Egerton appeared to neglect her duties that morning; fortunately, her school had not yet re-opened, but Bridget waited for orders, and the tradesman left the house unattended to. Bridget knew that Miss Egerton was always greatly taken up with Mr. Noel, and she had to admit that he was a bonny-looking young man with a pleasant face; but Bridget hitherto had given her mistress credit for always putting duty before pleasure. What, therefore, did her present neglect of household management mean?

Arthur Noel had a long story to tell, and Miss Egerton listened, weighing each point, and not giving too undue sympathy to either party. Noel was of course enthusiastic in Mrs. Ellsworthy's cause, and announced his intention of going to see her that very day.

"She is in town," he said; "and if you give me the girls' address I can bring her to them this afternoon."

But here Miss Egerton laid her thin hand on the young man's arm.

"No, Arthur, I won't betray their secret, poor little dears! they may have been headstrong, and silly, and rash, and, poor children, they may fail utterly, but they have not failed yet by any means, and if they wish not to be tempted into a luxurious and dependent life, even by the kindest friend, I, for one, will stand by them. You have come on me by accident, Arthur, and have learned about the girls by accident; you have no right to tell what you have thus discovered. I have studied those girls' characters and I know that Primrose at least would die of a broken heart if her independence were taken from her. No, Arthur; if you wish really to help them you must put them in the way of earning their own living, and in this manner the Ellsworthys can doubtless assist, for they are rich, and have influence."

Then Miss Egerton and her guest had another long and earnest discussion, at the end of which time a compromise was arrived at. Noel might tell the Ellsworthys that he and Miss Egerton knew where the girls lived, and the Ellsworthys might give in-direct help by aiding him in his efforts to find suitable work for Primrose and Jasmine—he too, could be their open and acknowledged friend, and he arranged with Miss Egerton to call and see them that very afternoon.

Finally, Miss Egerton again drew his attention to the envelope, which was only given to mock, as it contained nothing but blank paper.

Noel examined it carefully.

"This must have been given to the girls by Mr. Danesfield, the banker at Rosebury," he said. "I know him well; he is the last person who would play them such a trick. Don't you think, Miss Egerton it is quite possible that this envelope may have been opened, and the money removed?"

"But the envelope does not look tampered with," answered Miss Egerton, turning it round, and examining it carefully.

"Thieves are very clever," answered Noel. "It is easy to open an envelope by holding it over steaming water."

"But Primrose always kept this letter locked up in her trunk."

"Well, I will settle the point by writing direct, and in strict confidence, to Mr. Danesfield. In the meantime let us say nothing to Miss Mainwaring; and you will let me pay for the furniture, kind friend."

But Miss Egerton's face flushed brightly, and she drew back a step or two.

"No, my dear boy, I cannot. Since I drew that cheque I have felt strangely happy. I think this very small act of self-denial will bring me a blessing, and I don't wish to be deprived of it. Good-bye, Arthur; come to see me again at three, and I will take you to my girls."



CHAPTER XXX.

VOICE OF THE PRINCE.

Daisy felt quite certain that the Prince had come. Jasmine greeted her old friend of St. Paul's Cathedral with sparkling eyes and effusive words of welcome. Primrose, too, was very pleased to see any one who brought such a contented look into Daisy's little face, for the child asked herself to sit in his arms, and laying her head on his shoulder, she listened with pleasure to some wonderful fairy stories which he related. While Noel was by, Daisy seemed quite to forget her nervous fancies—she even spoke confidentially of ogres who tried to make themselves friendly, and she asked Arthur, with a very puzzled, anxious face, if a little girl, who was so unfortunate as to have an ogre for a friend, could ever get rid of him.

"Oh, yes; he might turn into an enemy," answered Arthur.

But here poor Daisy shuddered violently, and turned very white.

"No, no," she said; "not into an enemy, never into an enemy, dear Mr. Arthur."

"What matter is it to you, little maid?" answered Arthur cheerily, though he regarded her with very keen observation. "There is no ogre going to trouble you as either friend or enemy; If he does he will have to meet me. I am the Prince, you know, and my mission in life is to slay the wicked ogres."

"Oh! but his poor wife and his children!" half sobbed Daisy; "couldn't you lock him up in a tower, dear Prince?"

Arthur smiled, and gradually managed to lead the child's thoughts into another direction. He was already gaining the greatest possible influence over her, and he managed, on the occasion of his second visit, to coax her to let him carry her across to Miss Egerton's for a couple of hours. Dove met them as Arthur was carrying the child away, and he first scowled, and then smiled obsequiously. Daisy turned deadly white, and Noel felt that she trembled.



"I'm coming back to-night, Mr. Dove," she called out, in a shaky little voice; and Dove answered—

"Pleased to hear it, missy; the attics would be lonesome without you, missy."

"Daisy," whispered Noel, "tell me something—is Dove the ogre?"

"Oh, don't, don't, Mr. Prince!" answered back the child. "No, no, of course not; why, he's only poor Mr. Dove—a friend of mine."

When Daisy reached Miss Egerton's and found herself seated in that lady's cosy little drawing-room, with sponge-cakes ad libitum to eat, and Noel sitting by and willing to give up all his time to her benefit, she cheered up wonderfully; a faint color came to her white little cheeks, and Miss Egerton, as she passed the open drawing-room door, heard one or two silvery peals of laughter coming from her lips.

"Bless the child!" thought the kind woman; "how much better she is when she is out of that house. What nice influence that good fellow, Arthur, has over her. I do trust the silly little one will soon give up her fancies—for they surely can be nothing but fancies—and come to live with me."

But when the twilight fell Daisy ceased to laugh, the anxious and troubled look returned to her face, and after a time she said to Arthur, in her pretty coaxing way—

"Take me home now, please, Mr. Prince."

Two days afterwards Noel called at the girls' lodgings Daisy alone was in, but to all his entreaties she now turned a deaf ear. No, she did not want to go out; she would rather stay in her own dear, nice old attics; she was never so happy anywhere as in her own attics. She was very fond of Miss Egerton, but she did not think she would like to live with her. Miss Egerton kept a bird, and Daisy had a great dislike to birds.

"Please, Mr. Prince," she said, in conclusion, "stay with me here for an hour or two, and tell me a beautiful story."

Noel was rather clever at making up impromptu stories, and he now proceeded to relate a tale with a moral.

"There was a kind lady who had prepared lovely guest-chambers—beautiful they were, and worthy of a palace."

Here Noel stopped, and looked hard at his little listener.

"Do you know why they were so lovely, little maid?"

"No; please tell me, Mr. Prince. Oh, I am sure this is going to be a real true fairy tale—how delicious!" and Daisy leaned back on her sofa with a sigh of content.

"The rooms were beautiful, Daisy," continued Arthur "because the walls were papered with Goodness and the chairs, and the tables, and the carpets, and the sofas, and the thousand-and-one little knick-knacks, were placed in the rooms by Self-Denial, and the windows were polished very brightly by Love herself, and she kept the key which opened the chamber doors."

"How sweet!" said Daisy.

"Yes; there were two rooms, and they were very sweet. To live there meant to get into an abode of peace. As to ogres, they would fall down dead on the threshold of such rooms. There were only two, and they were up high in a small house, and without the gilding and the glory which I spoke of they would have seemed humble enough, but to those who knew their secret, and what their owner had done for her expected guests, they appeared a very Palace Beautiful. Now, Daisy, I must tell you something so sad. The rooms were ready, but the guests did not arrive. Three guests were expected, but the kind lady who had prepared the rooms, who had papered them with Goodness, and furnished them with Self-Denial, and brightened them with Love, waited and longed for her visitors in vain.

"Two of the visitors were most anxious to come, but one—a little one—although she looked very gentle and had a sweet expression and blue eyes, and seemed quite the sort of little girl who would not willingly hurt a fly, held back. It never entered into her head that she was selfish, and was making two or three people who loved her both anxious and unhappy. She preferred to live in rooms which, by comparison, were like dungeons; for the owners had never put Love into them, and had never thought of Self-Denial in connection with them. There, Daisy-flower, I have done. It seems a pity that the little girl should have been so selfish, does it not?"

"But how does the story end, Mr. Arthur? You have really only just begun."

"I only know the beginning, Daisy," said Noel, as he rose to leave. "I have not an idea whether that Palace Beautiful will ever receive its visitors, whether that kind lady will ever be made happy, or whether that little girl will ever cease to be selfish."

A few moments afterwards Noel went away, and poor Daisy turned her face to the wall and wept.

Of course, the very obvious moral had hit her hard, poor little maid! Oh! if she could really only confide in Arthur—he was so nice and strong, and he looked so contemptuously at Mr. Dove that day when he was carrying Daisy across the road to Miss Egerton's.

"I don't believe he would be afraid of Mr. Dove," she whispered softly, under her breath. "Oh dear! why am I so terribly frightened? Why does he make my heart beat? and why do I shake so when I see him? Well, I'll never tell about his bringing me up the sticky sweetmeats—of course I'll not tell. I promised I wouldn't; it would be dreadful to break one's promise. Of course I know where people go who break their promises. No, I promised Mr. Dove, and I must always, and always, and always keep my word; but I did not promise him that I'd stay here. He wanted me to, and I just had it on the tip of my tongue, for I was dreadfully frightened, but he heard a noise, and he went away. I'm so glad I didn't promise, because the Prince says I should go and live in the Palace Beautiful. He thinks I'm a selfish little girl. Oh dear! how terrified I shall be, but I won't be a selfish little girl, and keep Primrose and Jasmine away from the Palace, and break the kind lady's heart. I must try and write a very private little note to Mr. Dove, and tell him that though I am going away I'll always and always keep my word about the sweeties, and I'll always be his truest of friends, although I do fear him more than anything in the world."

Here Primrose came in, and poor little Daisy roused herself, and tried to talk cheerfully.

"Primrose," she said, "do you mind my writing a letter which nobody is to see?"

Primrose laughed.

"You funny pet!" she said; "if no one is to see the letter why do you trouble to write it?"

"I only mean, Primrose," continued Daisy, "that you are not to see it, nor Jasmine, nor Miss Egerton, nor Mr. Noel. It is to—to somebody; but you are not to be curious, Primrose, nor to ask any questions. It's a most terribly important letter, and when it's written I'm going to put it in the post myself. I'll go out with you, and you must turn your back when I drop it into the pillar-box. You'll be very happy when it's written, Primrose, and I'm doing it for you and Jasmine, and because I won't be a selfish little girl."

Primrose stooped down and kissed Daisy.

"You may write your letter and post it," she said, "and I'll try not to be the least bit curious, Eyebright. Now sit down and write away, you have a nice quiet hour before Jasmine comes in to tea."

"So I have," answered Daisy; "thank you, Primrose. Please don't say anything to me when I'm writing."

Then Daisy in her corner blotted her fingers, and brought a deep flush to her little pale face, and ruined several sheets of note-paper, all of which she carefully tore up to the smallest fragments. At last an epistle, over which she sighed and trembled, and even dropped tears, was finished. It ran as follows:—

"MY DEAR FRIEND, MR. DOVE,—I always and always will be most true to you. I would not be such a wicked little girl as to break my word for anything I'm going always to keep it, and tortures, even the Inquisition, and even the rack, wouldn't get it out of me. Did you ever hear of the rack, Mr. Dove? but perhaps you had better not know. Yes, I'll always keep my word, the word that I promised, and no one shall ever know about you and me and the sticky sweetmeats; but I won't keep the word that I didn't promise. You remember how you wanted me to give you another word that I'd always stay here, and keep Primrose and Jasmine here, instead of letting them go and going with them to the Palace Beautiful. I almost promised you, for you looked so fierce, and your eyes were so bloodshot, and cruel, and terrible, and I'd great work to keep remembering that you were really my friend; but I'm so glad I did not give you that word too, for now I know that I'd have done very wrong. A Prince has come to me, Mr. Dove, and told me I am very selfish to try to keep my sisters out of the Palace Beautiful. He says the walls are covered with Goodness and the furniture is put there by Self-Denial, and the windows are shining because Love has polished them up. He says there's no Love and no Goodness here, and he calls your rooms dungeons. He's a very, very strong Prince, and he kills ogres—he even kills ogres who are friends to little girls. Please, Mr. Dove, this is to say that I'm going away to the Palace Beautiful, and that I'll always keep my word about the sweeties.

"Your true little friend, DAISY."

Then Daisy fastened her letter, and directed it to Mr. Dove, No. 10, Eden Street, and she asked Primrose for a stamp, and then she and her eldest sister went out, and Primrose turned her back while Daisy dropped the letter into the nearest pillar-box.

The moment this was done the child gave a little skip, and caught Primrose's hand, and squeezed it hard, and said, in an excited voice—

"Now I've done it! I'm not going to be the selfish little girl who breaks people's hearts. Primrose, darling let us hurry back to the dungeons, and put all our things together, so that we may reach the Palace Beautiful to-night."

Poor Primrose, who was not in Daisy's secret, and knew nothing of Arthur Noel's allegory, was conscious of a momentary wild fear that her little sister had taken leave of her senses; but she soon began to see meaning in Daisy's words, and was only too glad to yield to the child's caprice at once.

That very night, therefore, Miss Egerton's nice rooms were occupied, and that good lady laid her head on her own pillow with a light and thankful heart.

Fortunately for Daisy, Dove was out while the packing was going on, and only Mrs. Dove, with a very black scowl on her face, saw the girls drive away in a four-wheeler. She refused to say good-bye to them, and was heard to mutter that the "ongratitude of some folks was past enduring."

"Here, Dove," she said, when late that night her lord and master came in, "those pretty young ladies as you thought so much of—'the attics' I called them, and always will call them—well, they're gone. They had a four-wheeler, and off they've gone, bag and baggage. For my part I ain't sorry, for now that them attics are painted up and cleaned, which they did out of their own money, I may be able to rise my rent. Those young ladies and I couldn't have kept together much longer. Disobliging, I call them—disobliging, and shabby, and mistrustful; it was only this morning I asked Miss Mainwaring for the loan of seven and sixpence, and she up and said, 'I'm sorry I can't oblige you, Mrs. Dove.' Those kind of young ladies don't suit me, and I'm thankful they're gone. Why, Dove, how you do stare!—there's a letter waiting for you on the table."

Dove took up his letter and read it carefully once or twice; after his second reading he put it into his pocket, and turned to his wife—

"They've gone round to Miss Egerton's; isn't that so, my love?"

"Who do you mean by 'they,' Dove?"

"The three young ladies, of course."

"Oh, I suppose so; but I neither know nor care—I wash my hands of them from this day forward!"

"Well, then, look here, Mrs. Dove, my love," said the husband, "I don't wash my hands of them—no, not by no means. It's all right if they're gone to Miss Egerton's—there are trap-doors in the roof at Miss Egerton's; I know the build of the house. There are trap-doors in the roof, and quarter-day is coming on, Mrs. Dove, my only love!"

"Law, Dove! you have a most startling way of saying them poetic lines," answered his wife.



CHAPTER XXXI.

A "CONTINUAL READER."

A few days after the girls were comfortably settled in their new quarters Primrose went out. She went out all alone, for by this time London streets and London ways were familiar to her. Neatly and very quietly dressed, with the usual serene light on her sweet face, and that dignity about her whole bearing which prevented any one from ever being rude to her, she went, not to her china-painting as usual, but simply to take exercise in the London streets.

The fact was, Primrose wanted to be alone—she wanted to think out a problem. She was beginning to be perplexed, and even slightly alarmed. Her alarm was not caused at present by anything in connection with Daisy, for Daisy seemed almost bright and well again; but money matters were not too prosperous with the young housekeeper, the life of independence she had hoped to attain for herself and her sisters seemed to recede from her view day by day—the china-painting brought in no apparent results; Mr. Jones never did anything except "all but" get customers—the quarter's allowance from Mr. Danesfield looked smaller and more inadequate to Primrose the more her experience in expenses grew, and now something about Miss Egerton added to her cares. It seemed to Primrose that Miss Egerton was holding back something—she had always been frank and open with the girls, but when Primrose asked her how much their furniture had cost, and whether she had opened Mr. Danesfield's letter to pay for it the good lady's brow had grown troubled, and she had replied—

"I am busy to-day—I will go fully into the matter presently, Primrose;" but when morning after morning Miss Egerton was still too busy to go into the question, Primrose began to have nameless little fears, and had to scold herself for being fanciful and nervous.

On this afternoon she walked quickly, and without being herself aware of it she presently found herself in the neighborhood of Regent's Park, and at last not very far from Penelope Mansion. She was thinking hard, and paying little attention to any of the objects that met her eyes, when she was suddenly pulled up short by a round and hearty voice, a fat hand was laid on her shoulder, and she found herself face to face with Mrs. Dredge.

"Well, my dear, how are you, Miss Mainwaring? Oh, yes, I'm delighted to see you. You did give us the slip, you and your pretty sisters. I don't think Mrs. Flint quite liked it; we all questioned her, me, and Miss Slowcum, and Mrs. Mortlock, and we said, 'At any rate give us their address, Mrs. Flint—we take an interest in them—they are pretty-spoken young ladies, and they were a credit to the establishment.' But Mrs. Flint only frowned and bit her lips, and colored. Then Mrs. Mortlock put her foot in it as far as Miss Slowcum was concerned, for she said 'I'm sorry the girls from the country have departed, and that they found us so disagreeable that they had to do it unbeknown and quiet, for it was a real pleasure for ancient females like ourselves to have young and bonny creatures about us.'

"Miss Slowcum got very stiff at this, for she apes youth, my dear, in a way that's past belief, and Mrs. Mortlock had her little fling on purpose. Well, dear, and how are you? You look thin to what you were, and a bit pale. How is that pretty little sister of yours who wanted the cheap lodgings, that was to be so clean you might eat on the floor?"

"We are all fairly well, Mrs. Dredge," replied Primrose, when she could edge in a word—for Mrs. Dredge was extremely voluble—"we are fairly well, only Daisy has been suffering from cold. We have got clean rooms too, thank you, Mrs. Dredge."

"Well now, dear, I'm glad to hear it; that pretty child amused me when she spoke of cheapness and cleanliness going hand in hand. Bless her little heart! little she knew.

"We have learned a great many things we knew nothing about six months ago Mrs. Dredge," answered Primrose, a tinge of sadness in her voice. "Yes, I am very glad to see you again—please, remember me to all the ladies at Penelope Mansion."

"Oh, my dear, they'll be glad to hear I met you—even Miss Slowcum will, though she's a little bitter on the subject of age; and as to that poor Sarah Maria, or Sarah Martha—I forget which she is, only I know she's Sarah, with something tacked to the end of it—why, she'll be fairly skipping with delight. That poor girl, she just worships the ground you three young ladies walk on."

"Oh, do give our dear love to Poppy," said Primrose tears springing to her eyes.

Those sudden tears did not escape the notice of fat, good-humored Mrs. Dredge.

"I hope you're getting on comfortably in every way, dear," she said, "money matters and all. I had sore worries myself in the money line until poor Dredge made his fortune in the chandlery business. My dear, I was almost forgetting to tell you that we've had an affliction at the Mansion."

"I'm very sorry," began Primrose.

"Yes, dear, and it's an affliction which is likely to continue, and to grow heavier. It's poor Mrs. Mortlock, dear—I'm afraid she's losing her sight, and very troublesome she'll be, and a worry to us all when it's gone, for poor woman, she has a passion for politics that's almost past bearing. Miss Slowcum and me, we take turns to read her the papers now, but though our throats ache, and we're as hoarse as ravens, we don't content her. Mrs. Mortlock is looking out for what she is pleased to call a 'continual reader,' dear, and what I'm thinking is that perhaps you or your sister would like to try for the post—I believe you'd suit her fine, and she can pay well, for she's fairly made of money."

Primrose colored. To read to Mrs. Mortlock was about the last occupation she would have chosen, but the thought of the purse at home which was getting so sadly light, and the feeling that after all her efforts she might never do much in the china-painting line, caused her to reflect anxiously.

"May I think about it and let you know, Mrs. Dredge?"

"No, no, my dear, not by any means, for she has advertised, and they are pouring in. Poor Sarah Susan is almost off her head answering the door to them. Stout readers and thin readers, old readers and young readers, they're all flying to the post, as if there were nothing in life so delightful as being 'continual reader' of politics to poor Mrs. Mortlock. She ought to have been suited long ago, but I've a strong hope that she isn't, for she's as fidgety and particular as if she were a countess. Your best chance, dear, is to come straight home with me—we'll see Mrs. Mortlock on the spur of the moment, and try and arrange it all."

In this way Primrose obtained her first situation, for Mrs. Mortlock was glad to feel her soft young hand, and her gentle and refined tones had an instant and soothing effect on the poor lady's irritable nerves.

"My dear," she said, "what with rasping voices, and piping voices, and droning voices, to say nothing of voices that were more like growls than anything else, I felt nearly demented. Yes, Miss Mainwaring, this is a sore affliction that has befallen me, and I knew there was nothing before me but the services of a 'continual reader,' for poor Mrs. Dredge, though she did her best, was decidedly thick in her utterance; and Miss Slowcum, oh dear! the affectations of Miss Slowcum were quite beyond me, besides our differing altogether in politics—me holding for Gladstone, and she fairly hating the poor man. You'll do very well, Miss Mainwaring, and I hope you'll study your papers well while you're at home, so that you may know what you are reading about, and read intelligent accordingly. I always like both sides of the question, which was my poor husband's habit, for he was a very intelligent man, Miss Mainwaring. And then I like my bit of gossip and my Court news. I adore my Queen, Miss Mainwaring, and it is a real bona fide pleasure to learn when and where she drives abroad. You'll come, please, in the morning, and set to work at your continual reading. Salary, fifteen shillings a week certain. Now, now, you needn't hesitate at taking what I call a lofty salary, for it always was my way to pay down handsome. There now, that's settled. Shake hands, dear; good-bye till the morning. Sarah Maria, you needn't show up no more of the 'continual readers,' for I believe I have made a bargain with this young lady."

"Oh, Miss Primrose!" said poor Poppy, as she showed her out, "I am more than thankful that you are coming here, miss—that's for my sake, miss, though I'm dreadful afraid you'll suffer yourself. I'm awful afraid you'll get muddled in your head, miss, for as to mine, it has swam away long ago. I begin not to know in the least who I am, miss. Poppy, why it ain't nowhere! only I'm Sarah, with all the other words in the dictionary tacked on to it. I don't mind it now; they say folks can get accustomed to anything, so I don't mind being Sarah, and everything else too, only it has a very swimming effect on the head, Miss Primrose. Oh, my darling young lady! do ask Miss Jasmine and Miss Daisy to let me come and see them."

"Yes, Poppy, you shall come and see us all again, if you will only keep our little secret, for just at present we don't want the people at home to know where we are; and remember, Poppy dear, that you are always Poppy to us three girls."

"I'll hold on to that," said poor Poppy, "when my head's fairly reeling. I'll clutch on to it, and hold firm. Poppy, which means a tare, I am, to my own dear young ladies. Oh dear! oh dear! they're calling me—it's Sarah Matilda this time. Good-bye until to-morrow, dear Miss Primrose."



CHAPTER XXXII.

JASMINE BEGINS TO SOAR.

When Primrose went home and told her sisters and Miss Egerton what she had done, Jasmine's eyes had grown first bright, and then misty.

"To be continual reader to Mrs. Mortlock!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Primrose, it is an act of self-denial to you—it is, isn't it? Own at once that you were very brave to do it, darling."

"I don't think so," said Primrose; "there may be a certain little amount of drudgery in it, and perhaps I would rather have orders to paint beautiful roses and lilies on china plates, but you see, Jasmine, this work has been sent to me—I think God sent it, and I must not refuse it because perhaps I would like something else better."

"That's bravely spoken, Primrose," said Miss Egerton who was sitting by, for she often spent odd half-hours with the girls. "Look at everything in the same spirit, my love; try to see God's hand in all the little events, and you will have a brave life and a happy one."

"And a successful, I hope," added Jasmine. "Miss Egerton, how awful it would be if we girls were to fail!"

"My Prince says," here interrupted Daisy, "that whenever we do a good thing and a right thing, we bring something fresh and lovely into our Palace Beautiful. Isn't it nice to think that dear old Primrose has done this?"

"The money, too, will be of great help," added Primrose. "Why, Jasmine, we may even be able to save a little."

Thus encouraged, Primrose commenced her duties, and though her throat ached—and she certainly found the continual reading of politics, interspersed with very sharp discussions on the part of Mrs. Mortlock, anything but agreeable—she did not give way.

Miss Egerton was pleased to see Primrose so bright, and was glad to know she was really earning something; and Jasmine and Daisy prepared the cheeriest welcomes possible for her evening after evening on her return.

Jasmine, however, by no means intended Primrose to be the only one who was to bring assistance to the household purse.

Jasmine knew that they had all come up to London on purpose to be educated, or to educate themselves, sufficiently to earn their livings. She considered that six months' experience of the ups and downs of London life might bear fruit in her case as well as in her sister's.

Jasmine was supposed to be having her style formed by Miss Egerton's daily tuitions, but Miss Egerton's words of encouragement over her pupil's productions were decidedly meagre; and Jasmine, though she loved her, had long ago confided to Daisy that she considered Miss Egerton's manner had a damping effect on enthusiasm.

One bitterly cold March day Jasmine had been sitting for hours scribbling away at her novel. Daisy petted the cat, looked over some well-known picture-books, and finally sank back into the recesses of one of the most comfortable chairs in the room and began to think about the Prince.

"Don't go to sleep, Daisy," called out Jasmine presently. "I'm coming over in a minute to consult you."

Nothing could possibly be more gratifying to Daisy than to know that Jasmine wished to ask her advice. She accordingly roused herself, ceased to think of the Prince, and said, in a very bright little voice—

"I'll help you the best I can, Jasmine."

"It's just this," said Jasmine, dashing down her pen on the top of her manuscript, and causing thereby a great blot—"it's just this, Daisy; I've got to do something, and you have got to help me."

"Oh, I'm sure if I can," said little Daisy, still in that slightly patronizing voice, for the little maid's head was almost turned by being thus appealed to. "Is it to sew on buttons for you, Jasmine? for though I don't like sewing on buttons, I'll do it, or even—even—I'll darn your stockings, dear Jasmine."

Jasmine laughed.

"It's nothing of that kind, Eyebright; it's something much, much more important. You know, Daisy, what we came up to London for—why, of course you know why we left all our dear friends, and are living in about the very dullest part of London—of course you know?"

"Was it?" said Daisy, looking dubious; "was it—I never could quite make out—because Primrose did not like Mrs. Ellsworthy?"

"Oh, you silly, silly little thing! What a dreadful thing to get into your head, Daisy-flower! I did think you knew why we came to town, and gave everything up, and made ourselves so miserable."

"We did make ourselves miserable," sighed Daisy, "and I had to take Mr. Dove for my friend. I like to have him for my friend, though. What was the reason, please, Jasmine?"

"We came to London for the glorious privilege of being independent," chanted Jasmine, in a majestic voice. "Daisy, I'm going to be it. I'm going to fling my shackles to the winds. I'm going to soar."

"It sounds lovely," said Daisy. "You always were a poet, Jasmine, and I suppose poets do talk like that; but how are you going to be independent, Jasmine?"

"I'm going to earn money, little woman. Miss Egerton has kept me in shackles. I've worn them patiently, but now I burst the bonds. Daisy, I have formed a little theory. I believe girls are sent into the world with a strong bias in a particular direction. You see, it always did seem to be meant that dear Primrose was to be a companion, or secretary, of some sort; for Mrs. Ellsworthy wanted her to be Mr. Ellsworthy's secretary, and to write his letters for him. She would not be that, even though it was her bent, and now she's got to accept something far worse; for it really must be dreadful to be 'continual reader' to poor old Mrs. Mortlock. Now, Daisy, what I say is this—there's no use in wasting time or money looking after things which don't suit us. Primrose was meant to be a secretary or continual reader, and so she has to be one; and I have always been meant to belong to the rather higher order of novelist or poet, and there's no use in my being damped any longer by Miss Egerton. I don't mean to be conceited, but I know that I have got the flutterings of a poet's wings in my soul, and soar I must."

Jasmine looked very pretty while she was speaking, and little Daisy admired her high-flown words, and fully believed in her genius.

"Do soar, Jasmine, darling," she said; "I have not a notion how you are to do it, but do begin at once. It will make these rooms more than ever like a Palace Beautiful if you take to soaring in them."

"I've nearly finished my novel," said Jasmine; "and I've also written a poem. It is called the 'Flight of the Beautiful,' and is in seven parts. Each part would take up two or three pages of a magazine. To-morrow, Daisy dear, I am going to take my novel and poem into the market. I shall offer them to the highest bidders. I won't send them by post, for I always notice in books that, when gifted authors send their contributions by post, they are declined with thanks, because they aren't read. I am going to take my own manuscripts to the publishers, Daisy, and I shall propose to them to read aloud a few extracts."

"You can't be at all shy if you do that, Jasmine," said Daisy, looking in a rather awe-struck way at her sister.

"Shy?" echoed Jasmine. "If one feels it, one has only to get over it. Is that the way to conquer difficulties, Daisy?—just to be baffled by a little nervous feeling. No, I really want to fill the purse, and I also wish to give the publishers what I am sure they must be always looking for; for I have looked in vain, month after month, in several magazines, and nowhere have I seen three or four pages of continual blank verse. I suppose they can't get it, poor things! but they will in my 'Flight of the Beautiful!'"

"I think blank verse a little dull," said Daisy, softly, and half under her breath; but, when Jasmine frowned, she added hastily, "Of course you're splendidly brave, dear Jasmine; and who'll go with you to the publisher's when you do go?"

"I've been considering that," said Jasmine; "and I think I'll take Poppy. Poppy is to have a whole holiday on Tuesday next, because her quarter's wages are due, and I'll ask her to come with me. She'd enjoy it—Poppy would—and very likely in the evening I'll be able to tell you and Primrose that I've made my first success. Oh, how happy and how proud I shall be!"

A few minutes afterwards Jasmine went out, and Daisy wondered solemnly if her bent in life was to keep on friendly terms with Mr. Dove.

"I'm very glad I took the Prince's advice," she said to herself. "I'm much, much happier since I came to the Palace Beautiful, and I don't think Mr. Dove minds much, for he has never answered my letter. Oh dear! perhaps I was too much afraid of Mr. Dove. I am so glad the Prince explained to me about being a selfish little girl. And, oh dear! there is the Prince!"

Arthur Noel often came to see Daisy. He came in the evenings at an hour when the elder girls were often away, and then Daisy sat on his knee, and chatted to him volubly.

This afternoon she told him about both her sisters.

"Is having a bent the same as destiny, Mr. Noel?" she inquired anxiously. "Jasmine says she has a bent, and she must follow it, and no one can prevent her."

"The bent can be guided, Daisy," said Arthur; but he looked puzzled and seemed uncomfortable at the little girl's news. The Ellsworthy's had begged of Noel to promote the interests of these girls. He was only too anxious to do so, but he found his task by no means an easy one. What wild imprudence would poor little Jasmine commit if she was not aided and helped; surely Primrose's work was too uncongenial for her long to continue it. Why did the girls persistently reject the kindnesses of those who would help them? Where was it all to end? Their money could only hold out to a certain date. How fragile Daisy looked, even now; had anybody been cruel to the little one? What was the mystery about Mr. Danesfield's letter? and above all things, why did not Mr. Danesfield reply to a long epistle which Arthur had sent him some weeks ago?



CHAPTER XXXIII.

VISITING THE PUBLISHERS.

Jasmine had begged of Daisy to keep her secret from Primrose's ears. She said that half her pleasure in bringing home money for her contributions would be destroyed if Primrose knew about it beforehand. Jasmine hoped that if she were very successful she might be able to buy a little present apiece for both her sisters. Primrose badly needed some new gloves, and Jasmine pictured to herself how her eldest sister's sweet eyes would fill with tears, and how touched she would be by her little offering. Yes, certainly Daisy must keep her secret faithfully.

On Tuesday morning, as Primrose was preparing to start for Penelope Mansion, Jasmine announced her intention of accompanying her. Her face had a slightly guilty look as she made this suggestion; and Daisy quite blushed, and kept her eyes fixed on her plate, and wondered how Jasmine would smuggle a large roll of manuscript out of the house. Primrose immediately guessed that there was a little mystery afloat, but she was not a curious girl, and was only too pleased to see that her sisters had something to interest them.

"You can walk with me if you like, Jasmine," she said; "but it is a rather dull morning, and I fear it will rain."

"Torrents wouldn't keep me in to-day," said Jasmine. Then fearing she had betrayed herself, she added hastily, "I want to see Poppy. Poppy is to have a holiday to-day, and I want to take her out."

Primrose made no further objection, and Jasmine having packed her manuscript into a small leather bag, and having given Daisy a somewhat solemn farewell, the two girls set out.

When they arrived at the Mansion Primrose went upstairs at once to Mrs. Mortlock's sitting-room, but Jasmine began to enter into an earnest conversation with Poppy.

"Are you quite ready, Poppy? Oh, you've got your working dress on still; how tiresome!"

"I won't be a minute changing, Miss Jasmine; the hours for the working maid's holiday are from ten to ten, and I won't be denied them. The clock has just gone ten, miss, and not another stroke of work shall Aunt Flint get out of me to-day, miss."

"Quite right, Poppy," said Jasmine; "run upstairs now, and be as quick as possible, and I will wait for you in the hall."

Poppy did not need to be told to hasten; she flew up to the small attic which she occupied at the top of the house, and made a hasty and, she hoped, a brilliant toilet. She had been thinking for weeks of this day; for since Primrose had come to Mrs. Mortlock's Jasmine had promised Poppy that she was to spend her holiday with her, and Poppy had been getting ready her toilet with a view to the occasion.

Her dress, after all, was only an ordinary and somewhat shabby brown one, but she had adorned her tight-fitting black jacket with a sky-blue bow, which hung down in front with what she considered "truly hartistic folds." Poppy's hat, however, was her master-piece; it was a rather small white straw hat, trimmed with dark blue velvet, and adorned with a scarlet tip and a bunch of yellow daffodils.

Poppy's black eyes gleamed mischievously under the shade of this brilliant hat, and her cheeks rivalled the scarlet tip in their color.

With her little purse clasped tightly in her hand she tripped downstairs and joined Jasmine.

Jasmine was too excited and too eager to be off to notice Poppy's attire particularly, and when her hat and general get-up were received without a comment the little maid whispered to herself, "It's only another of the bitings; life's full of them—choke-full."

"Where are we going, Miss Jasmine?" she asked aloud, smothering back a slight sigh.

"Business first, Poppy," said Jasmine—"business first and then pleasure. I thought we'd make a little programme in this way—we'd visit the publishers at their seats of learning in the morning hours; in the afternoon we might go to Madame Tussaud's or a picture gallery—I'd prefer that, but of course naturally you'd go in for Madame Tussaud's, Poppy; then in the evening we'll go and have tea with Daisy. We'll bring something nice in for tea, and Daisy will be so happy. I expect to have very good news to bring to my little sister to-night, Poppy."

"Oh, indeed, miss, I'm sure I'm gratified to hear that same. I think, Miss Jasmine, that the programme sounds sensible—the dull part first, and then the pleasure, and then the needed refreshment for our hungry bodies. All things considered, Miss Jasmine, seeing that I eats the bread of toil from morn to eve, and have a swimming head, owing to being Sarah with every other name tacked on, I think it might be best for me to be enlivened with the waxen figures, miss, and not to have my poor brain worrited with picters."

"All right, Poppy, we will certainly go to Madame Tussaud's—but you must not consider the first part of our day dull, dear Poppy—it is business, certainly, but you don't know what it means to me. To-day, Poppy, I am about to take my first soaring flight."

"Oh law! Miss Jasmine—I always knew you were clever, miss, and I suppose it is because I'm so worried in my business days that I've got that stupid that I can't see no meaning at all in your words, miss."

"All right, Poppy, you need not see any meaning in them—all you have to do is to come with me, and look very grave and solemn, and say 'Yes' when I say 'Yes,' and shake your head and look stern when I do. You are older than me, Poppy, and you are coming as a sort of chaperon. Oh dear! Poppy, I wish you would not wear that scarlet wing and those yellow flowers in your hat."

"The cruellest of all the bitings," whispered Poppy under her breath. Aloud she said, in a meek but determined little voice—

"That hat's as it's trimmed, Miss Jasmine, and must remain according, for it can't be denuded in the street."

"All right, Poppy. Your own dear face looks sweet and home-like under it; now let us get into the very first omnibus, and find our way to the city."

When the girls arrived within the sacred precincts of the far-famed Paternoster Row, Jasmine held her breath a little, and stood still while she eagerly considered as to which publishing house she should offer her wares. Finally, she determined that her first pilgrimage should be to the editor of The Downfall, who had not yet returned or even written to her about her "Ode to Adversity."

The office of The Downfall was not in Paternoster Row, but in a very narrow street adjoining, and Jasmine, followed by Poppy, plunged boldly down this narrow alley, and then up, and up, and up, and up the winding stairs to the editor's office at the top of the house.

Jasmine had not been at all agreeably impressed by Mr. Rogers on the occasion of her former visit. Unaccompanied by Poppy, she would scarcely have again ventured to approach him, but Poppy looked quite determined and resolute enough to give her little companion courage, and Jasmine's childish voice was presently heard in the outer office demanding to see the editor.

It so happened that Mr. Rogers was not particularly engaged, for The Downfall was rapidly proving the truth of its title, and was having a very quick descent into an early and untimely grave—consequently its editor had very little to do.

Mr. Rogers consented to see Miss Jasmine Mainwaring and her companion, and accordingly the two girls were ushered into the editorial presence.

Mr. Rogers commenced his interview with Miss Jasmine by apparently forgetting all about her. This had a most disconcerting effect on the young author.

"But surely you must remember that I came to see you nearly three months ago, and brought you a poem called an 'Ode to Adversity,'" pleaded Jasmine—"we had rather a long talk about it; I don't know how you can absolutely forget."

"My dear young lady, so many people call, and leave so many poems, and each poem is so like the last, that really you must pardon me, but my head gets confused."

"Taken with a kind of swimming, sir?" here burst in Poppy. "I suppose it is a sort of Sarah case over again."

The editor stared rather fiercely at this unexpected interruption, deigned no reply whatever to Poppy, and continued his conversation with Jasmine.

"I am sorry that I have forgotten both you and your poem—it is, doubtless, docketed with others to be returned in due course—I am sorry, but of course I could not use it—did you expect me to? Why, the name alone—an 'Ode to Adversity,' was quite sufficient to make me decline it."

"But, but," said Jasmine, coloring crimson and very nearly crying, "I was told by a lady who reads your paper that the name was just what you like. She said that your paper was called by a melancholy name, and of course you wanted melancholy subjects."

The editor smiled in a very bland, though disagreeable manner—"The Downfall," he said; "we chose that title for political reasons." Here he sounded a gong. "Jones," as an attendant came in, "look in pigeon-hole D, and put into an envelope for this young lady some verses entitled an 'Ode to Adversity.' Sorry I can do nothing more for you this morning, Miss Mainwaring. Good morning—good morning."

When the two girls got out on the landing Jasmine thrust her rejected poem into Poppy's hand.

"Put it into your pocket, Poppy," she said, "and don't on any account let me see it—I must try to forget it, or my courage will go. Evidently, Poppy, names go by contraries. I wrote some dismal papers on purpose for The Downfall; I will now offer them to a magazine which has a cheerful title."

"Look there, Miss Jasmine," said Poppy, when they got into the street. "Right there, facing us at the other side, is what I call a pleasant magazine—it has lots of pictures, for see, it's pressed up to the window wide open, and it's called The Joy-bell—I'm a great deal more taken with that sound than with the sound of The Downfall."

"So am I, too," said Jasmine, the April cloud quickly leaving her expressive face—"I'm so glad I have you with me, dear Poppy; I was feeling so low just now that I should never have noticed the office of The Joy-bell—it has a very nice, high-class sound, and I should say was a more attractive magazine than even a shilling one. We'll go there at once, Poppy, and be sure you support me, and say 'Yes' when I look at you; and if I happen to frown in your direction, you'll know that I want you to help me not to accept too low a price. Now come, Poppy; I feel that destiny leads my steps to the office of The Joy-bell."

The editor of The Joy-bell happened also to be disengaged, and after keeping the young aspirant for literary fame waiting for about a quarter of an hour, consented to see her and her companion.

Jasmine's interview with this editor caused her to come away in very high spirits, for he had not only promised most carefully to consider her poem, "The Flight of the Beautiful," but he had also said he was wanting a serial story to run through the pages of The Joy-bell, and if hers happened to suit him he would be happy to use it. Finally, she went away, leaving both her story and her poems in his hands, and with a large parcel of Joy-bells under her arm.

"I will let you know my decision in a few days," said the editor, with a very suave smile. "Oh, yes, as to terms, we can talk them over when I discover if your story is likely to suit me."

Then Jasmine went away trembling with delight.

"Oh, Poppy!" she said, "how very, very happy I am."



CHAPTER XXXIV.

A PLAN.

Mrs. Ellsworthy had by no means forgotten the girls—they had all three taken her fancy, and, as she said to her husband, she could not get them out of her head. Arthur Noel, who was a sort of adopted son of the house, often now brought her information about her favorites, but the good little lady was impatient to see the girls herself, and felt much annoyed at not being able to induce Arthur to give her their address.

"I don't want them to succeed," she said, talking one day to the young man. "I have plenty of money, more than I really know what to do with, and I particularly want to spend some of it on these girls. If they succeed in what they are about they won't want my money, and of course that is the last thing I wish. If I cannot adopt all three, why at least can I not have Jasmine?—Jasmine is my favorite, although I love that little pet Daisy too. Arthur, you may talk to me from morning to night, but you will never persuade me but that Jasmine is the sort of girl who would shine better in prosperity than in adversity."

"You cannot take her from her sisters," said Noel; "I do not believe you would get her to leave them—but if you were to try and were to succeed, you would certainly lower her character, and having done this, you could not say she would be a better girl in prosperity than in adversity."

"You are so particular, Arthur," half grumbled Mrs. Ellsworthy; "you must have forgotten your own very poor days, or you would not speak so warmly for adversity."

"I don't quite forget them," said Arthur, a cloud coming over his face, which was a particularly bright one. "I have a dim memory about them, and a very, very dim memory about a mother and an old nurse, who loved me very much. I can just recall crying night after night for my mother, and being beaten, and silenced, and half starved. Then I suppose I was ill, for I know there is a blank which I never can fill up; but I shall always remember that day when I stood in the snowy street, and cried so bitterly, and tried to ask for pennies, and how my hat blew off, and I ran to catch it, and then—"

"Oh, it was horrible!" said Mrs. Ellsworthy, covering her face with her hands. "I shudder at it even now—the coachman could not keep the horses in, and they went over you, and we thought you were killed. You were lifted into the carriage—such a ragged, thin little figure, with such a lovely face. You came to—you were not so badly hurt—it was nothing short of a miracle, for you ought to have been almost killed. My brother Arthur was with me, and when you opened your eyes you stretched out your arms to him. He just took you to his heart on the spot, and you were his son from that day forward. Well, Arthur, I don't think, prosperity has done you any harm."

"I had no choice," said Noel. "Prosperity came to me as God's gift. It so happens that I am now a rich man and I suppose even rich people can find their mission. The girls at present are poor; our cases are in no way parallel. Oh! how gladly I would help them, but believe me, I would help them to keep their independence."

Mrs. Ellsworthy frowned.

"If you are going to thwart me, Arthur, I am done," she said.

"Can you not help them without adopting them?" asked Arthur.

"Oh! my dear boy, what am I to do? I know lots of influential people, but I can't go to them and say, 'I know three charming girls; they are all as ignorant as possible; they don't know any of our manners and customs; they are not educated up to the required standard; they are fearfully independent. Will you, my dear friend, take the eldest into your family, and give her a governess's salary, although she cannot teach? and will you, my other beloved friend, speak to the editor of the magazine you most admire, and ask him to accept poems which do not scan, and stories which are the feeble productions of an ambitious child? And will you, my last friend, come to the rescue by employing a certain sweet little girl to look after your kittens?' Arthur, how can those girls be independent unless they are taught?"

"Still I believe the girls can be helped; and that it is the right and only thing to do," said Noel. "I propose to talk to Miss Egerton about them. I will ask her to go into figures with me, and to state what sum she thinks ought to be expended on their education. She probably knows something about what talents they have by this time. After she and I have talked our plans over together we will ask you whether you are inclined to advance the necessary money. If you say 'Yes,' Miss Egerton will speak to the girls, and tell them quite openly what you are doing, and appeal to their common sense not to reject their only real chance of obtaining an independence bye-and-bye. They can, if they think right, arrange to pay you back within a certain term of years. I believe you will do best for them by making such an arrangement."

Mrs. Ellsworthy both frowned and smiled, but finally agreed to allow Arthur Noel to have his own way.

That very afternoon the energetic young man went to see Miss Egerton. They discussed the subject in an its bearings, and Miss Egerton arranged to speak to Primrose at the first opportunity.



CHAPTER XXXV.

THEIR QUARTER'S ALLOWANCE.

"Two letters," said Daisy, holding them up in her hand; "actually two letters; one for Primrose—oh, yes! of course that must be from Mr. Danesfield; and one for Jasmine—oh! Jasmine's is such a funny-looking letter, quite thick and interesting, and with a darling little picture on the back. What can the picture be?—oh! some little bells, and The Joy-bell written over them."

"Give it to me," said Jasmine, her face suddenly turning crimson. "Oh, Daisy! why do you examine my letters so curiously? This was meant to be quite private. Oh, oh, oh! how my fingers tremble."

"We are all alone, you know, Jasmine," said Daisy; "dear Primrose is not in. She went to her continual reading nearly an hour ago. Dear Primrose! she sometimes looks quite pale and tired. Perhaps the letter is about our secret, Jasmine; please do read it to me—please do."

But by this time Jasmine had torn the envelope open, and was oblivious to all Daisy's comments. Her eager eyes devoured the contents of an official-looking sheet of paper, then she danced up and down the room, then she tossed the paper up to the ceiling, and finally caught Daisy in her arms, and covered her little face with kisses.

"Oh, Daisy, it's too good!—I'm so happy, I could almost cry. Daisy, darling, he wants to see me about my story—he thinks it's very fine—he says there are masterly bits in it—I'm to go and see him as soon as possible."

"Him?" repeated Daisy; "but who is he, Jasmine?"

"He's the editor of one of the most powerful of all our magazines," said Jasmine; "the magazine is called The Joy-bell—hasn't it a delicious title? Oh, Daisy! I must go at once to see him."

"Take me with you," said Daisy, coming up close to her sister—"take me with you, darling, dear Jasmine. I'm much better, I've nearly lost my cough, and the spring is coming; the air feels quite warm to-day—do take me, Jasmine, for it is our own secret, and then, after you've got your money—for I suppose you'll get a lot of money—we can both tell Primrose to-night."

Jasmine hesitated, but the sun was shining warmly, and Daisy's little face was very pleading—Jasmine felt so happy at this moment that she greatly longed to give happiness.

"Yes," she said, suddenly, "I don't suppose Primrose will really mind, and you must wrap up well; only there's just one thing, Daisy, we'll have to call for Poppy. I would not on any account go to the publisher's without Poppy."

As Jasmine and Daisy were hurrying quickly down the street to catch the first omnibus which went in the direction of the Edgware Road, Daisy suddenly clutched her sister's hand, the color left her pretty face, and she began to hurry forward at a very rapid pace.

"What is the matter, Daisy?" said Jasmine: "you have quite hurt my hand; has anything frightened you? have you seen any one?"

"Oh, it's nothing—I mean I'm subject to starts," said poor little Daisy, in a sad voice. "I'll be better when I get into the omnibus with you, Jasmine; and please, Jasmine, may I sit very close to you? and may I hold your hand?"

"You poor little darling!" said Jasmine, affectionately, "you are not a bit strong yet—you must have some more chemical food; I am told there is nothing so good for starts as chemical food."

Daisy gave another start and a very gentle sigh. She knew well in her little breast that no amount of chemical food would take away the terror which inspired her when she saw the face of Mr. Dove. She had seen him just now, although Jasmine had not—he was standing with several other men at the corner of the road, and his blood-shot eyes had seemed to look through her, and as she passed by he had raised his hand, and shaken it at her in a truly menacing manner.

Dove had not forgotten Daisy, as Daisy had fondly hoped. Daisy Mainwaring meant to him a certain amount of money. Dove was not the sort of man to allow the chance of gaining money dishonestly to go by. As to earning money, and coming by it as the sweet fruits of honest toil, that did not at all suit his idea. When he saw the child going out with her sister he recollected, with much pleasure, that quarter-day was about due. Feeling in his own pockets, he confessed they were unpleasantly light and empty, and then he wondered if he might find any agreeable little pickings in the girls' trunks. He had subjugated poor little Daisy so completely that he would have ventured to rob even in her presence, but of course he preferred doing his burglary work alone.

He very quickly made up his mind to pay a visit that very day to the girls' new rooms in Miss Egerton's house. He made an excuse to get away from his companions, and then, walking quickly in the direction of Miss Egerton's house, he took his bearings carefully. At this hour Miss Egerton was busy with her school and Bridget was employed in the kitchen. He might do what he liked, therefore, in that part of the house which the girls called the Palace Beautiful. He knew a way by which he could get on the roof—from the roof there was an easy entrance to the girls' rooms. By the time Jasmine, Daisy, and Poppy were joyously driving towards the city Dove had taken possession of their nice bright rooms. When he got in he locked the outer door, and then he felt quite comfortable, and at leisure to look around him.

The first thing he saw was the letter directed to Primrose on the sitting-room table. He took it up, and examined it closely. He could spell out—for he was by no means a proficient reader—the word Rosebury on one of the post-marks; that was enough for him; the letter was tucked neatly into his pocket, and then he went round the room in search of fresh spoil.

He found very little, for the Palace Beautiful showed none of its charms to his eyes; in Dove's opinion it was a poor sort of place—clean, certainly, but what of that? Dove considered that cleanliness meant poverty. Dove's tastes lay in the direction of rooms thickly carpeted; he liked two or three carpets, one on the top of the other, on a floor; he liked the rooms to be well crowded with furniture—furniture of the good old mahogany type, heavy and dark—and the windows draped with thick merino. A room so furnished would, as Dove expressed it, look solid, and mean a heavy purse, and perhaps a nice little nest-egg laid by tidily in one of the drawers or bureaus. Such a room would be very interesting to examine, but this sitting-room, with its crimson drugget, and its white flooring, its one or two choice engravings on the walls, and its little book-case filled with good and valuable books, was, Dove considered, very shabby indeed. He found nothing more worth taking, and having given the Pink a kick by way of a parting blessing, he left the room, made his exit again by the roof, and so departed unperceived. He had Primrose's letter in his pocket, and he thought himself very lucky to have so nicely secured her quarter's allowance. He returned to his own house in Eden Street, and in the privacy of his back parlor opened Mr. Danesfield's letter. It was a short letter, and, as it happened was not written by Mr. Danesfield at all. Dove, however, by patient spelling and peering, presently mastered its contents.

"The Bank, "High Street, Rosebury, "April 21.

"MADAM,

"In Mr. Danesfield's absence, I send you a cheque for L17 10s., according to his orders. The cheque will require your signature at the back, and if you will kindly sign it you, or any one else, can obtain cash for the amount at the Metropolitan Bank, Strand.

"I expect Mr. Danesfield home in about six weeks; he has been wintering abroad.

"Yours faithfully, "JOHN DAVIS."

Dove took the greater part of an hour to make this letter out; next he fingered the cheque, turning it backwards and forwards; then his face grew very blank—for, unsigned, that cheque was valueless. He was a violent man, and he uttered some strong expressions, and his wife, on hearing them, took good care to keep out of his way. She could not make out why Dove sat so long in the back parlor, and why he refused to eat his dinner, which was very hot and tasty. After a time, with a sigh of relief, she heard him go out.

Dove had hastily fastened up the letter, trusting to no one's noticing that it had been opened. Again he reached Miss Egerton's house; again he made his way from the roof to the upper landing, and from the upper landing to the girls' rooms; the letter was not placed on the table, but was skilfully slipped down between some books which lay in a pile on Jasmine's little writing-table. It might have been put there by any one who was dusting the room, and it might have lain in its present position unseen for many days. Dove hoped no one would perceive it; he scowled at the poor little Pink, who crouched away from him, and turning on his heel again, left the room.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE JOY-BELL.

It is to be feared that Poppy stole away from her work that morning. Poor Poppy was getting into a sadly defiant mood. She was getting thoroughly tired of her aunt, Mrs. Flint, and when Jasmine appeared and said a few coaxing words the naughty girl left her work undone, disregarded the many cries for Sarah Ann and Sarah Maria, and putting on her brilliant hat and her smart jacket, sallied forth citywards with Jasmine and Daisy. In due time the three reached the office of The Joy-bell and were admitted into the presence of the editor.

"You musn't let me accept too low terms, Poppy," said Jasmine, as they were going in at the door.

Poppy nodded very brightly in reply, and Jasmine took the seat the editor offered her with a certain little air of modest elation.

"I got your note," she began, "and I thought you'd like to see me immediately, so I came. This is my sister; she knows all about it; she's in the story herself. I've drawn all my characters from the life; and my friend, Poppy Jenkins—you saw her a fortnight ago—she's in the book too."

The editor—Mr. Potter was his name—had a habit of waving his hand when anything that he considered superfluous was being said; he now waved both Daisy and Poppy into the background, and addressed himself to Jasmine in a style which, as she said afterwards, riveted her attention on the spot.

"I wrote to you, Miss Mainwaring," he said, "because I saw germs of promise in your composition—it is young, of course, for you are very young, but it is fresh, and with due correctness, which I myself am willing to supply, I do not see why 'The Pursuit of Happiness' should not appear in our journal. We publish, however, only under certain conditions, and before I make any offer for your writings I should like to know whether you are able to fulfil them."

"That sounds in the nature of a bargain," here burst from Poppy's lips. "Now, Miss Jasmine, please will you listen very sharp, and see what the gentleman is after? Bargains seem to me to be all in favor of them that makes them. Aunt Flint made a bargain with me, and, oh my! I thought it good enough to leave the country and come up to a town whose name is wanity. Nothing have I got, Miss Jasmine, from my share of the bargain but a swimming head and the name of Sarah!"

"If this young person will cease to interrupt us," proceeded the editor, in his blandest tones.

"Oh, yes; Poppy, please stop talking," said Jasmine. "I beg your pardon, sir; I only wanted Poppy to help me when we came to terms. We have not come to the money part yet, dear Poppy. Yes, sir, I am most anxious to listen to you."

"Well, Miss Mainwaring, the facts are these—yes, I fear it is a question of money, after all. The Joy-bell is a new magazine; we are most anxious to extend its circulation by every means in our power. We have hit on what we consider a novel, but effective expedient. Each contributor to our pages is expected to subscribe for a hundred copies per month of our magazine—these copies he is asked to disseminate as widely as possible amongst his friends. The magazine is only sixpence a month. Of course you get your friends to take the copies off your hands. Your story will, I think, run for six months—you are really put to no expense, for, of course, you must know a hundred people who will gladly take a magazine in which you appear. Thus you gain the advantage of having your story widely read and published not at your own expense."

"But please—" began Jasmine.

"If I might speak who am brought here for the purpose," here burst from Poppy, "what pay is the young lady to have for the words of genius that she has wrote upon the paper? Yes, Miss Jasmine, you said I was to let my voice be heard here—I'm not afraid, not of nobody, and here, I puts down my foot, and I says, 'What's the pay?'"

"The pay?" echoed the editor. "Surely the young lady does not expect to be paid for anything so very amateur—no, she cannot expect to be paid in money—in another way she is paid, and largely; she obtains a reputation, and what immature talent she has is brought to the fore! I am afraid, Miss Mainwaring, I must not take up any more of your valuable time—I think I have explained myself quite clearly—do you accept my offer? If you are willing to become a subscriber for one hundred copies monthly of The Joy-bell your story shall appear; if not, I must return you your MS. with regret."

Poor Jasmine's white little face grew piteous.

"Oh, Poppy!" she began.

"Do you want it, Miss Jasmine?" said Poppy. "I calls it a cheat; but do you want it?"

"Oh, dear Poppy, I thought my words would look so lovely in Print—I am disappointed!"

"Then you shan't be, Miss Jasmine, darling. Here, sir, you're another of the Aunt Flint tribe, but my darling Miss Jasmine shall not look as she does now if I can prevent it. Please, sir, will you look in this here little purse given to you by the honest hand of toil, and see if it contains the price of a hundred of those nasty Joy-bells. There's my three months' wage in that purse, sir, so I expect it will prove sufficient."

The editor opened the little purse gingerly.

"Do you wish your friend to subscribe for you?" he asked, looking at Jasmine. "I will allow you to have the first instalment at a reduction. The full price for a hundred copies of The Joy-bell at sixpence a copy will be, of course, fifty shillings. On this occasion you shall have these delivered to you at your residence for forty-five shillings."

"It's in the purse, sir," said Poppy, with an air of modest pride. "Forty-five shillings, and fifteen shillings over, for my wage with Aunt Flint comes exactly to three pounds a quarter. The fifteen shillings will find me in boots and house shoes, Miss Jasmine; and as my 'at is fresh trimmed, and I have enough cotton dresses to go on with, you are more than welcome to the two pound five."

"We will arrange it so, then," said the editor. "Miss Mainwaring, you must give me your address, and you shall receive proofs in a day or two. This sum of money provides for the appearance of the first instalment of your story. From the sale of the hundred copies you will be provided with funds for the second instalment, and so on."

"But how am I to pay Poppy back if I must give you the money that I get for the magazines?" asked Jasmine, her face becoming more crimson each moment.

"Ah! that," said the editor, with a slightly sarcastic smile, "that is surely not my affair."

After this a few comparatively trivial arrangements were made. Jasmine gave the address of the Palace Beautiful to Mr. Potter, and walked downstairs, feeling excited, pleased, and disappointed.

"Oh, Poppy!" she said, "how light, how very light your purse is."

"No, Miss Jasmine," answered Poppy, "you're out altogether there, for fifteen shillings in silver weighs more than three pounds in gold. It's my heart, not my purse, that's light, Miss Jasmine—it has done me a sight of good to help you, Miss Jasmine; I know he is a cheat in there, but never mind, when your pretty, beautiful tale appears there'll be a run on it, I think, and that Joy-bell will be asked for high and low. You'll pay me back, never fear, and I'll be real proud to my dying day to feel that I was the first to help you."

That evening, as Jasmine and Daisy sat together waiting for Primrose to return, Daisy said suddenly—

"Did you soar to-day, Jasmine, when you took Poppy's wages to have your story printed?—was that what you call a soaring flight?"

Daisy spoke innocently, and with real desire for information, but at her words Jasmine covered her face and burst into tears.

"What a cruel remark, Eyebright," she said. "Do you know I'm quite miserable about this; I've been getting more and more wretched ever since I left that man's office. Suppose, Daisy, I don't sell a hundred copies of The Joy-bell; then I shall never be able to have any more of my story printed, and I shall never have it in my power to pay Poppy back. I think I must have yielded to temptation that time; perhaps I'm nothing but a vain little girl, and think myself cleverer than I am."

"Oh, I'm sure you're a genius, Jasmine," said Daisy. "I know, for I have studied your face a great deal; in the story-books I generally notice that the geniuses have the same kind of face that you have—they generally have a little discontented, surprised look about them. I admire the expression very much myself, and sometimes when I'm alone—for you know you and Primrose have to leave me a good deal alone—I try to practice it before the glass. I think it's mostly done with a rise of the eyebrows, but I never can keep mine up long enough."