Jasmine laughed.

"I do hope I am a genius," she said; "I have always longed so to be one. If I really am, it will be all right about Poppy's money, for, of course, the public will try to buy my story. It's really rather a striking story, Daisy. There's a girl in it who does such wonderfully self-denying things—she never thinks of herself for a moment—she is very poor, and yet she earns money in all sorts of delightful ways, and supports her family—she has got two sisters—they are not half as clever as she is at earning money. The story begins by the sisters rather despising Juliet, but in the end they find out how much she is worth. The leading idea in the story is the inculcation of unselfishness—oh dear! oh dear! I hope I shall prove myself a genius in having developed this character. If so, I shall be able to pay Poppy back."

"There is something so beautiful in unselfishness," said Daisy, in a rather prim, moralizing little tone. "Do you know, Jasmine, that I was once going to be frightfully selfish?—I should have been but for the Prince, but he spoke to me; he made up a lovely little story, and he told me about the Palace Beautiful."

"I never can make out why you call these rooms the Palace Beautiful, Daisy," said Jasmine.

"It's because of the way they've been furnished," said Daisy. "They are full of Love, and Self-denial, and Goodness. I do so dearly like to think of it. I lie often on the sofa for hours, and make up stories about three fairies, whom I call by these names; they are quite playmates for me, and I talk to them. I often almost fancy they are real, but the strange thing is, Jasmine, they will only come to me when I have tried to be unselfish, and cheerful, and done my best to be bright and happy. Then Goodness comes, and makes the walls shine with his presence, and Self-denial makes my sofa so soft and easy, and Love gives me a nice view through the window, for I try to take an interest in all the men and women and little children who pass, and when I sit at the window and look at them through Love's glass you cannot think how nice they all seem. I told the Prince about it one day, and he said that was making a real Palace Beautiful out of our rooms."

Jasmine sighed.

"I hear Primrose's step," she said. "Oh, Daisy! you are a darling! how sweetly you think. I wonder if these rooms could ever come to mean a Palace Beautiful to me! I don't think fairies could come to me here, Daisy. I don't think I could see things through their eyes. I want my palace to be much larger and grander than this. Perhaps if I am a real genius it will come to me through my story; but, oh! I hope I did not do wrong in taking Poppy's money."

"No, for you are a genius," said little Daisy, kissing her affectionately.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

ENDORSING A CHEQUE.

Primrose's life was very busy at this time. Certainly nothing could be more irksome than the daily task of reading to poor Mrs. Mortlock, but the fifteen shillings a week which she now earned regularly was a wonderful help to the household purse, and Primrose performed her irksome duties with a cheerful, and even thankful heart. Her anxieties about Daisy were almost laid to rest. Since the child had been moved to Miss Egerton's house she seemed quite a changed creature. Her old cheerfulness and sweet calm were returning to her. Morning after morning she bade Primrose good-bye with a bright smile on her little face, and however long and dull her day was, she greeted her sister happily at night. What, therefore, was poor Primrose's consternation to find, on returning home the evening after Jasmine had made arrangements for the publication of her manuscript not only Jasmine, but Miss Egerton and Bridget all surrounding poor little Daisy, who lay on the sofa with a ghastly white face, and burst into nervous troubled weeping whenever she was spoken to.

"We found her in such a queer state," said Jasmine; but Miss Egerton held up a warning hand.

"Let it rest now, my dear," she said; "we need not go into the story in Daisy's presence; she wants perfect quiet. Primrose, she has been longing so for you; will you sit down by her, and hold her hand?"

Daisy opened her eyes when she heard Primrose's name, and held up a hot little hand to her sister, who clasped it very firmly.

"I want to speak to you all by yourself, Primrose," she whispered. "Please ask Jasmine, and Miss Egerton, and Bridget to go away. I want to say something most important to you."

"Leave us for a moment," said Primrose to the others; and Jasmine went down with Miss Egerton to the sitting-room.

The moment Daisy found herself quite alone with Primrose she raised her head, ceased crying, and looked at her sister with bright feverish eyes, and cheeks that burned.

"Primrose," she said, "would you think it very, very wrong of me if I did something that wasn't in itself the very best thing to do, but something that I had to do to prevent a dreadful ogre putting me down into a dark dungeon? Would it be very wrong of me to do a very little thing to prevent it, Primrose?"

"My darling," said Primrose, "your poor little head must be wandering. I don't understand what you mean, my dear little one. Of course it would be only right of you to keep away from an ogre, and not to allow one to touch you—but there are no ogres. Daisy love—there never were such creatures. You need not make yourself unhappy about beings that never existed. The fact is, Daisy, you are too much alone, and your little head has got quite full of the idea of fairies. I must ask Mr. Noel not to talk to you in so fanciful a manner."

"Oh don't, Primrose, for it is my one and only comfort. Oh! I am glad you think I ought to keep out of the ogre's power. He is a dreadful, dreadful ogre, and he has tried to get into the Palace, and I am awfully afraid of him."

Then Daisy laughed quite strangely, and said, in a wistful little voice—

"Of course, Primrose, this is only fairy-talk. I always was fond of fairies, wasn't I? Primrose, darling, I want you to do a little thing for me, will you?"

"Of course, Daisy. Why, how you are trembling, dear!"

"Hold my hand," said Daisy, "and let me put my head on your shoulder. Now I'll ask you about the little thing, Primrose; there's your letter from Mr. Danesfield on the table."

"Has it come?" said Primrose; "I am glad. I expected it yesterday morning."

"It's on the table," repeated Daisy. "Will you open it, Primrose? I'd like to see what's inside."

"Oh, there'll be nothing very pretty inside, darling; it is probably a postal order for our quarter's money."

"Yes, but let me see it, Primrose."

Primrose moved slowly to the table, took up the letter, and opened it.

"It's just as I said, Daisy," she remarked, "only, no—it's not a postal order, it's a cheque. I must write my name on the back, and take it to the Metropolitan Bank to cash to-morrow."

"Let me see you writing your name on the back, please, Primrose," said Daisy, in a queer, constrained little voice.

Primrose smiled to herself at the child's caprice but, taking up a pen, she put her signature across the back of the cheque.

"May I take it in my hand, Primrose?" said Daisy. "Oh, thank you! My hand shakes, doesn't it? but that's because I'm so dreadfully subject to starts. Isn't it funny, Primrose, to think that this little paper should mean a lot of golden sovereigns? Doesn't it make you feel rich to have it, Primrose?"

"It makes me feel that with it and the help of my weekly salary we shall be able to pay for our bread and butter, Daisy."

Daisy turned ghastly white.

"Oh, yes," she said, "oh, yes, dear Primrose. Will you put the cheque back into the envelope, and may I sleep with it under my pillow? I'll stay so quiet and still, and I'll not start at all if I have the cheque that you have signed under my pillow."



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

DAISY'S REQUEST.

Primrose was so anxious to soothe Daisy that she allowed her without a moment's hesitation to have her way. The moment the child felt her hot little fingers clasping the letter with its precious enclosure she became quiet, and ceased to speak. Primrose had undressed her, and placed her in bed, and she now turned her back on her sister, and still clasping the letter tightly, closed her eyes. Primrose hoped she was asleep, and went softly out of the room to talk over matters with Jasmine and Miss Egerton. Miss Egerton could throw no light on the subject of Daisy's queer attack, and when Primrose at last went to bed she had to own that her anxieties with regard to her little sister had returned.

The next morning she was obliged to leave earlier than usual, and rather to Daisy's astonishment, and very much to her relief, said nothing about Mr. Danesfield's letter. Primrose had not forgotten the letter, but she knew she would not be able to go to the bank that day, and she thought it would comfort Daisy to take care of it.

"Jasmine," she said to her second sister, "must you go out this morning? I think it is hardly well to leave Daisy alone."

Jasmine's face clouded over.

"Have you forgotten, Primrose, that Miss Egerton and Mr. Noel were to take me to South Kensington Museum to-day? They arranged that I should go with them quite a week ago, and it would never do to put them off again now. I'll tell you what I'll do, Primrose; I'll take Daisy too; I'll see that she is not over tired, and Mr. Noel will take great care of her; they are very fond of each other."

"Try to arrange it so, then, Jasmine," said Primrose; "for I do not feel happy about her being left."

Primrose went away to spend her day as usual with Mrs. Mortlock, and sat down to her "continual reading" with a heavy heart.

Mrs. Mortlock was losing her sight rapidly—cataract was forming on her eyes, and she could now only dimly see the face and form of her young companion. Primrose, however, always managed to soothe the somewhat irascible old lady, and was already a prime favorite with her.

To-day she took up the newspaper with a heavy heart, and the anxiety which oppressed her made itself felt in a certain weary tone which came into her voice.

Mrs. Mortlock was fond of Primrose, but was never slow in expressing an opinion.

"Crisp up, Miss Mainwaring," she said; "crisp up a little; drawling voices give me the fidgets most terribly. Now, my dear, try to fancy yourself in the House of Commons; read that speech more animated, my love. Ah, that's better!"

Primrose exerted herself, and for a few minutes the reading came up to its usual standard, but then, again, thoughts of Daisy oppressed the young reader, and once more her voice flagged.

"There, my dear, you had better turn to the bits of gossip; they are more in your line, I can see, this morning. Dear, dear, dear! I can't tell what's come to girls these days; they don't seem to find no heart nor pleasure in anything. Now, if there is a girl who, in my opinion, has fallen on her feet, it's you, Miss Mainwaring; for, surely, the handsome salary I allow is earned with next to no trouble. When once a girl can read she can read continual, and that's all I ask of you."

"I'm sorry," said Primrose; "some things at home are troubling me, and I cannot help thinking about them. I shall do better over the gossip."

"That's right, my love! I'd ask you about the home troubles, but my nerves won't stand no worriting. Get on with the gossip, dear, and make your voice chirrupy and perky, as though you saw the spice of it all, and enjoyed it—do."

Just at this moment, while poor Primrose was trying to train her unwilling voice, the door was opened, and Poppy, red in the face, and with her best hat and jacket on, came in.

"Miss Primrose, I'm come to say good-bye, I am. No, Mrs. Mortlock, when about to quit I don't fear you no longer—not all the Sarahs in Europe would have power over me now. I'm going. Aunt Flint and me we has quarrelled, and I has given her fair warning, and I'm going back to my native place, maybe this evening. Never no more will this city of wanities see me. I'm off, Miss Primrose; I leaves Penelope Mansion now, and I go straight away to your place to bid Miss Jasmine and Miss Daisy good-bye."

"For goodness sake, Sarah Matilda Ann!" here interrupted Mrs. Mortlock, speaking with great excitement, "before you go see you bring me up my beef-tea—Mrs. Flint won't give it a thought, and my nerves won't keep up without the nourishment. Run down to the kitchen this minute, Sarah Mary, and bring me up the beef-tea, and a nice little delicate slice of toast, done to a turn, to eat with it. Mind you, don't let the toast get burnt, for if I can't see I can taste, and well know when my toast is burnt."

Poppy was about to give a saucy answer, but a look from Primrose restrained her, and before she left Penelope Mansion she had provided the old lady with her luncheon. Primrose said a few words of farewell and regret, and then Poppy set out, determined to take her chance of finding Jasmine and Daisy at home.

"I'll go back to my own place to-night," she said to herself, "and tell my mother that wanity of wanities is London—my fifteen shillings will just buy me a single third, and I needn't eat nothing until to-morrow morning."

When Poppy arrived at Miss Egerton's she was told by Bridget that Miss Jasmine was out, but that she would find Miss Daisy by herself upstairs. Poppy ran nimbly up the stairs, and knocked at the sitting-room door; there was no answer, and turning the handle, she went in. Daisy was lying with her face downwards on the sofa—sobs and quivers shook her little frame, and for a time she did not even hear Poppy, who bent over her in some alarm.

"Now, Miss Daisy, darling, I'm real glad I has come in—why, what is the matter, missie?"

"Nothing, Poppy; nothing indeed," said Daisy, "except that I'm most dreadfully unhappy. If I was a really quite unselfish little girl I'd go and live in a dungeon, but I couldn't do it—I couldn't, really."

Whatever Poppy was, she was practical—she wasted no time trying to find out what Daisy meant, but bringing some cold water, she bathed the child's face and hands, and then she made her take a drink of milk, and finally, she lifted her off the sofa, and sitting down in an arm-chair, took her in her arms, and laid her head on her breast.

"There now, pretty little dear, you're better, aren't you?"

"My body is better, thank you, Poppy—I like to feel your arms holding me very tight. My mind will never, never be well again, dear Poppy."

"Would it ease it to unburden?" said Poppy. "Sometimes it's a wonderful soother to speak out about what worries one. At Aunt Flint's I used to let fly my worries to the walls for want of a better confidant. You think over about unburdening to me, Miss Daisy. I'll promise to be a safe receptacle."

Daisy shook her head mournfully.

"It would be no use," she said; "even telling now would be no manner of use. Oh, Poppy, I wish I had been strong enough, and I wish so dreadfully I had not minded about the dungeon. If the Prince was here he would say I ought not to live any longer in the Palace Beautiful, and I don't think the rooms do look like the rooms of a palace to-day. Please, Poppy, look round you, and see if you can see any goodness shining on the walls, and if you can see through Love's glass into the street."

"Oh lor! no, Miss Daisy; I'm not so fanciful. The walls is just fairly neat, and the windows, they're just like any other attic windows. Now, missy, you're just fairly worn out, and you shall shut your eyes and go to sleep."

Poor little Daisy was so weary and weak that she absolutely did close her eyes, and comforted and soothed by Poppy's presence, she fell into a short and uneasy doze. She awoke in about an hour, and lay quite still, with her eyes wide open. Poppy said something to her, but she replied, in an imploring tone.

"Please let me think. I had a dream when I was asleep. I did something in the dream, and I think I'll do it now really—only you must let me think Poppy."

"Think, away, pretty little miss," said Poppy: "and while you are worriting your poor little brain over thoughts I'll take it upon me to prepare a bit of dinner for you."

Poppy made some tea, and boiled an egg, and toasted some bread to a light and tempting brown. When the meal was prepared she brought it to Daisy, who said wistfully—

"If I do what I want I must be strong, so I'll eat up that egg, and I'll take some toast, and you must take something too, Poppy."

"Seeing as I can't get no meal till to-morrow morning I'm not inclined to refuse a good offer," said Poppy. "You don't know, missy, as I'm going back to my native 'ome to-night."

"Poppy," said Daisy, suddenly, taking no notice of this remark, "do you know if Mrs. Ellsworthy is a very rich woman?"

"Mrs. Ellsworthy of Shortlands?" said Poppy; "why, in course; ever since I can remember, my mother has said to me, 'Poppy, child, them there Ellsworthys is made of money.'"

"Made of money," repeated Daisy, a little shadowy smile coming to her face; "then they must be really rich. Do you think, Poppy, that Mrs. Ellsworthy is rich enough to give away L17 10s. to buy the daily bread, and to help a little girl who could not help being selfish out of a dreadful dark dungeon? Mrs. Ellsworthy has always been very kind, and I used to love her when I lived at home, but if I thought she was not really very, very rich, I would not ask her, for that might be putting her to great trouble. Losing money makes one's heart ache terrible, Poppy, and I would rather bear my own heartache than give it to another person."

"Mrs. Ellsworthy is made of money," repeated Poppy, "and L17 10s. would be no more than a feather's weight to her. All the same, I can't make out what you're driving at, Miss Daisy."

"I wonder if Mrs. Ellsworthy is at Shortlands now," continued Daisy.

"To be sure she is, Miss Daisy; shall I take her any message when I goes back home?"

"Oh, no, Poppy, thank you very much. Poppy, I wish you had not lent all that money to Jasmine two days ago—you have not any money in your pocket now, have you, Poppy?"

Poppy gave a slight sigh.

"Just the price of a third single to Rosebury, and no more, Miss Daisy, darling."

"Oh, dear me," said Daisy, "it's just exactly that much money which would make me perfectly happy. Must you go to Rosebury to-night, Poppy?"

"Well, missy, I'd do something to make you 'appy, but I don't know where to go if I don't go to my home—to be sure, Aunt Flint would give her eyes to get me back again, but I fears that even for you, Miss Daisy, I can't bear no more of that Sarah game."

"But don't you think you might be able to bear it just for a week, Poppy? If I loved you always and always all the rest of my life, do you think you could bear it just for one little week longer? I'd be sure to let you have the money back again then, dear Poppy."

Poppy gazed hard at the child, who was sitting upright on her sofa, with her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining, and a fitful quiver about her pretty lips.

"What does it all mean?" thought practical Poppy; "it's more than common worries ails the little dear. I'm sure I'd bear Sarah to my dying day to help her, the sweet lamb! I wonder, now, has she lost some of Miss Primrose's money. I know they're short enough of means, the darling ladies, and maybe the child has mislaid some of their money, and is frightened to tell. Dear me, I shouldn't think Miss Primrose would be hard on any one, least of all on a sweet little lamb like that; but there's never no saying, and the child looks pitiful. Well, I'm not the one to deny her."

"Miss Daisy," said Poppy, aloud, "I have got exactly fifteen shillings in my purse, and that's the price of a third single to Rosebury, and no more. It's true enough I meant to go down there to-night, and never to see Aunt Flint again, but it's true also that she'd give her eyes to have me back, and was crying like anything when I said good-bye to her. 'Sarah,' she says, 'it's you that's ongrateful, and you'll find it out, but if you comes back again you shall be forgiven, Sarah,' she says. So I can go back for a week, Miss Daisy, and if you have lost fifteen shillings, why, I can lend it to you, dearie."

"Oh, Poppy, you are a darling!" said little Daisy. "Oh, Poppy, how can I ever, ever thank you? Yes, I have—lost—fifteen shillings. You shall have it back again, Poppy, and Poppy, I will always love you, and always remember that you were the best of good fairies to me, and that you took me out of the power of a terrible ogre."

"All right, Miss Daisy," said Poppy, returning the child's embrace; "here's the fifteen shilling, and welcome. Only I never would have called sweet Miss Primrose an ogre, Miss Daisy."



CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE JOURNEY.

Poppy went away presently, and the moment she was gone Daisy began to make some hasty little preparations.

"I'll take the Pink with me," she said to herself. "I'll empty all the things out of my little work-basket, and my darling Pink can sleep in it quite snugly, and she'll be great company to me, for I cannot help feeling very shaky, and I do start so when I see any one the least like Mr. Dove in the distance. I mustn't think about being frightened now—this is the least I could do, and if I'm terrified all over I must go through with it."

Then Daisy wrote a tiny note—a little note on half a sheet of paper—which she tore out of her copy-book. It was blotted with tears and almost illegible. This was what she said:—

"Primrose, darling, I and the Pink, we have gone away for a little bit. Your money is lost, Primrose, and I cannot look you in the face until I get it back again. Don't be a bit frightened about me—I and the Pink will come back when we have got the money.

"Your loving little "DAISY."

This note was left open on the table to greet Primrose when she came in, and then Daisy buttoned on her little jacket, and put on her strongest pair of boots, and the neat little hat which Primrose had trimmed for her the week before, and popping the Pink into her work-basket, she stole softly downstairs and out of the house without old Bridget, who was busily engaged in the back kitchen, hearing her.

The poor little maid got into the street just when the shades of evening were beginning to fall. She had the Pink in her basket, and fifteen shillings clasped tightly inside one of her gloves. Fifteen shillings paid for a third single to Rosebury, and she was going to Rosebury—so far her plans were definite enough; beyond this broad fact, however, all was chaos.

Daisy knew very little more about London than she had known nine months before, when first she and her sisters arrived in the great city. She had gone out much less than the other two, and she had never gone alone. Whenever she had walked abroad she had gone with a companion.

Now her only companion was the Pink, and the poor little heart felt very lonely, and the little feet trembled as they walked along the pavement.

She had been so terrified about Poppy finding out what she really wanted to do with the fifteen shillings that she had been afraid to ask her any questions about Rosebury. She had not an idea from what railway station she was to go, and she feared, as she walked through the streets, that she might have to walk many miles.

At first she walked very rapidly, for she was anxious to get out of Mr. Dove's neighborhood, and she also thought it just possible that she might meet Primrose or Jasmine returning home. Besides the fifteen shillings which were to pay for her ticket she had threepence of her own in her pocket. When she had walked about half an hour, and thought that she had gone a long way, and felt quite sure that she could not be very far from the railway station which led to Rosebury, the Pink awoke, and twisting and turning in her narrow basket began to mew loudly.

"Oh, poor Kitty Pink," said Daisy, "she must be wanting her supper, poor dear little kitty! I'm not at all hungry myself, but I think I ought to buy a penno'th of milk for my kitty. I'll just go into that shop over there—I see that they sell bread and milk. Perhaps they'll give me some bread and milk for kitty for a penny, and oh, perhaps they will know if I am near the right railway station for Rosebury."

Summoning up all her courage, for Daisy was naturally a timid child, she ventured into the shop, and having asked for some bread and milk for her cat, which was given with a little stare of amusement by a good-natured looking woman, she put her important question in a very faltering voice.

"Rosebury, my little dear?" said the shopwoman; "no, I never heard of the place. Is it anywhere near London, love?"

"No," said Daisy; "it's miles and miles away from London. I know the county it's in—it's in Devonshire and a third single costs fifteen shillings, and I have got fifteen shillings in my glove. Now, perhaps, you'll know where it is."

"In Devonshire?" repeated the woman. "And a third single costs fifteen shillings? Surely, miss, you are not going all that long way by yourself?"

"Yes," said Daisy, in a dignified little tone. "I'm obliged to go. Thank you very much for Pussy's milk. How much am I to pay? Oh, a penny? Thank you. Good evening."

The Pink was once more shut down into her basket, and Daisy hurried out of the shop. The good-natured woman stared after her, and felt half inclined to call her back; but, like many another, she reflected that it was no affair of hers. The child went on to the end of the long street, and then stood at a corner where several omnibuses came up. A conductor, seeing her wistful little face, jumped down from his stand, and asked her if she wanted to go anywhere.

"To Rosebury, in Devonshire," said poor little Daisy. "It's fifteen shillings a single third."

The man smiled at the anxious little face.

"You want to get to Devonshire, missy," he said. "Then I expect Waterloo's your line, and this here 'bus of mine goes there. Jump in, missy, and I'll put you down at the right place."

"I've only got two pennies," said Daisy, "Will two pennies pay for a drive to Waterloo for me and kitty?"

The man smiled, and said he thought he might manage to take her to Waterloo for that sum.



CHAPTER XL.

A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT.

There are little girls of ten years old who in the present day are possessed of a large amount of self-possession. Some of these little maids are, in their own way, quite womanly—they can ask their way without faltering, and they can even walk about alone in a great world like London without losing themselves.

But to this class of self-possessed little girls Daisy Mainwaring did not belong. She had a charming, babyish little face, and was something of the baby still in the confiding and wistful way in which she leaned on others for support. Daisy was, perhaps, in all particulars younger than her years. When at last, after inconceivable difficulties—after being jostled about by an indifferent crowd, and pushed rudely against by more than one stupid, blundering porter—she did find her way to the right ticket-office, and did secure her single third to Rosebury, and then get a very small allowance of room in a crowded third-class carriage her heart was beating so loudly that she almost wondered it did not burst. The great train, however, moved out of the terminus, and Daisy felt herself whirling away through the night, and then she became conscious of a little sensation of thankfulness. Surely the worst of her journey was over now; surely she and the Pink would be received very kindly and very lovingly by Mrs. Ellsworthy; surely Mrs. Ellsworthy would listen with full credence to the little tale Daisy would make up about an ogre having stolen away her money, and would hasten to fill the poor empty little purse from her own abundant stores. Daisy thought such happy and hopeful thoughts as she was commencing her weary journey, and then she clasped the basket which contained the Pink tightly in her little arms, and presently, from sheer weariness, dropped asleep. When the little head bobbed forward two or three times a good-natured neighbor put her arm round the child, and after a little even took her into her arms, where Daisy, after many hours of deep slumber, awoke. The night train to Rosebury went very slowly, stopping at every little wayside station, and sometimes seeming to the exasperated passengers scarcely to move at all; but all these weary hours Daisy slumbered peacefully, and when she awoke the sun was shining brightly, and a new day had begun.

"Well, my dear, you have had a hearty sleep," said the good-natured woman; "and where are you bound, if I may make so bold as to ask, little miss?"

"I am going to Rosebury," said Daisy. "Oh! how kind of you to let me sleep in your arms. I've had quite a nice nap, and I'm not so very tired. Thank you very much for being so very good to me. Are we near Rosebury now, please?"

"In half an hour you'll get there, dear. Now I must say good-bye, for this is my station. Good-bye, missy, and a safe journey to you."

"I'm so sorry you are going away," said Daisy, and she raised her little lips to kiss her friend.

"God bless you, love," said the nice, pleasant-faced woman, and then she got out of the carriage, nodding her head to Daisy as she walked away.

The loneliness which had more or less been soothed or kept in abeyance by this good woman's company now returned very strongly, and Daisy had to feel a certain empty little purse which she held in her pocket to keep up her resolution. She did not seem so certain about Mrs. Ellsworthy being nice and kind as she was the night before. The third-class carriage in which she had travelled was now nearly empty, and when she at last arrived at Rosebury she was the only passenger to alight. She gave up her ticket and walked out of the station, a forlorn and unnoticed little personage. It was still very early in the morning, not quite six o'clock, and there were very few people about, and the whole place had a strange, deserted, and unhomelike feeling. Could this be the Rosebury where Daisy was born, where she had been so petted and loved? She did not like its aspect in the cold grey morning light. There was a little drizzling mist falling, and it chilled her and made her shiver.

"I know I've been very, very selfish," she kept murmuring to herself. "I oughtn't to have minded the dungeon. I ought not to have been so terrified at the ogre. I'm afraid God is angry with me for being so dreadfully selfish, and for letting the ogre take Primrose's money. I always did think the sun shone at Rosebury, but perhaps even the sun won't get up because he is angry with me."

Daisy knew her way down the familiar and straggling village street, but there were one or two different roads to Shortlands, and she became puzzled which to take, and what with the drizzling rain, and her own great fatigue of body, soon really lost her way.

An early laborer going to work was the first person she met. She asked him eagerly if she was on the right road; but he answered her so gruffly that she instantly thought he must be a relation of Mr. Dove's and ran, crying and trembling, away from him. The next person she came across was a little boy of about her own age, and he was kind, and took her hand, and put her once more in the right direction, so that, foot-sore and weary, the poor little traveller did reach the lodge-gates of Shortlands about nine o'clock.

But here the bitterest of her disappointments awaited her, for the woman who attended to the gates said, in a cold and unsympathizing voice, that the family were now in London, and there was no use whatever in little miss troubling herself to go up to the house. No use at all, the woman repeated, for she could not tell when the family would return, probably not for several weeks. Daisy did not ask any more questions, but turned away from the inhospitable gates with a queer sinking in her heart, and a great dizziness before her eyes. She had come all this weary, weary way for nothing. She had taken dear Poppy's last money for nothing. Oh, now there was no doubt at all that God was very angry with her, and that she had been both wicked and selfish. She had still twopence in her pocket—for the good-natured omnibus conductor had paid her fare himself. She would go to the nearest cottage and ask for some milk for the Pink, and then she wondered—poor, little, lonely, unhappy child—how long it would take her to die.



CHAPTER XLI.

MRS. DREDGE TO THE RESCUE.

High tea at Penelope Mansion was an institution. Mrs. Flint said in confidence to her boarders that she preferred high tea to late dinner. She said that late dinner savored too distinctly of the mannish element for her to tolerate. It reminded her, she said, of clerks returning home dead-beat after a day's hard toil; it reminded her of sordid labor, and of all kinds of unpleasant things; whereas high tea was in itself womanly, and was in all respects suited to the gentle appetites of ladies who were living genteelly on their means. Mrs. Flint's boarders were as a rule impressed by her words, and high tea was, in short, a recognized institution of the establishment.

On the evening of the day when poor little Daisy had disappeared from her Palace Beautiful Mrs. Flint's boarders were enjoying their genteel repast in the cool shades of her parlor. They had shrimps for tea, and eggs, and buttered toast, and a small glass dish of sardines, to say nothing of a few little dishes of different preserves. Mrs. Dredge, who was considered by the other ladies to have an appetite the reverse of refined, had, in addition to these slight refreshments, a mutton chop. This she was eating with appetite and relish, while Miss Slowcum languidly tapped her egg, and remarked as she did so that it was hollow, but not more so than life. Mrs. Mortlock, since the commencement of her affliction, always sat by Mrs. Flint's side, and when she imagined that her companions were making use of their sight to some purpose she invariably requested Mrs. Flint to describe to her what was going on. On this particular evening the whole party were much excited and impressed by the unexpected return of Poppy, alias Sarah.

"It took me all of a heap!" said Mrs. Flint; "I really thought the girl was saucy, and had gone—but never a bit of it. If you'll believe me, ladies, she came in as humble as you please, and quite willing to go back to her work in a quiet spirit. 'Sarah,' I said to her in the morning, 'you'll rue this day,' and she did rue it, and to some purpose, or she wouldn't have returned so sharp in the evening. She's a good girl, taking her all in all, is Sarah, and being my own niece, of course I put up with a few things from her which I would not take from a stranger."

"She spoke pretty sharp this morning about you, Mrs. Flint, to my continual reader," said Mrs. Mortlock; "I wouldn't take no airs, if I was you, from Sarah Maria. Miss Slowcum, I'll trouble you for the pepper, please. Seeing that I'm afflicted, and cannot now use my eyesight, I think there might be a little consideration in the small matter of pepper shown to me, but feel as I will I can find it in no way handy. Thank you, Miss Slowcum; sorry to trouble you, I'm sure."

"She grows more snappish each day," whispered Miss Slowcum to Mrs. Dredge; but just then the attention of all the good ladies was diverted by a ringing peal at the hall door-bell, followed by eager voices in the hall, and then by the entrance of Poppy, alias Sarah, who broke in upon the quiet of high tea with a red and startled face.

"An awful trouble has happened," she began, breathlessly. "Oh, ladies, you'll pardon me, but this is no time for standing on ceremony, when my own darling little lady, Miss Daisy Mainwaring, has gone and left her sheltering home."

"Good gracious! my continual reader's little sister!" exclaimed Mrs. Mortlock. "Left her home! you must be mistaken, Sarah Jane."

"No, ma'am, it's a most sorrowful fact," said poor Poppy, who looked terribly dejected, and nearly sobbed as she spoke; "the other two dear young ladies has come for me, and I must go back with them. I'm sorry, Aunt Flint, to part again so soon, but this is unexpected, and my duty lies with my young ladies."

"Your duty lies with your aunt, miss," here exclaimed the exasperated Mrs. Flint. "Sarah, I was taking your part, but your airs are now past standing. Ladies three, I feel convinced that this story is all a make-up. I don't believe for a moment the child has gone away. It's a make-up of Sarah's, who is turning into a most wicked girl."

"I don't believe it," here exclaimed Miss Slowcum. "Sarah Bertha has spoken the truth, I feel convinced. I had a warning dream last night. I dreamt of white horses, and that always signifies very great trouble. It's my belief that the poor dear innocent little child has been murdered!"

"Murdered!" almost screamed Mrs. Mortlock. "Miss Slowcum, I'll thank you to come and take the seat next me, my dear, and tell me all your reasons in full for making this most startling remark. My dear, I don't object to holding your hand while you're pouring forth the tale of woe. How and where, Miss Slowcum, did the child meet her death?"

Meanwhile, during this wrangling and fierce disputing, Mrs. Dredge, more kind-hearted than the others, had left the room. She had gone into the hall, where Primrose and Jasmine stood side by side. She had listened to their bewildered and agitated little story, and then asking them to sit down and wait for her, she had returned to the parlor.

"Mrs. Flint," she said, "I have been talking to the two elder Mainwaring girls; they are in the hall. No, Mrs. Mortlock, you can't see Miss Primrose at present. The girls are in great trouble, for the little one has gone away, and there seems to be a mystery about it all. Your niece Sarah seems to be the last person who has seen the child, Mrs. Flint, and, of course, Miss Primrose and Miss Jasmine want to talk to her, and she had better go home with them. The friend they live with, a Miss Egerton, left home this very afternoon to spend a week in the country, and so the girls are quite defenceless, and have nobody to consult. That being the case, I'm going back with them also to their lodgings in a four-wheeler. Sarah Ann, go and fetch a four-wheeler this instant, and don't stand gaping. Mind, a four-wheeler, girl, and don't bring a hansom on no account near the place. Yes, ladies, it's my duty to go with the poor orphans, and go I will."

While Mrs. Dredge was speaking Mrs. Mortlock ceased to hold Miss Slowcum's very thin hand. Miss Slowcum's face looked decidedly jealous, for she would have dearly liked to have been herself in Mrs. Dredge's interesting and sympathizing position. Mrs. Mortlock raised her almost sightless eyes to the fat little woman's face, and remarked in a slightly acid voice—

"I'm obliged to you, Mrs. Dredge, for thinking that in the moment of trial the sight of me and a sympathizing squeeze from my hand would have done my continual reader any harm. It's very good-natured of you to go with the orphan girls, Mrs. Dredge, and I'm glad to think you've just had the support of your chop to sustain you under the fatigue. Please remember, Mrs. Dredge, that we lock up the house in this home at ten o'clock, and no latch-keys allowed. Isn't that so, Mrs. Flint?"

"Under ordinary circumstances, quite so, ma'am," answered Mrs. Flint, who would not have minded snubbing Miss Slowcum, but was anxious to propitiate both the rich widows; "under ordinary circumstances that is so, but in a dire moment like the present I think the ten minutes' grace might be allowed to Mrs. Dredge's kind heart."

"Here's the four-wheeler!" exclaimed Mrs. Dredge.

"Good-bye, ladies. If I'm not in at ten minutes past ten don't look for me until the morning."

When Mrs. Dredge, Primrose, Jasmine, and Poppy got back to the girls' pretty sitting-room the good-natured little widow proved herself a very practical friend. First of all, she listened carefully to Poppy's account of all that had transpired that day. She then got Primrose to tell her as much as possible about Daisy. All the child's distress and nervousness and unaccountable unhappiness were related, and the sage little woman shook her head several times over the narrative, and said at last, in a very common-sense voice—

"It's as clear as a pikestaff to Jemima Dredge that that sweet little child has been tampered with. Somebody has been frightening the bit of a thing, Miss Primrose, and it's for you to find out who that somebody is. As to where she's gone? Why, she has gone back to where she was born, of course, and you and me will follow her by the first train in the morning, my dear."

"She was taking care of a cheque of mine for seventeen pounds ten shillings," exclaimed Primrose, "and in her little note she speaks of the money being lost. I think nothing of the loss of the money beside Daisy, but, Mrs. Dredge, Jasmine and I cannot afford even a third-class ticket to Rosebury just at present."

"Tut, tut, my dear," said Mrs. Dredge, "what's the good of a full purse except to share it? My poor husband Joshua was his name—we was two J's, dear—he always said, 'Jemima, thank God the chandlery is prospering. A full purse means light hearts, Jemima. We can shed blessings with our means, Jemima.' Those was Joshua's words, Miss Mainwaring, and I hear him now telling them to me from his grave. You and me will go down to Rosebury in the morning, dear, and Miss Jasmine will stay at home with Sarah Mary for company, for there's no sense in waste, and one of you is quite enough to come."

While this conversation was going on Bridget knocked at the girls' door, and presented Jasmine with a thick parcel, which had just arrived for her by post. It was some of the manuscript, and the first proofs of her story. The parcel came to hand at a sorrowful moment, and Jasmine laid it on the sofa, made no comment about it, and did not attempt to open it. Primrose scarcely raised her head from her hands, and was not the least curious, but Poppy's eyes gleamed brightly, for sharp Poppy guessed what the parcel contained, and she sincerely hoped that whatever happened this story would prove a great success, and that it would bring in so many gold coins to her young lady that she would become not only rich herself, but able to pay back what she had borrowed from her. For although Poppy was the soul of generosity, she did want her wages back.



CHAPTER XLII.

A NEW EMPLOYMENT.

At an early hour the next morning Mrs. Dredge and Primrose started for Rosebury, and poor Jasmine and Poppy prepared to have a long and lonely time by themselves. Poppy hoped that Jasmine would cheer up, and look at that lovely printed story of hers, and perhaps read it aloud to her; but poor Jasmine was really nearly broken-hearted, and said once almost passionately—

"How can I look at it, Poppy, when I don't know where our little darling is? Did she not share my secret? And she was so proud of me and she always would believe I was a genius. I can't look at it, Poppy—no, I can't; but if you like to open the manuscript, and read what is printed of the story, why you may. Yes, I expect you will find it exciting. Sit down and read it, Poppy, and I will go to the window and look out. Oh, dear! oh, dear! Primrose promised to send me a telegram when she got to Rosebury. Oh, what shall I do if I don't soon hear some news of my darling little Daisy?"

"Seeing as I can't comfort you, Miss Jasmine, I may as well take to reading the mysterious, lovely story," answered Poppy. "Maybe when you're having your dinner bye-and-bye, miss, you won't object to me telling you what I thinks of it."

"Only I shan't care in the least what you think to-day, dear Poppy," answered poor little Jasmine, in a tone of deep melancholy.

She went and stood by the window, and Poppy ensconced herself comfortably on the sofa, and began to enjoy herself as best she could under the circumstances.

In about an hour there came a tap at the door, and Arthur Noel came in. Jasmine gave a little pleased exclamation when she saw him; then she ran forward, took his hand in hers, and burst into tears.

"Daisy is lost," she said; "our sweet little Daisy, who loved you so much, is lost."

"It's inferred that she's gone down with a single third to Rosebury, sir," here interposed Poppy.

"Come and tell me all about it, Jasmine," said Noel, in his most sympathizing tones. He led the poor little girl to the sofa, and, sitting down by her, listened attentively to her story.

"But the Ellsworthys are in London," he said, when he heard that Daisy had gone to them.

On hearing this news poor Jasmine burst into floods of fresh weeping.

"Oh, then she's sure to be quite lost!" she said. "Oh, Mr. Noel, if you are in any sense a true friend, won't you try to find her?"

"Yes, Jasmine; I will never rest until I find her. I am glad I came in to-day. I came to ask you to do something for me, but I find you want my help instead. I will come here this evening, about the time your sister is likely to be back, and I will then go and look for Daisy, in case she is not found. Don't be frightened, Jasmine, I am quite sure we shall soon get tidings of the dear little girl."

"And do you know," said Jasmine, who felt a little comforted, "that we have not only lost Daisy, but all our quarter's money. It is most mysterious. Primrose gave Daisy a check to take care of for her, and Daisy says she has gone away because the cheque is lost. We have no money now that the cheque is lost, except just what Primrose earns from Mrs. Mortlock."

"There's a likelihood of some more earnings presently, Miss Jasmine," here interposed Poppy, in a cheerful voice; "there's a likelihood of a good bit more money when this powerful and thrilling romance is published."

"Your story, Jasmine?" said Noel, "and in type? Who did you get to publish it, my dear child? Oh, you must let me read this."

"Another time, please, Mr. Noel. I don't think I could quite bear it to-day," said Jasmine.

Noel looked at her earnestly.

"I wonder, Jasmine," he said, "even though you are in such trouble, if you would be brave enough to help me, and to earn a little money to day? I want you to do quite a simple thing, and something you will probably enjoy. I have never read any of your romances, but I have often noticed that you possess rather remarkable artistic tastes, and that you have a very correct eye for the arrangement of color. I have been struck with this even in this little room, and I happened to mention my observations one day to a lady who is a friend of mine. That lady is giving a dinner-party to-night, and she wants some one to arrange the flowers on her table in as fresh and new a style as possible. Will you come with me to her house now, and see what you can do? She will provide you with the flowers and the glasses to put them into, and you can arrange them on the table just as you like best. She will give you a guinea for the work, and I think you will find it light and pleasant."

Jasmine's eyes began to sparkle.

"Oh! at another time it would be delightful," she said.

"But don't you want a guinea very badly now? Don't you think you had better put on your hat and come away with me, and try to earn it?"

"I will," said Jasmine, with sudden enthusiasm. "Oh, Mr. Noel, how good you are! How I wish I had a brother, and that you were he!"

Noel took Jasmine to his friend's house, where the little girl began by being almost frightened, but soon forgot herself in the strong interest of her pleasant work. Noel was right when he said Jasmine had true artistic instincts. Certainly, hers was untaught genius, but her unerring taste came to her aid, and Mrs. Daintree's dinner-table never looked prettier or fresher than when the little maiden had completed her work. The room was bright and sunny, but Jasmine gave the table a bower-like and cool effect, and she not only dressed the dinner-table but placed flowers here and there about the room. Mrs. Daintree was delighted, and asked the pretty little girl to come again to arrange a dinner-table for her the following week.

With her golden sovereign and her shilling tucked tightly away in her glove Jasmine did not feel altogether miserable as she went home; even though Daisy might still be lost, those first earnings were sweet. She rushed upstairs and told her tale to Poppy, who sympathized most warmly with her. Very soon after her arrival a four-wheeler was heard to draw up to the door, and Mrs. Dredge alone returned.

"I have left Primrose at Rosebury," she said; "we have made inquiries, and there is no doubt a child resembling Daisy went down by the night train yesterday. We have searched high and low, however, but cannot at present get any trace of her. Don't look so pale, Jasmine, she must soon be found. Primrose is staying with Miss Martineau, and they are not leaving a stone unturned to find her. Most likely they have done so by now. Don't cry, Jasmine; take example by your sister—she's a fine plucky bit of a lass, and does not waste her time in tears when there's something to be done."

"Yes, that's just it," said Jasmine; Primrose has got something to do, but I haven't—I can do nothing to find my little darling! Oh, Mrs. Dredge, are not you awfully frightened about her?"

"Tut, tut, my dear, not a bit of it! Of course, when a little lass runs away all by herself there are most times difficulties in getting trace of her, but don't you be in a way, for they won't last long."

Poor little Jasmine sighed, and all her deep depression returned. She was soothed again, however, by the sight of Noel, who came in very soon afterwards. He said he had seen the Ellsworthys, and meant to go down to Rosebury by the night train.

"I'm pleased to hear it, young man," said Mrs. Dredge; "you're doing just what my Joshua would have approved of had he been alive. Even though Joshua was in the chandlery line he had a truly noble heart, and one of his mottoes was that the strong should help the weak, and if shoulders are made broad they should carry big burdens, so you go down to Rosebury, young man, and prosper in your work."

Noel smiled.

"I will certainly do my best," he said; "I quite agree with your husband's sentiments."

"Well, well, young man, Joshua would have liked to know you in his day. Dear, how stupid I am! but I didn't rightly catch your name. What are you pleased to call yourself, sir?"

"My name is Arthur Noel."

"Well, what a small world we live in; it was only to-day I heard talk of you. When Miss Primrose and I were down at Rosebury we came across a gentleman of the name of Danesfield, and he came straight up to Miss Primrose and said he had had a letter from you which he had not been able to answer, because he was away. He said a lot to Miss Primrose about the letter you wrote him; it seems that somebody must have stolen three five-pound notes, which Mr. Danesfield put into a closed envelope, and gave Miss Primrose for a kind of emergency fund when she left her home. The poor lassie turned as white as a sheet when he talked to her. Well, young man, you look white enough yourself at the present moment, but I'll tell you, now, what has struck me, that whoever took the three five-pound notes helped himself or herself to that cheque of Miss Primrose's, and that poor little Daisy knows about it."

"I should not be the least surprised if you were right, Mrs. Dredge," answered Noel. "Well, I must go now if I want to catch my train. Good-bye, Jasmine keep up your heart—expect good news soon, and get all the orders you can for dressing dinner-tables."



CHAPTER XLIII.

IN THE FIELD.

Poor little Daisy, very faint and tired, and with a feeling of almost despair in her little heart, presently crept through a gap in one of the hedges, and sat down on the grass in a large field. She was so foot-sore she could not walk another step; she was also terribly weak from long fasting, and as she now had no hope at all of bringing Primrose back her money, she felt disinclined to walk another step.

"I suppose I'll soon die," she said to herself. "I wonder if God will take me to heaven? I know I was very selfish about the dungeon. I might have gone to the dungeon, and dear Primrose would have had her money, and she and Jasmine would not have starved; but Mr. Dove did so terrify me I really had not courage. Please, dear Jesus, I had not courage. I'm only a very weak, frightened little girl, and I gave Mr. Dove Primrose's money, and now I can't get it back from him, and I think my heart is broken. I know, Jesus, you are angry with me, but please don't go on being angry; please forgive me, for I am all alone now without Primrose and Jasmine, and I think I'll soon die, for I feel so very weak. I didn't tell a lie, either, Jesus; I never told any one about Mr. Dove and the sticky sweetmeats—no, though I am a coward about the dungeon, I would not go so far as to break my word. I often longed to tell the Prince, for I felt he would deliver me from the ogre, but I couldn't tell a lie even to be saved. Please, Jesus, forgive me for being such a cowardly little girl."

By this time the drizzling mist of the early morning had passed away, the sun had come out, and the robins and thrushes in the hedge close to Daisy began to sing. They poured out full notes of thrilling sweetness and their music comforted the child, and she began to smile very faintly to herself, and to hope that as God had let the sun come out, and the birds sing, so He had forgiven her.

The poor little Pink began to mew loudly in her basket, and Daisy let her out of her prison, and when kitty rubbed her soft head against her little mistress's sleeve the child felt some fresh thrills of comfort. She felt terribly disinclined to move, however, and was really more weak and exhausted than absolutely hungry. The day wore on, and the little girl and her cat remained unnoticed in their corner of the large field. There was a right of way through the field, and foot-passengers came and went, but Daisy in her sombre little black dress failed to attract any attention. She was quite in the shade under her hedge-row, and it is to be doubted if any one saw her. At last from utter weariness she sank down on the ground and fell asleep. The Pink curled herself up by her little mistress's side and slept also. It was then that the sun, slowly travelling across the heavens, found them out in their shady corner, and kissed them, and made pussy's soft little grey coat shine. The child and the cat were thus made visible, and attracted the attention of a woman who was walking across the field with a market-basket on her arm. She came up at once to examine the little group; then she bent down close, then she gave an exclamation half of horror, half of delight, and then she took the sleeping child up in her arms, and covered her with passionate kisses.



"Oh! my own little Miss Daisy—my own little darling precious lamb! And is it thus you have come back to your poor old Hannah again!"

Nothing could have comforted Daisy more under present circumstances than to find herself in her old nurse's arms. She quite gasped with the joy and relief, and putting up her little hand to Hannah's face, she stroked it fondly.

"Now, my darling, where have you come from? and what are you doing? and—why, if that isn't the little Pink, I declare! Now, my pet, tell me, have you all three come back to Rosebury again?"

"No, Hannah, I'm the only one who has come back. Oh Hannah, will you please take me to our little cottage for a few hours—I should so like to die there—I was born there, wasn't I, Hannah?"

"Yes, love, but you're not going to die there, nor nowhere else. I can't take you back to the cottage, dearie, for it's let, and I'm not living there. I've a little bit of a place of my own in the village of Teckford and I keep a small shop, and don't do so bad. You must come home now with me, darling. Oh, yes, you must—not a word must you say against it; then, when you've rested, and have had some nice bread and milk, you shall tell old Hannah your story; and if so be as you're in any trouble, why, your old nurse Hannah will set her wits to work to find a way out of it. Now, my darling, I'm going to carry you to my cottage."

Daisy was certainly very weak. She tried to expostulate with Hannah—she tried to say that her one and only duty was to try and get tidings of Mrs. Ellsworthy's whereabouts, and then to follow her on foot if necessary; but if the little spirit was willing, the flesh was weak. The comfort of seeing her nurse again was too much for Daisy—the knowledge that those were the very arms which had carried her as a baby, and soothed her and tended her as a little child, was quite too cheering to be resisted. Daisy made a valiant effort to say "No," but instead, her lips formed a faint "Yes, Hannah, take me to your home," and then Hannah, who was a strongly-built woman, lifted the slight little girl in her arms, and carried her across the fields to her tiny cottage at Teckford. All the time, while she was being carried in those kind arms, Daisy kept repeating to herself, "I'll have some bread and milk, for I am a little hungry, and I'll rest for perhaps an hour, and then I'll go away on foot with my dear Pink to find Mrs. Ellsworthy."

But when the child and the woman reached the house in the village Daisy was too faint and weary to take more than a spoonful or two of bread and milk, and long before the night arrived she had forgotten that she meant to undertake any journey, and lay with burning cheeks and bright, feverish eyes on Hannah's bed in her little home.



CHAPTER XLIV.

TOO MUCH FOR DOVE.

Mrs. Dredge's remarks had by no means been lost on Noel. When he left Miss Egerton's house he consulted his watch, and found that he had still an hour to spare before he need try to catch his train. He thought for a moment or two, recalled certain expressions on Daisy's face, certain words which dropped from her lips, and, above all, a look which had filled her pretty eyes on the one and only occasion when they had met Dove together.

Noel began to feel more and more certain that this man, to whom he had taken a great dislike, had something to say to all the child's misery. Noel knew, however, that suspicion in such a case would be of little avail—he must have certainty, and certainty could only be his by cautious and wary movements.

Again he consulted his watch, and now he determined on a bold course. He remembered that the girls had once told him that Dove was a painter by trade, but that he seldom or never had anything to do. Noel was extremely fastidious, and, if possible, almost over-refined in the arrangements of his own home. He made his little plan with a sigh, but he would have done more than this for the sake of pretty little Daisy.

Walking quickly, he soon found himself at the Doves' address in Eden Street. His knock at the hall door was answered by Tommy Dove, who assured him that both his father and mother were having high tea with shrimps and watercresses in the back parlor.

Noel said he wanted to see Dove on business, and Tommy, remarking that the back parlor was as good a place as any other for this purpose, ushered the visitor in direct.

"I believe you are a painter," said Noel—"I have chambers at Westminster, and want to have my balcony and front windows painted. I've heard of you through the Miss Mainwarings, and as I'm in a hurry to get the job completed at once, I have called round to know if you are disengaged."

"Of course you are, Dove," said his wife.

"Softly, my only love," replied her husband. "Sir, be pleased to take a seat. I shall be glad to do my best for you, and any recommendation from the young ladies you mention is most gratifying to me. Sweet young ladies they was, and ever will be—and my wife and me, we mourns unceasing for their departure."

"Speak for yourself, Dove," said the wife—"we are doing better with our present attics than we ever did with our late attics. Sir, you'll excuse me, but truthful I ever will be at all costs."

"Can you paint my windows or not?" said Noel, rising to his feet, and speaking with some asperity. "If you are too busy to undertake the work pray say so, and let me seek some one else, for my time is precious."

"Of course he'll do it, sir," said Mrs. Dove. "Say yes to the gentleman, Dove, and thank him, and have done with it."

"Well, sir, I am very busy," said Dove. "I haven't a moment to call my own for weeks to come, but all the same, I wouldn't disoblige the late attics for a good deal, so I'll just put off the Cooks, who are wild to get their house-cleaning through, and Mr. Martin, who keeps the bacon and 'am shop, must wait. Yes, sir, I wait your pleasure, sir—I can come."

"To-morrow morning, then, early," said Noel, "this is my address. Ask for my servant when you arrive, and he will show you what you are to do, and will also give you directions as to the colored paint I wish used. I must hurry off now, for I'm going down to the country on some very sad business. You will be sorry to hear, Mr. Dove, that Miss Daisy Mainwaring has lost a considerable sum of money, and the poor little child is in such trouble about it that she has run away. Of course, I don't believe for a moment that she has really lost the money—of course it was stolen from her. Well, good-bye, I'm going to seek her, and to try to catch the thief. Be sure you arrive at my house in good time in the morning, Dove."

"Yes, sir, very sorry to hear your bad news," said Dove, in a self-possessed voice, but Arthur saw that his color had changed, and he wanted no stronger clue to confirm his suspicions. When he got into the street he not only consulted his watch, but a time-table. A later train than he had intended to travel by would take it to Rosebury early in the morning. He would go by this train. Now he jumped into a hansom and drove to his chambers. His servant came to him, to whom he gave hasty directions.

"You're to buy the paint yourself, Lawson; see that it is properly mixed, and the right shade. Move the plants from the balcony early in the morning—the man will arrive in good time, and listen, Lawson, I don't want him to be too closely watched."

"What do you mean by that, sir?" said Lawson.

"Only that you need not stay in the room all the time—come in and out, of course—but don't imagine the man to be a thief until he is proved such."

"Well, sir, your commands must be obeyed, of course, but you have many articles of virtue and elegance about."

"Never mind that, Lawson—do as I tell you."

When his servant left the room Noel took a five-pound note out of his pocket, and enclosing it in an open envelope laid it carelessly on the chimney-piece. There was no writing on the envelope, and the note might well have been slipped into it by mistake. Noel also slipped a ring of some value from his finger, and dropped it into a little tray, which contained odds and ends of different descriptions.

"Now I've laid my trap," he said to himself. "My poor little Daisy, I hope I may ensnare your ogre to his destruction."

The next morning early Dove, well pleased with his job, and never guessing that the smallest suspicions had attached themselves to him, arrived at Noel's rooms. He was a most idle man, and seldom cared for work, but he was pleased at Noel's singling him out, and imagined that notwithstanding her running away, he owed this visit to little Daisy.

"She's a pert little thing," he said to himself, "and if she's so true to me as all this, why I suppose I must leave her alone in the future. I made a nice little haul out of her the other day, and I've got several of them sovereigns about me still; but lor, wasn't she in a piteous fright when I took that cheque away with me!"

Dove was highly pleased with the appearance of Noel's rooms. He could see no beauty in the simplicity of the girls' Palace Beautiful, but although he was quite incapable of judging of the value of the pictures and exquisite little statuettes which adorned the walls, he was judge enough of the depth and richness of the Turkey rugs, and of the wealth which must have been expended over the very select furniture of Noel's sitting-room.

Lawson, wondering much at his master's directions but supposing that Dove must be a very special protege, received him with much cordiality, gave him directions with regard to his work, and then left him alone. Dove painted and cleaned, and whistled as he worked; he felt quite cheerful and virtuous, and began to consider that the position of British workmen was not such a bad one after all. He felt more and more pleased with Daisy Mainwaring for having put him in the way of such agreeable and profitable occupation, and more and more resolved to leave her alone for the future.

"Maybe if I was to talk to the pretty little dear she'd find me a deal more jobs of this yere sort," he said to himself. "A little lady she is, and no mistake, and she keeps very genteel friends, as any one can see with half an eye."

After Dove had worked for two or three hours he began to feel thirsty, for he was quite unaccustomed to any continuous labor. The sun was shining brightly on the balcony, and he was also a little hot, and the inside of Noel's room looked deliciously cool and inviting. He had just seen Lawson walking down the street, too, so he was quite sure of having the premises to himself. Slipping off his shoes he stepped into the room and began to look about him with an appreciative air. He handled some of Noel's choicest books, and looked through a portfolio of rare engravings but neither books nor engravings were quite in Dove's way, and after a time he strolled over to the mantel-piece, as he said, to see how he looked reflected in the over-mantel glass. There were letters there directed to Noel. Dove would have dearly liked to acquaint himself with their contents, but he was a slow and deficient reader. Some cigars lay in a little cigar-case at one end. Dove, as a matter of course, and without weighing the question at all, slipped a couple into his pocket. After doing this he did not feel quite so virtuous, nor so like the proverbial British workman; he jingled some of Daisy's sovereigns in his pocket, and laughed when they made a pleasant sound. Still eagerly peering at all the articles on the mantel-piece his quick eyes presently detected amongst a heap of rubbish and odds and ends Noel's valuable signet-ring; it was of heavy workmanship, and its gold alone made it worth money.

"Why, Isaacs the Jew would give me two pound ten, or perhaps three pounds for this," queried Dove. "It has plainly been forgotten here, and if the gent does miss it he'll lay the blame on that fine fellow Lawson."

It took a very small parley with Dove's seared conscience to make him pocket the ring, and by the time Lawson returned to the house the five-pound note had also been appropriated. Dove whistled more cheerily than ever over his work that afternoon, and in the evening he went home quite unsuspecting any little trap which might have been set for him.

He had scarcely gone before a boy arrived with a telegram directed to Lawson, and with a reply pre-paid. Lawson read the following words:—

"Look on the mantel-piece in my sitting-room for a blank envelope, open, which contains a five-pound note—No. 11267. I also left my ring in the cigar tray. Wire reply if note and ring are safe.—ARTHUR NOEL."

The address to reply to was added.

Poor Lawson spent an agonized ten minutes in searching over the contents of the mantel-piece. In the end he had to fill in the reply telegram with the news that nowhere could the five-pound note nor the ring be found.

A little over two hours passed, and again the worthy servant was startled by a telegraphic dispatch. This was what it contained:—

"Have reasons to believe that the painter Dove is the thief. Go instantly to the nearest police-station, give them the number of the note, and go with one of their staff to Dove's house. His address is, 10, Eden Street, Junction Road, Holloway. The note and ring will probably be found on his person. Get him apprehended if possible. Take all necessary cabs.—ARTHUR NOEL."

Thus it came to pass that when that evening Dove sat down tranquilly to a luxurious supper of lobster salad, chops, and bottled stout, he was unpleasantly interrupted. When two policemen, accompanied by Lawson, came into his room, he was guilty of using very violent language, and altogether conducted himself in a most excited manner; but, notwithstanding his resistance, and Mrs. Dove's hysterics, and some terribly distressing chuckles, really sounding more like laughter than tears, which were heard to issue from the lips of that naughty boy, Tommy, a strict search of his person was instituted, and in consequence he was that very night locked up in jail.

Oh, if only poor little Daisy, tossing on her hot and feverish pillow, could have known!



CHAPTER XLV.

THE PRINCE TO THE RESCUE.

Hannah was doing well in her little shop at Teckford. She had always been a most saving body, and although Mrs. Mainwaring had never been able to pay her high wages, she had managed to put the greater portion of what she received away. Hannah was one of those fortunate individuals on whom even a shabby dress will look neat. Her boots lasted twice as long as any one else's, her caps retained their starch and their whiteness long after another servant's would have had to be resigned to a fresh cleaning process. Hannah therefore required little or no money to spend on dress, and in consequence, when the Mainwaring girls went away, she had a little nest-egg laid by to stock a shop. She found a suitable little house at Teckford, laid in her little store of provisions with care, for she argued wisely that however poor people were they required food, and was living very comfortably on the proceeds of her sales. Hannah, as a rule, had a smooth and unruffled brow; she was a careful woman, but not a troubled one. At the present moment, however it could scarcely be said of this good soul that she was without cares. The neighbors who came in to buy their bacon, and fresh eggs, and candles, and tea, remarked that Hannah had no longer a cheery word and a pleasant smile to give them, and the children, when they tumbled out their halfpennies and asked for "a little piece of taffy, please, ma'am," noticed that Hannah's eyes had red rims round them, and they wondered if she was naughty, and that was why she cried.

Yes, poor Hannah had a troubled heart during those early summer days, for Daisy lay so weak and languid, and indifferent to all external things, on her tiny little bed, never giving Hannah any information as to why she had wandered alone to Rosebury, never saying anything about the weight of sorrow which rested on her little heart, only now and then moaning out that she must get up and go to Mrs. Ellsworthy, and now and then feebly saying that she wished so very much that the Prince was there.

Hannah knew all about Mrs. Ellsworthy, and how she had taken the girls up, and tried to help them, after their mother's death; but who was the Prince?

Finding that the child continued slightly feverish, and most unnaturally weak—finding that the dainties she prepared were only just tasted by the little sufferer—Hannah looked well into her little store of hardly-earned money, and finding that she had sufficient to pay him, called in the village doctor.

Of course, with his limited experience, this good man could little understand Daisy's case. He ordered medicine for her, and plenty of cooling drinks, and said that he could not find anything very much the matter, only she was most unnaturally weak.

"It's my thinking, sir," said Hannah, "that this is the kind of weakness that ends in death. My little lady is all on the pine for something or some one, and unless she gets what she wants soon she will die."

Hannah's view of the case was rather puzzling to the doctor, who stared at her, and considered her from that day forward a very fanciful woman. He repeated his injunctions to give Daisy plenty of milk, and to see that she took her tonic three times a day; and then he took his leave.

When he was gone Hannah went to her next-door neighbor and asked her if she would be so very kind as to go and sit in the child's room for a couple of hours. Then she put on her bonnet and neat black cloak, and started off on foot to Rosebury. She had made up her mind to get Mrs. Ellsworthy's address from some one, and to write to her about Daisy. In due time she arrived at the lodge, saw the woman who kept the gates, obtained from her without much difficulty Mrs. Ellsworthy's address, and then prepared to return home. Just as she reached the stile, however, which led into the field where she had found Daisy, a thought struck her—she had no writing-paper in the house, and what could be bought at Teckford was almost too bad to use. Hannah made up her mind to go to Rosebury, which was a much more important village than Teckford, and get a few sheets of note-paper, and an envelope or two. She walked very fast, for she did not like to leave Daisy so long by herself, and, panting and hurried, she at last arrived at the little stationer's shop. The stationer's wife knew Hannah, and greeted her with effusion.

"I'm truly pleased to see you, Mrs. Martin," she said. "Why you're quite a stranger in these parts, and I did not expect to see you round now, with one of your young ladies returned and all."

Hannah heaved a profound sigh.

"She's very, very ill, poor darling," she said. "Very dangerously weak and ill; and I must trouble you to hasten with the paper, Mrs. Jones. One penn'orth of your most shining note, and two envelopes to match. Mind you, give me a paper with a good gloss on it, Mrs. Jones."

Mrs. Jones stared at Hannah Martin; but fetching down a box of note-paper, prepared to wrap some sheets in tissue paper.

"I shouldn't say Miss Primrose was ill," she remarked as she did so, "though she do seem worried, dear young lady."

When the shop-woman made this observation Hannah's pence tumbled down on the counter with a crash.

"Goodness gracious me, ma'am!" she exclaimed, "you don't mean to tell me that Miss Primrose Mainwaring is at Rosebury?"

"Why, of course, ma'am; why, don't you know? why you said but now how weak and ill she was."

"Never mind the paper," answered Hannah, "and never mind a word I said about anybody; just have the goodness to tell me where I'll find Miss Primrose."

"She was staying with Miss Martineau but yesterday and there's a gentleman come down, too—a very 'ansome, harristocratic-looking young man, I call him, and for all the world as like our pretty Miss Jasmine as if he was own brother to her—and they two and Miss Martineau are fairly scouring the place for that poor little tot Miss Daisy, who it seems 'as run away from home. Why, Hannah—Hannah Martin, woman! are you daft?"

For Hannah had rushed from the shop while Mrs. Jones was speaking, leaving her neglected paper and two or three pence behind her on the counter. A few moments later the good soul was knocking at Miss Martineau's door, and very soon Primrose and Arthur Noel too were in possession of all the facts that Hannah could give them.

"Oh, Hannah! it is so good to think you were the one to save her and find her," said Primrose, as she kissed her old nurse, and shed some thankful tears.

"You had better come back with me now, Miss Primrose," said Hannah, "and perhaps the gentleman or Miss Martineau will send a telegraphic message to poor Miss Jasmine."

But Primrose's difficulties had not come to an end. She instantly started to walk across the fields with Hannah; but when Daisy heard she had come she absolutely refused to see her, and cried so piteously, and got into such an excited state, that Primrose felt herself obliged to yield to the child's caprice, and to keep out of the room.

"I can't see her, Hannah," poor little Daisy said. "Of all people in all the world, I can't see my own Primrose. Oh, if only I were well enough to go to Mrs. Ellsworthy, or if only the Prince would come!"

Primrose heard Daisy's weak little voice through the thin walls of Hannah's cottage.

"Hannah," she said, "I know who Daisy means by the Prince. The Prince is that kind Mr. Noel, who has been helping me to find the little darling. If he has not gone back to London, for he said he would go back at once after he knew we had found Daisy, he could come to her. Oh, Hannah," continued poor Primrose, "I cannot think what has happened to your dear baby, Daisy. I begin to believe what Mr. Noel has been hinting to me—that some one has got a secret influence over her."

"We had better see and find this Mr. Noel at once, miss, now," said practical Hannah. "We can think of secret influences and all that sort of thing when we have found the gentleman whom the dear child is pining to see. If Mr. Noel is still at Rosebury you had better put on your hat, Miss Primrose, and walk across the fields to the village, and bring him back with you. I'll stay with Miss Daisy and soothe her the best way I can. She's dreadful agitated and very weak and trembling ever since you came in, miss."

Primrose said she would go back to Rosebury directly, and she was so fortunate as to meet Noel as he was starting for London.

"You must come with me," she said earnestly. "I fear our dear little Daisy is even worse than Hannah represented her to be. She has absolutely refused to see me, and talks only about you and Mrs. Ellsworthy. I don't know what she can want with either of you, but it is quite evident that she thinks you can help her and save her from some great trouble. Poppy said she wanted Mrs. Ellsworthy to give her money; I suppose to replace what she lost of mine. Well, Mrs. Ellsworthy is not here; so can you come to see her to-night?"

"I will come at once, Miss Mainwaring," answered Noel. "If we walk down this street we shall pass the post-office, and I can send a telegram to Mrs. Ellsworthy and also to my servant, Lawson. I must try and get into town some time to-morrow, however, for I have got to attend the trial of no less a person than your old landlord, Dove. He was apprehended for stealing a bank-note and a ring from my mantle-piece."

"I never liked that man," said Primrose; "indeed, I never thought either of the Doves quite honest. Mrs. Dove made a rule of keeping back a little of the money she borrowed from me on all occasions."

Then Primrose and Noel walked as quickly as they could down the village street. Noel despatched his necessary telegram, and in a short time they both found themselves in Hannah's humble cottage.

"She is asleep," said Hannah, as she came out to meet them. "She is moaning in her sleep, and she gives sighs enough to break your heart. You had better, both of you, stay in my little sitting-room until she awakes."

"If you will allow me," said Noel, "I will go and sit beside her bed; she is accustomed to me. I will promise to be very careful in my dealings with her. I believe I can talk to her without startling her in the least."

Hannah looked dubious, but Primrose interposed in her gentle voice—

"Yes, Hannah, Mr. Noel will not startle Daisy; he has always had a most happy influence over her."

Poor little Daisy! the sight of her wan face, the anxious expression which seemed indelibly stamped on her childish brow, gave Noel so strong a sense of pain and indignation that he sincerely longed to secure for Dove as severe a punishment as the law would give. He sat down gently by the humble little bed, and when the child moaned and tossed in her sleep he laid his cool hand on her forehead. That hand had a magnetic effect—even in her sleep Daisy seemed to know it. She murmured, "The Prince, has he come?" and a moment after she opened her dark blue eyes and fixed them on Noel, while a very faint smile flitted across her little face.

"You have come at last, Mr. Prince. I am very, very glad; I have wanted you," she said.

"I have wanted you, Daisy; I have been looking for you everywhere. I have been in great trouble about you," answered Noel, in his gentlest tones.

"Have you?" said little Daisy; "I am sorry you have been in trouble. Do you know that Primrose came to-day and I could not see her? I can see you, but not Primrose. Please let me hold your hand. I don't feel so dreadfully weak when I hold your hand. Will you stoop down, and let me talk to you. I can't talk at all loud, for I'm dreadfully weak. Do you know, Mr. Prince, that I'm going to die?"

"No, Daisy, I don't think you are," answered Noel. I am the Prince who delivers little girls from ogres. I never heard of a little girl dying after she was delivered from the ogre."

"Wicked little girls are not delivered," answered Daisy. "I was so dreadfully cowardly. I was afraid of a dark dungeon, and so—and so—but I mustn't tell you. I did lose Primrose's money, and I was a coward, but I haven't been so bad yet as to tell a lie. You mustn't ask me to tell you what it all means, Mr. Prince, for I can't. I hope very much you'll forgive me for being a cowardly little girl; God has, long ago, for I asked Him, and I am not really afraid to die. I shouldn't feel a bit afraid or unhappy about it if I thought Primrose and Jasmine could have their money."

Here Daisy's voice quite failed her, and she looked so dreadfully white and weak that Noel began to fear there was some truth in her poor little words. He saw that their interview must not be prolonged, and that he must give the child relief as soon as possible.

"Daisy, you have got to listen to me," he said. "You need say very little yourself, but you can listen to my words. I know why you want to see Mrs. Ellsworthy—yes, dear, you can hold my hand as tightly as possible. No, don't tremble; you want Mrs. Ellsworthy to give you some money. She is not here; I know she would help you, and feel sorry for you, but there are others who do that. Daisy, suppose I give you back your money instead of Mrs. Ellsworthy? Give me your little hand, dear, and let me put the money into it. Here; it makes quite a small parcel—a ten-pound note, a five-pound note, two sovereigns and a half. Now, Daisy, shall we keep this as a little secret between ourselves? Primrose will ask no questions if you beg of her not, and when you have put that money into her hand will you not be able to have her with you again?"

Daisy's little hot hand closed tightly over the money. She did not speak, or even attempt to thank Noel, but her eyes, wider and wider open each moment, were fixed intently on his face.

"That is settled, then, Daisy," continued Noel, "and we need not think of Mrs. Ellsworthy just at present, for you do not now need her services. Of course a Prince is the right person to deliver a little girl from a dreadful ogre. I don't see that Mrs. Ellsworthy should have anything to do with it. Now, my dear, I'm going to say one or two other things to you—you need not feel the least frightened."

"May I really keep the money?" whispered Daisy at last.

"Of course, I said so. We will not say any more on this subject at present. I have given you the money to-night, because I want you to have Primrose sitting by your side and nursing you and comforting you. When Primrose is with you again you will cease to think those gloomy thoughts about dying. Now I have something else to add before I leave you."

Noel had now taken a very firm hold of Daisy's little hand. She had been trembling a good deal, but she had certainly grown calmer. Perhaps the knowledge that she really did possess some money to give to Primrose was comforting her. Noel felt a sense of distress at disturbing even for her eventual good the child's present calm. It must be done, however, and he thought a moment how he could most gently deal with her.

"I'm going to tell you a story, Daisy," he said—"a very sad story, and, alas, a true one. There lives a little girl, I will not tell her name, although I know it, who has been unfortunate enough to get into the power of a very bad man. The man is very, very bad, but I will not mention his name here, although I know it also. The man came to the little girl and talked to her, and no doubt he threatened her, and at last he made her promise him something—what, I cannot say. From the moment this little girl made this promise she became thin and white, and anxious and unhappy. She struggled against the terrible promise which seemed to bind her with fetters of iron, but she could never get away from it, and the man appeared like a terrible ogre to her, and she longed for a Prince to come and deliver her from him. The wicked man having terrified this poor little girl, did his best to use his influence over her to his own ends. At one time she lived in the house with him, but although she struggled against it her friends induced her to go elsewhere. Even in the new palace, however, she was not safe from the terrible ogre; he followed her, and, it is to be feared, although nothing is absolutely known, that he used cruel threats to induce her to give him some money which was not hers to give. The poor little weak girl was afraid to consult any one on account of her promise. It was quite natural she should think it right to keep her promise, although it was very sad. She was so completely under the power of the wicked man, or the ogre, as we will call him, that she gave him her sister's money—the money that was to support them all for some months, and then in her great despair she ran away." Here Noel paused—Daisy's eyes were fixed on him. Her face was white as death.

"You see, dear, it is a painful story," he said, "but it is not quite finished yet. The poor little girl ran away, but she never knew what was happening to the ogre. That wicked man was not allowed to continue his evil ways without punishment. At the present moment he is locked up safely in prison, where he can hurt no one. He was put there because he stole a five-pound note and a ring from the gentleman whom the little girl used to call the Prince. It is believed, though of course nothing is certainly known, nor will be until the little girl is taken out of the thraldom of the ogre and confesses what has happened, that this wicked man has also stolen a good deal of money from an envelope which the elder sister used to consider her 'Emergency Fund' envelope. In short, it is thought that his one object in frightening the poor little girl was simply to rob her and her sisters. Now that he is in prison, however, and quite out of the way of harming any one, it is greatly hoped by those who love her that the poor little one, who was made to suffer so cruelly, will be released from the thraldom of the wicked ogre, and be made to see that there are times and circumstances during which even the most truthful little girl would do better to break her word than to keep it. Now, Daisy, that is the end of my story; I've got nothing more to say about it, for at present I know nothing more. Good-night, dear—I will send Primrose to you. I will come to you when you want me again."



CHAPTER XLVI.

DELIVERED FROM THE OGRE.

"Here's the money, Primrose—here's all the money," said little Daisy, in a weak, weak voice, when her sister came up to her bedside, and bent over her. "It was lost and the Prince brought it back; you won't ask me any questions about it, will you, Primrose?"

"No," exclaimed Primrose, in her very quiet and matter-of-fact voice—the kind of voice which was most soothing to the excitable and nervous child at the present moment.

"I'm glad to have it back, Daisy, dear, for I have missed it; but of course, I shan't ask you any questions about it. I shall just put it into my purse, and you shall see what a nice fat purse I have got once more."

Then Primrose held her little sister's hand, and shook up her pillows, and tended her as only she knew how, but all that night Daisy grew more and more restless. The drowsy state in which she had hitherto been had changed to one of wakefulness. All through the long night the little creature's bright eyes remained open, and her anxious face had a question on it which yet she never spoke. At last, as the bright summer's morning broke, she turned to Primrose and said eagerly—

"Kneel down, Primrose, and ask God what a very ignorant, very unhappy little girl ought to do. Oh, Primrose, it's all about a promise—a promise that was most faithfully given. What shall I do about it?"

"Do you want to keep it, or to break it?" asked Primrose.

"It seems to me I ought to keep it, Primrose, because a promise, faithfully given, ought always to be kept; but Mr. Noel says I ought to break this promise; oh, I don't know what to do!"

"Your heart won't be at rest, Daisy, and you won't really get better, until you do know what to do," answered Primrose. "Of course, I will kneel down and ask God to tell you."

Then the elder sister prayed aloud a very few earnest words, and the little one joined her in whispered sentences. The prayer was not long, but in Daisy's case it was quickly answered. When the morning quite broke, and the real working-day had begun, Primrose sent a message to Noel to come at once to see the child. Daisy received him with a touching little smile.

"Was the little girl me?" she asked. "And was the wicked, wicked ogre, Mr. Dove?"

"It is clever of you to guess that much, Daisy," answered Noel.

"Am I the little girl?" continued Daisy, "who made a promise which she ought now to break? Will God forgive me for breaking a promise which I made so very, very faithfully? Mr. Noel, I will tell you something. That promise has nearly killed me. The old Daisy went away when that promise was made, and such a poor, cowardly, wretched Daisy came in her place. She'd have been selfish, too, but for you; but you taught her a little bit about the Palace Beautiful, and she was trying to be good in spite of the dreadful promise. Then the ogre came again, and the second time he was so dreadful that she even became very selfish to get rid of him. Oh, Mr. Noel, is it right for me—will God think it really right for me—to break that dreadful promise?"

"He will, Daisy. The promise ought never to have been made. Only an innocent and ignorant little child would have made it; yes, Daisy, dear, yours is one of the rare cases of a promise better broken than kept. See, I am the Prince, and I'm going to take the spell of the ogre from you. The wicked ogre is locked up in a dungeon instead of you, and the Prince commands the poor little captive to tell him everything."

Then Daisy, with some broken sobs, and with a piteous light in her blue eyes, told Noel the whole cruel story. He listened without once interrupting the little narrator. When she had finished, he kissed her, and told her that she now had nothing to fear, and then, bidding her sleep away all her troubles, he left her to Primrose's care. By the next train he himself went to London in full time to attend Dove's trial.

That worthy was at first inclined to brazen matters out, but when Noel, primed with Daisy's confession, appeared on the scene, his face underwent a remarkable change. Its rubicund tints quite deserted it, an alarming pallor spreading over every feature. Tommy Dove, who might have been seen in a foremost position amongst the crowd of spectators, was heard audibly to exclaim—

"Law, I guess there ain't no leg for my respected pa to stand on now!"

This, although not expressed aloud, seemed also to be Dove's opinion, for he then and there made a full confession of his wicked practices, and of the cruel threats he had employed to terrify Daisy. He received his sentence, which was a severe one, with much stoicism, and, as he was led away from his place in the prisoner's dock, addressed a parting word to his affectionate and hysterical spouse—

"Never mind, Mrs. Dove, my only love, even fourteen years comes to an end somehow, and when we meets again we'll make a rule for there being no attic lodgers."

"To the very end his was a poetic turn," his wife afterwards remarked to her favorite cronies.



CHAPTER XLVII.

ALMOST DEFEATED.

With the weight of her secret removed Daisy began slowly, very slowly, to mend. The strain she had undergone had been too great for her quickly to recover her strength; but little by little a faint color did return to her white cheeks, she slept more peacefully, and began to eat again.

"There's nothing at all for you to do, Miss Primrose," said Hannah, "but to give up that post of continually screaming out book and newspaper stuff to a deaf old lady."

"She isn't deaf, Hannah," interrupted Primrose. "She wants me to read to her because her sight is very bad."

"Well, well," replied Hannah Martin, in a testy tone, "whether she's deaf or whether she's blind, it ain't no way a fit post for you, Miss Primrose. You've got to stay here now, and take care of that precious little lamb, and you had better send for Miss Jasmine to keep you company."

"I am certainly not going to leave Daisy at present," replied Primrose. "I've got money enough to go on with, but I must go back to town as soon as possible in order to earn enough to return Mr. Noel's money to him. As to Jasmine, do you know, Hannah, she has got quite a nice way of making a little income? You remember how cleverly she always arranged the flowers in our drawing-room at dear Rosebury, and how our mother always asked her to make bouquets for her? It now seems that Jasmine has got rather remarkable taste, and some fine ladies in London are employing her to arrange flowers on their dinner-tables. They pay her very well indeed for this, and the labor is nothing at all."

"Hoot!" said Hannah; "I think it's rather demeaning of herself. Well, Miss Primrose, I suppose the poor dear will want a holiday the same as the rest of you. To tell the truth, Miss Primrose, my old eyes ache to see the darling, she was always such a bonny one."

Primrose smiled.

"When the fine ladies go out of town, Hannah, we will have Jasmine down, and you shall squeeze us all into that nice, cosy little bedroom of yours. What a good thing it was, Hannah; that you did not follow us to London, but that you started this nice shop in the country, for now we three girls can have our change in the country at such small expense."

Tears started to Hannah's eyes.

"I've been always saving up for this, Miss Primrose, and if you will talk of paying me at all, I'll never forgive you; aren't you my nurslings, all three of you, and the only creatures I have got to live for?"

In the meantime while things were mending for Primrose and Daisy, and Daisy was beginning once more to get that soft pink in her cheeks which gave her such a curious and touching likeness to her name-flower, poor little Jasmine, left behind in her Palace Beautiful, was not having quite so good a time.

Jasmine was beset by several worries and anxieties; she was also extremely lonely, for Miss Egerton, owing to the dangerous illness of a near relation, was still absent from home, and Poppy, driven by the dire necessity of earning bread to eat, had been obliged to return, as little maid-of-all-work, to Penelope Mansion.

Jasmine was alone, but she was a brave child, and her strong longing now was to help Primrose, and above all things not to ask for any money from her.

For the first few days after Primrose had gone to the country the poor little girl's resources were very meagre indeed. She had thought that first sovereign she had earned simply inexhaustible, but it was surprising how it melted in her inexperienced grasp, and how very, very little it seemed capable of purchasing.

In her first delight at finding herself capable of earning money she had written an extravagantly hopeful letter to Primrose.

"You need not think at all of me, dear Primrose," she wrote; "keep all the money you can collect to buy nice nourishing things for dear little Daisy. Perhaps I shall become quite famous as an arranger of flowers on great London dinner-tables. If I do get orders, and I think I am sure of them, I shall not only be able to pay my own London expenses, but will save something towards our emergency fund. Oh, Primrose, my heart burns with longings to earn lots of money, and to be great and strong and famous!"

This poor little enthusiastic letter reached Primrose when Daisy was at her worst, and it so happened that it lightened her cares about the little sister alone in London. She felt quite sure that Jasmine was getting plenty of orders, and was earning sufficient money for her own modest wants in the pretty way she spoke of; and in consequence she did not send her any of the money which Daisy had returned to her.

But poor little Jasmine was not receiving orders so fast as Primrose anticipated. One or two other ladies did ask her to dress their dinner-tables for them, and one or two more promised to do so, and then forgot all about it; but no one paid her as well as Mrs. Daintree had done. Noel was out of town, and was unable to interest himself in her behalf, and so it came to pass that the slender purse could not supply the modest needs, and Jasmine was much too proud, and too determined to help herself, to write to Primrose for money.