These were hard days for the little girl—days which were to prove the stuff she was made of to the very uttermost—but doubtless they gave her, as all anxious days of pain bravely borne do, a valuable experience and a depth of character which she could not otherwise have acquired.

The lesson she was to learn, however, was a painful one, and its sharpness was to be felt very quickly.

Jasmine's hope of hopes lay in her beloved manuscript. That story, the first-fruits of her young genius, must surely make her purse bulky, and must wreathe her little brow with laurels. That story, too, was to refund poor Poppy the money she had lent, and was to enable Jasmine to live in comfort during her sister's absence.

One day, about ten days after Primrose had gone to Rosebury, Jasmine stood by the windows of the Palace Beautiful to watch the postman. He was coming up the street, and Jasmine greatly, greatly hoped he would stop at Miss Egerton's and drop into the letter-box, perhaps, a letter from Primrose, and more delightful still, a roll of proofs of her dear story. The postman, however, passed on his way, and gave his loud rat-tat at the doors to right and the doors to left, but neither sounded the bell nor gave his double-knock at Miss Egerton's door. Jasmine sighed deeply, and retiring from the window, sat down to her frugal breakfast. She looked pale, and her eyes were not as bright and starry as usual. Presently she took out her purse and looked at its contents. This was Thursday. She had dressed a dinner-table on Monday, and had received seven and sixpence. Her purse now contained three shillings, and she certainly could not accuse herself of any extravagance in the matter of diet.

"This will never do," she said to herself. "I believe if I do not get any more money I shall be obliged to apply to Primrose, and it was only last night I heard from dear old Rose saying how glad she was that I was able to support myself. She said Daisy's illness had cost a great deal, and we must all economize in every possible manner for some time. Dear darling old Primrose, I will not ask her to help me—I will manage for myself. Now how shall I do it? I am afraid those ladies did not care for the star arrangement of flowers which I made at that last house. I thought them lovely, peeping out through their dark green leaves, but I heard Mrs. Lee whispering to Mrs. Mansell, 'How peculiar! do you quite like it?' and then Mrs. Mansell said nothing more about my dressing her dinner-table. Her dinner-party was to have been to-day, and she almost promised to have me when I arrived in the morning. Well, there is no use thinking of that; I cannot swell my purse in that manner this day, that is very evident. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall I do?"

Here a sudden thought came to Jasmine. Under its influence her cheeks flushed, and her eyes began to shine.

"Why, of course," she exclaimed; "how very silly of me to forget!—my hundred copies of The Joy-bell ought to have arrived by now. Yes, of course they ought, and perhaps I shall be able to sell some of them. I have no doubt Mrs. Dredge would buy a couple if Poppy asked her and perhaps Mrs. Mortlock and Miss Slowcum would also like to see my first story in print. Yes, of course, I can sell a few copies. Bridget said she would buy one, and she said she had two cronies who would be sure to take a copy each. Yes, I expect I shall make a few shillings by the sale of The Joy-bell to-day, and that will keep me going fine. Oh, dear! the very moment I have earned a little money by them I must send a copy down to Daisy. Won't the darling like to show my words of genius to Primrose? I'll run downstairs this minute, and ask Bridget if she has not got a parcel for me."

But alas! no Joy-bells had arrived for Jasmine, and after the little girl had wondered a great deal, and talked the matter over with Bridget she determined to put on her hat and go off to consult with Poppy.

She was not long finding her way to Penelope Mansion, and Poppy opened the door for her, but greeted her in a sad voice, and looked decidedly depressed.

"I have come about The Joy-bell" began Jasmine at once, in an excited voice. "It ought to have come—my hundred copies, you know, and they haven't. I must go to inquire about it at once; and, Poppy, dear, could you come with me?"

Poppy turned very red.

"No, Miss Jasmine, darling, I couldn't," she said, in the meekest voice.

Poppy's tones were so unlike those she usually employed that Jasmine glanced at her in some surprise.

"Why, Poppy, how funny you are!" she exclaimed. "Is anything the matter?"

"Don't you notice it, Miss Jasmine, but I'm a bit low-like," said Poppy. "I has my low fits and my high fits same as t'other folks, and this is a low fit day—that's all, miss."

"Oh! I am so sorry. Poor Poppy! And is the swimming in your head as bad as ever?"

"It's continual, Miss Jasmine. It seems to have become a kind of habit, same as the smuts and the Sarah Janes. A swimming head is most certain the London style of head for a girl like me. Yes, I am sorry I can't go with you, Miss Jasmine, darling, but I can't this morning. I hope you will get safe to the City, miss, and that you will see the editor, and give it to him sharp for not sending you your Joy-bells. Oh, my, Miss Jasmine! to think that your beautiful words is in print at last! Most likely the whole of London is flooded by them now, and the editor will be asking you for more of your words of beauty and wisdom. You make a sharp bargain with him, Miss Jasmine, and before you put pen to paper again for him, you get your money down. There's nothing so safe in clinching a bargain as money down. Oh, dear! I wish I could go with you. And, Miss Jasmine, if you could find it convenient to pay me back say one and sixpence of the little loan, I'll be for ever obliged, darling."

At this moment Mrs. Flint's voice was heard calling Poppy, and demanding who she was standing gossiping with. Mrs. Flint's voice sounded quite sharp, and Jasmine guessed that something unusual must have occurred to disturb her, for Mrs. Flint was known on principle never to excite herself.

"What is the matter with her?" she inquired of Poppy, who flushed up at her tones.

"Oh, nothing, miss. She's only a bit put out about the broken boots. There, I must run."

Poppy almost shut the door in Jasmine's face. She was certainly very unlike her usual self.

Jasmine walked down the steps of the Mansion, and slowly, very slowly, went up the street to meet the omnibus which was to convey her Citywards.

She was quite a clever little Londoner now, and knew which were the right omnibuses to take, and, in short, how to find her way about town. She hailed the City omnibus, and hastily and humbly took her place amongst its crowded passengers. She was the unlucky twelfth, and her advent was certainly not hailed with delight. The bright morning had turned to rain, and the passengers, most of them women, were wrapped up in waterproof cloaks. Jasmine, when she entered the omnibus, looked so small, so timid, and unimportant, that no one thought it worth while even to move for her, and at last she was thankful to get a little pin-point of room between two very buxom ladies, who both almost in the same breath desired her not to crowd them, and both also fiercely requested her to keep her wet dress from touching their waterproofs.

At another time Jasmine would have been quite spirited enough to resent the unfriendly behavior of the inmates of the City 'bus; but her interview with Poppy had depressed her greatly, and she had a kind of terrified little fear that she knew the reason of Mrs. Flint's sharp tones, that she could guess why Poppy's bright face should look so dismal, and why she was obliged so earnestly to beg of her to return her one and sixpence.

"She wants her own money—her wages, that she earned with a swimming head and all," thought poor Jasmine. "How selfish of me not to remember before that of course, poor Poppy would want her wages; it is perfectly dreadful to think of her doing without them. Why, of course, Mrs. Flint would be likely to scold her if she went about with her ragged boots when she earns such good wages. Poor, dear, brave Poppy! she would never tell what she did with her money. Well, she must have it all back to-day. Yes, I am determined about that, she shall have it back, to-day."

Jasmine was thinking so hard, and so absorbing was her theme, that she leaned unconsciously against the fat neighbor on her right. This good person immediately pushed her with some vigor into the arms of the portly neighbor on her left, who exclaimed, in a cross voice—

"Lor' sakes! my dear, sit upright, do."

"I hope the young person will soon get out," exclaimed the other neighbor. "I call it downright unconscionable to crowd up Christian women like this. Might I make bold to inquire, miss, when you are thinking of alighting?"

"I am going to Paternoster Row," said Jasmine, in a meek voice. "I do not think I am very far from there now."

"Oh, no, miss! we have only to go down Newgate Street, and there you are. It's a queer place, is Paternoster Row, not that I knows much about it."

"A mighty bookish place," took up the other neighbor "they say they are all bookworms that live there, and that they are as dry as bits of parchment. I shouldn't say that a bright little miss like you had any call to go near such a place."

Jasmine drew herself up, and her face became sunshiny once more.

"You would not think," she began, with an air of modest pride, "that I belong to the booky and the parchmenty people, but I do. I am going down the Row to inquire about one of my publications, perhaps I ought to say my first, so I am anxious about it."

"Lor', who would have thought it!" exclaimed both the ladies, but they instantly fell back and seemed to think it better to leave so alarmedly learned a little girl alone. For the remainder of the ride they talked across Jasmine about the price of onions, and where the cheapest bacon was to be purchased, and they both breathed a sigh of relief when she stepped out into the rain and they could once more expand themselves in the space which she had occupied.

Meanwhile the forlorn little adventurer walked down the narrow path of this celebrated Row. It was still raining heavily, and Jasmine's umbrella had several rents in its canopy. Now that she was so close to her destination she began to feel strangely nervous, and many fears hitherto unknown beset her. Suppose, after all, The Joy-bell which contained the first portion of her story had not had a large success; suppose, after all, the public were not so delighted with her flowing words. Perhaps the editor would receive her very coldly, and would tell her what a loss her story had been, and how indisposed he felt to go on with it. If this was the case she never, never would have courage to ask him to give her Poppy's wages. If the editor scolded her she felt that she would be incapable of saying a word in her own defence. Nay, she thought it extremely probable that then and there she would burst into tears. Undoubtedly, she was in a very low frame of mind to-day. She, as well as Poppy, had her low fit on, and she greatly trembled for the result of the coming interview. Since that pathetic little last speech of Poppy's about her broken boots Jasmine had quite forgotten how sorely she needed money for herself. Her one and only desire just now was to restore Poppy's money.

"I must do it," she said to herself; "I must do it, and I will. I have made up my mind, and I really need not be so frightened. After all, Poppy and Daisy are both quite sure that I am a genius. Daisy says that I have got the face of a genius, and Poppy was in such great, great delight at my story. It is not likely that they would both be wrong, and Poppy is a person of great discernment. I must cheer up and believe what they told me. I daresay Poppy is right, and London is half-flooded with my story. Ah, here I am at the entrance of the court where the editor of The Joy-bell lives. How funny it is to be here all alone. I really feel quite like a heroine. Now I am at the office—how queer, how very queer—I do not see any Joy-bells pressed up against the window. No, not a single one; there are lots of other books and papers, but no Joy-bells. Dear, dear! my heart does beat, for I am thinking that perhaps Poppy is right, and that all the copies of The Joy-bells are bought up; that, of course, is on account of my story." Then Jasmine entered the house, and went into a little office where a red-haired boy was sitting on a high stool before a dirty-looking desk. The boy had a facetious and rather unpleasant face, and was certainly not remarkable for good manners.

"I want to see the editor of The Joy-bell," asked Jasmine, in as firm a tone as she could command.

The red-haired boy raised his eyes from a huge ledger which he was pretending to occupy himself over, and said, "Can't see him," in a laconic tone, and dropped his eyes again.

"But why?" asked Jasmine, somewhat indignantly. "I have particular business with him; it is most necessary that I should see him. Pray, let him know that I am here."

"Very sorry," replied the boy, "but can't."

"Why not?"

"'Cause he ain't in town."

"Oh!"

Poor Jasmine fell back a pace or two; then she resumed in a different tone—

"I am very much disappointed; there is a story of mine in The Joy-bell, and I wanted to speak to him about it. It was very important, indeed," she added, in so sad a voice that the red-haired boy gazed at her in some astonishment.

"My word," he said, "then you do not know?"

"Don't know what?"

"Why, we has had a funeral here."

"A funeral—oh, dear! oh, dear! is the editor of The Joy-bell dead?"

Here the red-haired boy burst into a peal of irrepressible laughter.

"Dead! he ain't dead, but The Joy-bell is; we had her funeral last week."

Poor Jasmine staggered against the wall, and her pretty face became ghastly white.

"Oh, boy," she said, "do tell me about it; how can The Joy-bell be dead, and have a funeral? Oh, please, don't jest with me, for it's so important."

The genuine distress in her tones touched at last some vulnerable point in the facetious office-boy's breast.

"I'm real sorry for you, miss," he said, "particular as you seems so cut up; but what I tell you is true, and you had better know it. That editor has gone, and The Joy-bell is decently interred. I was at her birth, and I was at her funeral. She had a short life, and was never up to much. I never guessed she'd hold out as long as she did; but the editor was a cute one, and for a time he bamboozled his authors, and managed to live on them. Yes, The Joy-bell is in her quiet grave at last, and can't do no more harm to nobody. Lor', miss, I wouldn't take on if I was you, you'd soon get accustomed to it if you had a desk at an office like this. In at the births, and in at the deaths am I, and I don't make no count of one or t'other. Why, now, there was The Stranger—which went in for pictorial get up, and was truly elegant—it only lasted six months; and there was The Ocean Wave, which did not even live as long. And there was Merrie Lassie—oh, their names is legion. We'll have another started in no time. So you must be going, miss? Well, good morning. If I was you, miss, I wouldn't send no more stories to this yere office."



CHAPTER XLVIII.

ONE SHOE OFF AND ONE SHOE ON.

"I must see you, Poppy—I must see you, and I can't come into the house. I could not face Mrs. Mortlock, nor Mrs. Dredge, nor Miss Slowcum. I am a dreadful failure, Poppy, a dreadful, dreadful failure, and I cannot look any one in the face. Do come out with me, dear Poppy, and at once; for if I can't speak to you at the present moment my heart will break."

"They're teaing just now," said Poppy, in a reflective tone; "they are all in the dining-room as snug as possible over their high tea. They have shrimps for tea, and a wonderful new kind of paste that Aunt Flint brought in to-day. It's called Gentlemen's Relish, and eats well on hot toast, and I made a lot. Oh, my! won't the ladies go in for it! Though Miss Slowcum always is so bitter against gentlemen, she will eat their relish, and no mistake. Well, Miss Jasmine they are all engaged over the pleasures of the social board, and what's to hinder you and me going down to the back scullery and having our talk there? You see, miss, if I went out with you I'd have to tidy up a bit first, and that would take time."

"You are quite sure they won't hear me, Poppy, if I walk across the hall. Miss Slowcum is dreadfully curious, and if she heard my step in the hall she would run out even though she was eating Gentlemen's Relish. I do not want any one to see me now that I am a failure."

"Step on this mat," said Poppy—"now on this; now make a spring here. There you are. Now we'll be down in my scullery long before Miss Slowcum can get to the dining-room door. Now, miss, let me put a seat for you. The scullery ain't so damp to-day, is it, Miss Jasmine?"

"I don't know," said Jasmine, who looked very tired, and almost ill. "Poppy, dear, I have not brought the one and sixpence."

"Oh, it don't matter," said Poppy. "One and sixpence never fretted me yet, and it ain't going to begin. You'll pay me when you can, Miss Jasmine, and there ain't no hurry."

But Jasmine noticed that Poppy moved her little feet out of sight, and in spite of her brave words Jasmine observed a look of dismay creeping into her bright eyes.

This slight action on Poppy's part—this little lurking gleam of disappointment—were as the proverbial last straw to poor Jasmine. Her fortitude gave way, and she burst into the bitterest tears she had ever shed.

Poppy was much alarmed, and stood over her dear little lady, and brought her cold water, and tried to comfort her by every means in her power.

When Jasmine had a little recovered herself she told the whole bitter story of her morning's adventure to Poppy. That young person's indignation knew no bounds.

"The editor must be put in prison," she said; "he must be caught and put in prison. Mrs. Jones the charwoman has a second cousin once removed, whose first cousin is married to a policeman, and Mrs. Jones is coming here to-morrow, and I'll get her to see her second cousin, and the second cousin shall see her first cousin who is married to a policeman, and he will tell us what is to be done. That's going to the fountainhead, ain't it, Miss Jasmine? Never you fear, miss, darling, that editor shall be locked up in prison, and be made to give back your money. Never you fear, dear Miss Jasmine, it will all come right when Mrs. Jones sees her second cousin who has a first cousin who is married to a policeman!"

Poppy became quite cheerful when she remembered Mrs. Jones's remarkable means of getting at a policeman, but Jasmine could not be comforted; she shook her head almost petulantly.

"It's all most puzzling for me," she said, "about Mrs. Jones and her policemen; it sounds exactly like the House that Jack Built, and I shall have a swimming head myself if I listen to you. No, Poppy, that policeman will never lock the wicked editor up in prison; he is a great deal too clever to allow himself to be locked up. Oh, dear! Poppy, what shall I do? All your money is gone, and my story is gone, and I know you are wanting boots as badly as possible. You are a dear, brave Poppy, but I know you have not a boot to your foot."

"Yes, Miss Jasmine, I has, I has one boot and one shoe; the shoe is an out-door one, and heavy, and the boot is a light one. Worn together, they make one walk a little one-sided, and the ladies, in particular Miss Slowcum, don't like it, but, lor', that don't matter nothing to speak of; they can't do nothing to me except tack on a few more names to Sarah. It don't fret me, Miss Jasmine, and it needn't fret you."

"All the same, I am going to get you your money, Poppy. I have absolutely made up my mind. I don't know how to do it, but do it I will. I had to come here to-night to tell you what had really happened; but now I am going home. You won't have to wear that dreadful boot and shoe together much longer."

After this Jasmine managed to walk through the hall without being detected by Miss Slowcum; and very tired and weary, in process of time she found her way back to the Palace Beautiful. She drank a glass of milk which Bridget had laid ready for her, and ate two or three slices of bread and butter. Then she went into the little bedroom, with its three pretty white beds, and opening her own special trunk began to examine its contents. She was dreadfully frightened at what she was about to do, but all the same she was determined to do it. She would pawn or sell what little valuables she possessed to give Poppy back her wages.

When the girls left Rosebury, Primrose made a very careful division of her mother's possessions. To Jasmine's share had come some really beautiful Spanish lace. Jasmine had not particularly admired it, but Primrose fancied that it would some day suit her speaking and vivacious face better than it would herself or Daisy. Jasmine had jammed the lace into a corner of her trunk, and but for the memory of dear mamma which it called up, would have made it a present to anybody. But one day it so happened that Miss Egerton caught sight of it; she exclaimed at its beauty, and said that it was really worth a considerable sum of money.

The lace consisted of a handsome shawl of black Spanish, and what was more beautiful, and also rarer, two very lovely flounces of white.

Miss Egerton was quite right when she spoke of the lace as valuable, but her ideas of value and Jasmine's were widely different. Jasmine would have thought herself well repaid if any one had given her Poppy's wages for the old lace; she would indeed have opened her eyes had she known at what sum Miss Egerton valued it. In addition to the lace Jasmine had a little thin gold ring which Mrs. Mainwaring had worn as a guard to her wedding-ring. Jasmine much preferred the ring to the lace, but she slipped it on her finger, intending to part with it also, if the lace did not fetch enough money. She knew that Primrose would be deeply hurt at the lace being sold, for she had over and over said that come what might, they would not part with their few little home mementoes; but Jasmine was past caring even for what Primrose said to-night. With her lace wrapped up in an untidy parcel she slipped downstairs. Bridget came into the hall to speak to her.

"Look here, missie, is it not a little late for you to be going out?"

"Oh, not at all, Biddy, dear. I am going a little way. I won't be long."

Then Jasmine went up to the old servant and spoke in her most coaxing and fascinating tones.

"Biddy, what did you say was the sign of a pawnshop?"

"A pawnshop, Miss Jasmine? Why, bless us and save us, miss, what have you got to say to such places?"

"Oh, nothing in particular, Bridget, only I thought I would like to know. I am always trying to get information on every kind of subject. Is the pawnshop the sign of the three balls, Biddy?"

"Yes, yes, miss—what a curious young lady! There, run out and take your walk quick, and come back as soon as possible, for though it's close on Midsummer Day we'll have the night on us before you return if you are not quick."

Jasmine left the house, nodding brightly to Bridget as she did so, and the old servant returned to her interrupted work.

"She's a bright bonnie girl," she said to herself, "and hasn't she got a winsome way? I hope she drank up her milk, for she is looking a bit pale, and I hope she won't stay out late, for it may turn damp when the dew begins to fall."

Bridget was busy over her work, and was thinking of Jasmine after all in only a very lazy and comfortable fashion when a cab drew up to the door, and Miss Egerton most unexpectedly returned. She was not in the house a moment before she asked for Jasmine.

"She's just gone out, ma'am," answered Bridget. "She had a parcel in her hand, and she said she was going out for a run. No, ma'am, I don't say she's looking at all particularly well. She's very white and worried looking, and she is scarcely ever in the house. She says she must improve her mind, and that is why she is out, and she do ask the funniest questions. Just now it was to know what was the sign of a pawnshop."

"The sign of a pawnshop?" echoed Miss Egerton; "and did you tell her, Bridget?"

"Why, of course, ma'am. She said she wanted to know for the improving of her mind. She had a little parcel in her hand, and she said she would be back again in no time. Shall I get you a cup of tea, ma'am?"

"No, thank you, Bridget. I cannot eat until I find out about Miss Jasmine. I do not like her asking you those questions, Bridget, and I do not like her taking a little parcel with her. The child may be in want or trouble. I must see to it at once. Bridget, have you any idea which is the nearest pawnshop to this?"

"Oh, ma'am, there's Spiller's round the corner, and there's Davidson's in the main road. Now, Miss Egerton, I am most certain Miss Jasmine wanted to hear about the pawnshop for the sake of improving her mind, and for that reason only. I wish you would stay, ma'am, and have your cup of tea, for you look real tired."

But Miss Egerton was gone.



CHAPTER XLIX.

SPANISH LACE.

She walked quickly down the street, hoping every moment to overtake Jasmine. Miss Egerton had old-fashioned ideas about many things, and nothing could exceed her horror at the thought of this pretty and refined-looking child finding her way alone to a pawnshop.

"Poor little girl!" she said to herself. "She must be really in absolute want. What has she taken to pawn? Oh, dear! this anxiety is terrible—and yet, and yet, how glad I am to know those orphan girls."

Miss Egerton was very tired, had just returned from the death-bed of her dearest friend, had certainly heaps of worries of her own; but that did not prevent her whole heart from going out to Jasmine with an affection which was almost motherly.

When at last she found the little girl just coming out of Spiller's pawnshop she laid a trembling hand on her arm.

"Jasmine, oh, my dear child, you have been in there! You have been pawning something."

Jasmine was in such a depressed state of mind that even Miss Egerton's unexpected return failed to astonish her. She said, raising two sad eyes to the good lady's face—

"It was only that old Spanish lace. I always knew it was not worth much. The man only laughed when I asked for Poppy's wages for it. He has given me ten shillings, and I am going off with it to Poppy to-night. Yes, Miss Egerton, I must, I really must."

"What have you tried to pawn, Jasmine?" asked Miss Egerton, when she could find her voice. "Surely not that lovely, valuable Spanish lace. My dear child, come back with me into the shop this moment."

"But I must keep my ten shillings," exclaimed Jasmine "Oh! Miss Egerton, don't, don't! You don't know what has happened to me!"

Miss Egerton took Jasmine's little hand in hers.

"My poor child, you shall tell me all. Jasmine, dear, that lace is worth pounds. I shall redeem it at once, for my sake, if not for yours. There, poor little girl, keep your ten shillings, if it makes you happy."

The man who had lent Jasmine half a sovereign on the Spanish lace of course knew little or nothing of its true value, and the good lady had therefore small difficulty in getting it back. She walked home holding Jasmine's hot little hand, took her into her own pretty drawing-room, feasted her on many good things, which she had brought from the country, and finally made her tell her all her sorrowful little story.

"You always said that my writing was not up to much," said Jasmine, in conclusion. "I did not like you to say it, and I was most anxious to prove you wrong, but now I know that you are right."

Miss Egerton looked quietly at the excited child.

"My dear," she said, in her gentle tones, "I do not know—no one knows—whether in the future you will be able to write. Our writers ought to be our teachers. Do you think you are fit to teach, Jasmine?"

"I do not know," said Jasmine, hanging her head.

Miss Egerton got up, and laid her hand tenderly on the pretty little curly head.

"This day has taught you a grand though painful lesson, dearest. You will be better able to write in the future for and because of the suffering you have gone through to-day. Now, Jasmine, I will say no more—you must go straight to bed and to sleep. In the morning you can take your ten shillings to Poppy. Yes, dear, of course it is yours, and for the present the Spanish lace is mine."

Jasmine, notwithstanding all her troubles, slept soundly that night, but Miss Egerton lay awake.

"The time has come," she said to herself, "when energetic measures must be taken. The girls—dear, brave, sweet girls—have undoubtedly to a certain extent failed. Poor little Jasmine! she might have had a worse experience than the loss of that silly manuscript. But what terrible dangers sweet little Daisy ran! Yes, I shall go and have a talk with Mrs. Ellsworthy to-morrow—I know she is in town."

Accordingly, when Jasmine went off to see Poppy holding her half-sovereign firmly inside her glove, and dimly wondering if she would have any money of her own left to buy some dinner with presently, Miss Egerton stepped into an omnibus which presently put her down in the vicinity of Park Lane. She was fortunate in finding Mrs. Ellsworthy at home, and also disengaged.

The good little lady received her with delight, for Miss Egerton was a prime favorite with her.

"Arthur tells me that you know my girls," she said presently. "He hints to me that you and he have a secret knowledge of the address of my naughty, troublesome girls."

"I do know where they are to be found," said Miss Egerton in her gravest tones; "but before I begin to talk about them I want to transact a little business with you. I know how kind you are, and how fond of helping people in distress. At the present moment a lady of my acquaintance is in great poverty; she has got some valuable Spanish lace. I should like to sell it for her."

"I adore Spanish lace," said Mrs. Ellsworthy, her eyes sparkling.

"I thought I once heard you say you did, so I have brought it with me. May I show it to you?"

"How good of you, dear Miss Egerton; let me see it at once. Real Spanish lace is of great value. Oh, and white, too! What lovely flounces!"

"The lady to whom they belonged know nothing of their real value; she was disposing of both shawl and flounces yesterday evening for ten shillings."

"Oh, Miss Egerton! oh, poor, poor thing! I will gladly give her fifty pounds for them."

Miss Egerton coughed, and colored slightly.

"The fact is," she said, "I do not think she ought to sell them; they are mementoes, and belonged to her mother. Mrs. Ellsworthy, I won't deceive you any longer. This lace is now the property of Jasmine Mainwaring. She took it to a pawnshop last night, and but for me would have absolutely given it away; I was just in time to redeem it. Now the fact is, I happen to know that Primrose does not wish this lace to be sold; I offered, long ago, to find a purchaser for it, but she looked terribly distressed at the idea. What I should like to do would be this; in short, in short—I do not quite know how to put it—"

"I know, I know," said Mrs. Ellsworthy, clapping her hands, "you want me to be a pawnbroker, and to lend money on it. I will, I will, with pleasure; oh, this is quite a fresh and delightful idea."

"Give me ten pounds to help the poor child over her present difficulties," said Miss Egerton, tears in her eyes. "Yes, ten pounds is quite enough. I will not take a penny more."

"Now, Mrs. Ellsworthy, as we have comfortably disposed of this little matter, I want to talk to you most seriously about the girls."

Mrs. Ellsworthy bent her head to listen with rapt attention; and the two women were engaged for a couple of hours in most earnest conversation.

That afternoon, when Jasmine, very weary and very depressed, toiled up the stairs to her Palace Beautiful, she found two letters awaiting her. One was from Primrose, containing very cheerful news about Daisy. Daisy was really getting better, and had even been out for a few minutes. The other letter had not come by the post, and Jasmine wondered who her correspondent could be. She opened it eagerly. It contained a folded sheet of paper, out of which dropped two crisp Bank of England notes for five pounds each. The sheet of paper itself contained the following words:—

"DEAR JASMINE:—I have found a pawnbroker who better understands the value of your old lace. I have borrowed ten pounds for you on it, with liberty for you to redeem the shawl and flounces at your convenience. You can pay me back the ten shillings I lent you last night when you get change; but there is no hurry. Come and have tea this evening at six, dear. I have much to talk over with you.

"Your affectionate friend, "AGNES EGERTON."

Poor little Jasmine's delight can scarcely be conceived. She found it an easy matter to change one of the notes, and Poppy was in possession of the balance of her money long before the evening. Her radiant face seemed scarcely to belong to the same girl when she entered Miss Egerton's room in time for that good lady's tea.

"Jasmine," said Miss Egerton, when the meal was over, and Jasmine had exhausted her many expressions of rapture, and astonishment, and gratitude, "I have news to tell you. That dreadful man Dove has received a long term of imprisonment. He won't trouble our dear little Daisy again."

"And Daisy is beginning to get better," said Jasmine. "I heard from Primrose to-day, and she wrote quite hopefully about her. Yes, I suppose I am glad that Mr. Dove is locked up; it was so very wicked of him to frighten our little pet."

"I also had a letter from Primrose," said Miss Egerton. "She is unhappy because she thinks that I am at personal inconvenience for the money which I lent her instead of that which Dove stole. I am not inconvenienced for it—I can never regret making matters a little smooth for you poor children. I am going to write to Primrose to-night; but before I do so I should like to have a little talk with you, Jasmine."

"Oh, yes," said Jasmine, "I feel very humble to-night, and very thankful. I am in the kind of humor to-night when I could listen to any amount of good advice."

"Notwithstanding, Jasmine," said Miss Egerton, with a slight smile, "that advisers are never considered the most agreeable people. Jasmine, dear, I have seen Mrs. Ellsworthy to-day."

"Our darling Mrs. Ellsworthy," said Jasmine, flushing brightly; "and how was she? Does she know that I still care for her?"

"I think she does, Jasmine, and undoubtedly she cares for you. She again offers to help you, and, Jasmine, dear, I think the time has come when you must accept her help."

Jasmine smiled, and flushed brightly.

"I do not mind," she said; "I mean I do not mind as Primrose minds, but I know, I fear that it will go very hard with Primrose."

"It is often very hard to do right, Jasmine," said Miss Egerton, "and I can quite believe that Primrose will find it difficult to accede to our plan. At the same time I feel convinced that although she will have a great struggle, in the end she will yield to it. This is like the 'Hill Difficulty' to Primrose, but she is not the sort of girl to turn away from it without conquering its steepness and its toils. Jasmine, dear, you three have tried bravely to help yourselves, and you have—yes, I must say it, dear—you have failed. Primrose cannot spend her life as continual reader to Mrs. Mortlock; you see now, my dear little girl, that you are much too young to earn anything by your pen, and little Daisy—ah! Jasmine, how thankful we ought to be that we have our little Daisy still with us—but Daisy must never again have her peace of mind so seriously imperilled. Jasmine, you three girls want two things—you want education, and you want protection. You want to be thoroughly educated, first of all, in those general matters which all cultivated women ought to know about; and secondly, in the special matter which each of you has a taste for. That special taste or talent ought to be developed to the very uttermost, so that bye-and-bye each of you girls can take up a profession and earn her living usefully to others, and with ease and comfort to herself. If Primrose feels that she can after a time paint very exquisitely and very beautifully on porcelain, she ought to be apprenticed to one of the best houses, and there properly learn her trade; and you, Jasmine, whether you eventually earn your bread by writing beautiful stories, or lovely poems, or whether the artist within you develops into a love for making painted pictures instead of word pictures, you must for many years to come be taught to think and have your little mind and vivid imagination fed on the wise and great thoughts of others. Daisy's future we none of us can talk about, but I have no doubt she also has her special gift.

"Now, Jasmine, what a long, long lecture I am giving you, only the sum and substance of it all is, dear, that I want to protect you, and Mrs. Ellsworthy is willing and anxious to advance a sufficient sum of money to have you all properly educated. When you go to bed to-night I am going to write very fully to Primrose on the subject."

"I wonder if she will refuse," said Jasmine, speaking in a very thoughtful tone; "she is very, very determined. You think she will regard it as a 'Hill Difficulty' which she ought to climb. I think she will regard it as a fearful, dreadful temptation which she ought to put away."

Miss Egerton smiled, for Jasmine's sunny little face looked so grave and anxious, and there was such a disturbed frown between her brows.

"At any rate, dear," continued the governess, "you will not oppose my scheme. You will see, dear, that the greatest strength sometimes shows itself in yielding. Jasmine, dear, are you not quite tired of having your own way?"

"A little," answered Jasmine. "I mean," she added, "that I never again will offer my stories to papers recommended by people like Mr. and Mrs. Dove."



CHAPTER L.

A DAZZLING DAY.

Mrs. Ellsworthy felt very much excited when Miss Egerton left her. She paced up and down her pretty boudoir, her cheeks were flushed and her pretty eyes bore traces of tears. Miss Egerton had told the good little lady for the first time the sad story of Daisy's terrible adventure with Mr. Dove. All the poor little child's terror, and her final flight into the country, were graphically described by the good woman.

"She went to find me, little darling, little darling," repeated Mrs. Ellsworthy, tears running down her cheeks. "Oh, my dear little girl! to think of her being turned away from my very gates."

When Miss Egerton at last took her leave Mrs. Ellsworthy felt too much excited to stay quiet; and when her husband came into the room he found her much perturbed.

"Joseph," she said, running up to him, "I have such a story for you," and then she once again repeated little Daisy's adventure.

"And Joseph," she added, "Miss Egerton and I have quite agreed that you and I are to educate the girls; and, Joseph, the dear good creature is resolved that they shall stay with her in town, and that you and I are only to have the pleasure of spending any amount of money on them; but I will not have it. Joseph, I am resolved that they shall come to us at Shortlands, and have the instructions of the very best governess I can procure for them, and then in the spring the darlings shall come up to town, and have masters for every conceivable sort of accomplishment. Oh, Joseph, we shall have our Jasmine yet, as our very own."

Mr. Ellsworthy smiled, kissed his wife, patted her on the cheek, told her to do just what she liked, and went downstairs to his beloved books. But Mrs. Ellsworthy's excitement kept her on thorns for the greater part of the evening.

That night she dreamt of the Mainwarings; dreamt that she saw Daisy's piteous little face when she was turned away from her gates; dreamt again a brighter dream, that Jasmine had her arms round her neck, and was calling her mother; that Primrose, with none of her sweet dignity abated, was smiling at her, and saying gratefully, "I accept your kindness; I will gladly take your money; I will come and live with you at Shortlands, and be to you as a daughter." And Daisy was saying, in that funny little sententious voice of hers which she sometimes used, "Weren't we all naughty, and aren't we good now, and is it not a good thing that our pride should have a fall?"

Mrs. Ellsworthy sighed deeply when she awoke from this beautiful dream.

"It was but a dream," she said to herself, and she went downstairs sadly and soberly to her breakfast.

Mr. Ellsworthy had breakfasted at a much earlier hour, and the little lady had her beautifully-appointed table to herself.

"Now, if the girls were all here," she thought, "how pleasant and cheerful it would be! Primrose should sit just opposite to me, and pour out the coffee; she would do it very nicely and deftly, and would look so sweet and daughterly. And Jasmine—little witch!—I do not suppose she would keep the same seat two mornings running, and I should have to tell her over and over not to jump up every moment to rush to the window. Daisy would sit near me, and, of course, I should have to have a special chair made for that funny kitten of hers. I would dress the three girls in white—white is so sweet for girls—and how Jasmine and Daisy would chatter; their voices are very sweet in tone, and they never talk too fast, so as to make one's head ache. I often fancy I hear Jasmine talking to me now, her voice is so bright—and—oh, dear! is not that very like her voice? Who is that asking for me in the hall? Surely, surely, it must be Jasmine Mainwaring. No other voice that I know has such a ring about it."

Mrs. Ellsworthy half rose from her seat, half sat down again, and the color of eager anticipation flushed her cheeks.

The eager voice outside came nearer, light steps sounded in the hall, and the next moment Jasmine had her arms round her friend's neck, and was kissing her, while both woman and girl wept.

"I had to come to you," said Jasmine, while she wiped some bright falling tears away. "I have not come to stay, nor to give you our address, nor to do anything of which Primrose would not approve; but after Miss Egerton told me last night all that you wanted to do for us, and how you still loved us, I just had to run round and thank you and kiss you. Primrose and Daisy are still in the country, and Daisy is better. Aren't you glad she will be all right again soon?"

"Have breakfast with me, Jasmine," said Mrs. Ellsworthy. "I was thinking so much about you, and so longing to see you, and to have you in the room seems like a beautiful dream realized. Sit down now and have some breakfast with me."

"I did not have any at home, so I will," answered Jasmine. "I stayed awake half the night thinking about you. Oh, you are a real, real friend!"

"And I spent the greater part of the night dreaming about you three girls," said Mrs. Ellsworthy. "Have some buttered toast, Jasmine, and some of this apricot preserve."

"Did you dream about us last night?" asked Jasmine. "Did you really? You must love us very much."

"I believe I do. Now, Jasmine, I will not ask you for your address. I will do nothing more to really help you until we get Primrose's letter, but I want you all the same to spend this whole long day with me."

Jasmine smiled, and her cheeks flushed.

"It would be very luxurious," she said, "and such a change from our attics, although Daisy does call them a Palace Beautiful. Will you take me for a drive, if I stay, Mrs. Ellsworthy, and will you let me imagine myself quite a rich little girl all day long? You must not give me any presents, you know, for Primrose would not like that; but I can imagine I have got all kinds of things, and I wonder, oh! I wonder, if we might call to see Poppy this afternoon?"

"We will take her too for a drive in the Park," said Mrs. Ellsworthy. "I have heard a great deal of that Poppy of yours, and I think she is quite a splendid kind of girl."

Thus a very delightful programme was unexpectedly realized by two little hard-working London girls, for Mrs. Ellsworthy gave herself up to be enchanting, and took Poppy away from her work of drudgery, and from the astonished ladies of the boarding-house.

Poppy, in her dazzlingly brilliant hat, and with her cheeks quite flaming with excitement, stepped into the carriage, and drove away, facing Mrs. Ellsworthy and Jasmine, to the great scandal of the footman, who was obliged, sorely against his will, to assist her to her place.

Mrs. Ellsworthy took the girls all round the Park, and then to a place of amusement, and finally she presented Poppy with a very neat brown dress and jacket, and hat to match, saying, as she did so, that really Jasmine, even though she forbade her to offer her any presents, could not lay a like embargo with regard to her friends.

"It's of all the dazzlings, the most blindingly beautiful," was Poppy's oft-reiterated comment. "Oh! won't I have something to tell them ladies about bye-and-bye! Oh, my! Miss Jasmine, what a neat hat, miss! I don't mind denuding this one now, for I has got a 'at from a West End shop what beats anything that Miss Slowcum wears for gentility."

Finally, Jasmine and Poppy both returned to their respective homes, tired, but wonderfully happy little girls.

Mrs. Ellsworthy also laid her head that night on her pillow with a wonderful sense of satisfaction.

"Even if they do not come to me—although they must come," she soliloquized, "I am glad—I shall all my life be glad that I gave Jasmine a happy day."



CHAPTER LI.

A LETTER.

A morning or two after this, when Daisy had greatly advanced towards convalescence, and was sitting up in Hannah's tiny little sitting-room to partake of a very dainty little breakfast, Primrose received a long letter from Miss Egerton. This was what it contained:—

"MY DEAR PRIMROSE,

"You of course know that that wicked man Dove has received the sentence which he so richly deserves. Alas, we cannot get back all the stolen money, but we must manage without it, dear, and you are never even to talk of repaying me for the furnishing of dear little Daisy's Palace Beautiful. It has been a joy to me to have you, dear, and I hope you will be able to bring Daisy back with you, and to live here in peace and comfort next winter. Dear Primrose, it is more and more evident to me that young girls should not venture to come to London alone. You showed much bravery in your undertaking; but, my dear girl, the pitfalls you exposed yourselves to were awful to contemplate. I don't want to make you unhappy, dear, after all you have suffered with regard to Daisy, but I must now tell you of a little adventure which our poor dear Jasmine has had. You know how very anxious she has been to see herself in print. Of course, I could not conscientiously encourage her, for although she may have talent (this I am not prepared to say), yet she is a great deal too young to have anything printed. All books worth anything should teach, and surely our dear little girl is only at the age to be taught herself.

"Well, Primrose, the little maid was fired with the strongest ambition. She wrote her novel in secret, and one day, accompanied by that good-natured Poppy Jenkins and sweet little Daisy, went Citywards, and simply plunged—for I can use no other word—into the unknown and to me rather awful realm of publishers.

"Poor child, of course none of the good houses would even look at her immature productions; but she was taken in by a man who professed himself to be the editor of a monthly paper—The Joy-bell was its silly title. On an understanding that her story was to be printed in the pages of The Joy-bell—of course I've never seen the paper, and should not dream of reading anything so rubbishy—poor Jasmine was induced to subscribe two pounds five shillings, or, in other words, to undertake to buy one hundred copies of The Joy-bell. Of course she imagined that her printed words would immediately bring her fame. She paid her money, and looked out for her story."

"Where did she get the money from?" thought the anxious reader.

"Primrose, how wrinkled up your brows are;" called out little Daisy.

Primrose sighed, and resumed her perusal of the closely-written sheets.

"On the very evening our little Daisy ran away Jasmine received her first proofs. They were barbarously printed on wretched paper, but the poor child was in such trouble then that she scarcely noticed them. Afterwards she did read them with care, and was surprised to find what a very small portion of her story had been printed.

"You know that I was unexpectedly detained in the country by the serious illness and death of my poor cousin. Jasmine was not doing as well as we supposed by her profession of dressing dinner-tables. The dear child was determined not to ask help from any one, not even from you, Primrose, and she made a valiant effort to support herself on her tiny earnings. Alas, her purse was all too soon emptied, and she had also upon her the awful load of debt, for Poppy Jenkins it seems, lent her the money to get that rubbishy story published. In her despair she thought of The Joy-bell, and went off to see the editor.

"She was met at the office (poor child, how she could venture there alone is a mystery to me) with the intelligence that The Joy-bell had ceased to exist, and the editor had decamped with poor Poppy's wages.

"Luckily I came home that evening, and found your poor little sister in sad trouble. I am thankful to say I have been able to relieve her present necessities without the slightest inconvenience to myself. Jasmine has been greatly shaken, but she is better again now, and is most anxious that you should not be troubled. I only tell you this much, dear Primrose, because I consider it my bounden duty that you should know how matters really stand. Rest happy about Poppy; her money has been returned to her, and Jasmine has sufficient for her present necessities. On second thoughts, I had better perhaps let you into my little secret. I have borrowed ten pounds for Jasmine on that valuable Spanish lace of her mother's. Do not imagine that the lace is gone; it will be returned to Jasmine whenever she can refund the money. It was necessary, dear Primrose, to take it, and I acted as I am sure you would think right in the matter. Poppy had to be paid her wages.

"Now, dear Primrose, I want to talk with you very seriously on another matter. You must own, dear, that though you have tried bravely you have not yet, any of you, succeeded in earning your living. It is almost a year since you began to try, and you have made, I fear, but small headway. You, Primrose, have done best, and have made fewer mistakes than your sisters, but even you would not care to spend all your life in continual reading to Mrs. Mortlock. Jasmine can only earn a precarious and uncertain living by dressing dinner-tables. Of course, no one even expects dear little Daisy to contribute to the family purse at present, but at the same time she need not put us into terrible frights, nor be in the power of wicked and designing people. My dear girls have had a trial of their own way; and now I think they ought to take the advice of those older and wiser than themselves.

"If, dear Primrose, you want to earn your living well—and nothing makes a woman braver and better than being able to support herself—you must be educated to take up some one profession in an efficient manner. Money must be spent for this purpose, and you must not be too proud to accept money from those who really love you. I have been to see Mrs. Ellsworthy, and she and I had a long, long talk about you girls. She is full of kindness, and she really and truly loves you. It would be worse than folly, it would be wicked, to throw such friendship away. Mrs. Ellsworthy tells me that she has been consulting your old friend Mr. Danesfield about you. Both he and Mrs. Ellsworthy are arranging plans which they trust you will all listen to with patience. These plans shall be fully disclosed to you on your return to town, but I may as well mention here that it will be absolutely necessary that you should give up your present lives, and should enter seriously on the great work of education. Money must be spent for this object; but when you are able to earn well, bye-and-bye it will be in your power to repay the money to the kind friends whose happiness it is now to lend it to you.

"Dear Primrose, "I am, yours affectionately, "AGNES EGERTON."

There was much in this letter to pain Primrose, and a year before she might have torn it up and determined in no way to be guided by it; but a year had brought her some very strange and some very sad experiences. She was troubled and shocked to think that Jasmine should have taken poor Poppy's hard earnings. She was deeply distressed at owing herself so much to Miss Egerton, and now also so large a debt to Arthur Noel. She had worked hard, and had done wonderfully well considering, but nevertheless at the present moment, owing to adverse circumstances, she was plunged in debt in many directions, and saw little hope of repaying what she owed. Life seemed very difficult to Primrose just then, and hot tears rose to her eyes.

Should she go still farther in debt, and give up the great struggle to be independent? Oh, no, she could not—she could not. Her pride rose up in rebellion; her passionate longing to be free and her own mistress, to be beholden to no one for the necessaries of life, was too strong to be easily crushed. Better the dullest life, better be a "continual reader" all her days than take the money of strangers. This was her feeling, and it grew so strong moment by moment, that she might have sat down to answer Miss Egerton's letter there and then but for a rather innocent little remark made by Daisy.

"Dear Primrose, I forgot it in all the other great trouble, but I do want to send fifteen shillings as soon as possible to dear good Poppy. She lent me fifteen shillings to buy a single third to come to Rosebury, and I forgot all about it. Please, Primrose, try and spare me fifteen shillings to send to Poppy."

"So you too are in debt, Daisy," said Primrose. "Oh, dear, what shall I do? Daisy, dear, forgive me, I ought not to mind anything now you are growing better, but my heart is heavy, and I feel almost crushed. Yes, Daisy, dear Poppy must have her money. I won't write to Miss Egerton until to-morrow."

Here Primrose wiped some tears from her sweet brown eyes, but she took good care not to allow Daisy to see that she was crying.



CHAPTER LII.

"I LOVE MRS. ELLSWORTHY."

The next afternoon, to the surprise of both Primrose and Daisy, Noel arrived. Daisy greeted her Prince with rapture, but refused to hear any particulars of Dove's trial.

"I want to forget him," she said. "You say he is in the dungeon now. I don't want to think of it. If I think of it long I shall begin to be so sorry for him."

"We will talk of something better and pleasanter," said Noel. "How soon are you coming back to your Palace Beautiful, little Princess?"

Daisy looked anxiously across the room at Primrose. Primrose was bending over some needlework, and a ray of sunlight was shining on her fair head. She did not raise her eyes or respond in any way to the little sister's glance.

"We did think of coming back to Miss Egerton's in the autumn," said Daisy, "but last night Primrose—May I tell, Primrose?"

Primrose put down her work suddenly and came up to where Noel and Daisy were sitting.

"It is just this," she said; "Daisy did not know she had such a proud and obstinate sister. We had made our plans for the autumn—at least we simply intended to struggle on, and hope and watch for brighter days—but yesterday I had a letter from Miss Egerton, and some of its contents troubled me a good deal. Daisy saw that I was unhappy, and I told her what Miss Egerton wanted. I thought the dear little one would object, but she only said, 'Oh, let us be brave, Primrose; our Palace Beautiful will be all the brighter if we really earn it.' Then she added, 'I am beginning to wish to earn a little money myself, for I want to give a very kind person back what he gave me.'"

Noel gave Daisy's thin little hand a squeeze. Primrose looked at the two, and stopped speaking. After a moment's pause she said suddenly—

"I don't like the plan; I never can like it. Mrs. Ellsworthy is all that is kind, but she is no relation of ours. She lived in the same place with us for years, and she never even called on our mother. Oh, I don't blame her; she naturally thought that people who lived in an humble little cottage at Rosebury were not ladies, but you see we are ladies, and we cannot help feeling sore. I may agree to the plan—I may be forced to agree to it for Jasmine's and Daisy's sakes—but I can never, never like it."

Here Primrose went out of the room.

"She was crying for a long time last night," whispered Daisy; "it hurts her dreadfully to take Mrs. Ellsworthy's money. I don't suppose I mind it so much, because I was coming to Mrs. Ellsworthy to ask her for some money. I did not find her, and I was miserable until you found me and helped me, Prince. Then I love Mrs. Ellsworthy, and so does Jasmine."

"That is it, Eyebright," answered Noel; "we do not mind receiving kindnesses and favors from those we love. Yes, I am very sorry for Primrose; I wish matters could be differently arranged for her."

While Noel was speaking Hannah came into the room with a cup of beef-tea for the little invalid.

"You have done her a sight of good already, sir," she said, peering with her short-sighted eyes into the young man's face. "I don't know what we'd have done for her if you hadn't come that day, and talked to her, and got her to tell you what that most villainous person in London was after."

"Oh, don't, Hannah," said Daisy, "he's in a dungeon now—poor, poor Mr. Dove; I must not think about him if I mean to get well."

Here Daisy shivered, and added under her breath, with her little pale face working—

"I did promise it very faithfully that I would never tell about the sweetmeats."

"He was a bad man, Daisy, and he richly deserves his punishment," said Noel, in an almost stern voice, for he wished to check any unhealthy sentimentality on the part of the delicate child. "You must think of what you and your sisters have suffered, and be glad he has been prevented doing any more mischief."

"Drink up your beef-tea, missy," said Hannah. "Please, Mr. Noel, sir, will you hold the cup for little miss? Oh, my heart alive, what—what is that?"

"I don't see anything," said Noel, "what has frightened you, Hannah?"

But Hannah had grown white, and looked very queer, and a moment after she hurried out of the room.

"I never knew your servant was nervous," said Noel to Daisy.

"Nervous?" she repeated, laughing merrily. "Is it Hannah? why she always says she hasn't a nerve in her whole body. She's sometimes almost cross with me for being nervous, Mr. Prince."

Noel stayed some little time longer with the sisters, and then returned to Rosebury in time to catch the evening train to London. When he got there he went straight to Mrs. Ellsworthy's house. That little lady was anxiously expecting him, and plied him with many questions on the spot.

"How is she taking it, Arthur?" she asked. "I have been forming and maturing my plans, and I now think a resident governess at Shortlands would be the nicest arrangement for the girls. They cannot be parted, that is very evident, and as Primrose must be more than eighteen she would not care to go to school. Yes, a resident governess seems the plan of plans. I would take them up to London early in the spring, and give them the advantage of the very best masters."

"Primrose seems very unhappy about it," replied Noel. "She may in the end consent to some scheme for perfecting her education, but I'm quite sure she will not go, nor allow her sisters to go to Shortlands to live a life of simple luxury. I am sorry for you, Mrs. Ellsworthy, but I know Primrose will never consent to that."

"I don't think you are sorry for me, Arthur," answered the pretty little lady. "In your heart of hearts you quite agree with that naughty, bad Primrose. You had rather the girls lived in their attic, and encountered another dreadful Mr. Dove, and fell into the hands of another designing publisher, than have them safe and happy at Shortlands. Oh, it is a plot between you all to deprive me of my great pleasure. Oh, why will girls, and young men, too, be so perverse?"

Noel smiled.

"I am sorry for both you and Primrose," he said. "I am convinced she will never agree to your present scheme, although she may allow you to help her to perfect her education."



CHAPTER LIII.

TELEGRAPH WIRES.

Daisy was quite right when she said that Hannah was not subject to nervous attacks. Hannah scorned nerves, and did not believe in them. When she was told that the human body was as full of nerves as an electric battery was full of electricity, that nerves, in short, were like numberless telegraphic-wires, prevailing the whole human frame, she stared at the speakers, and pronounced them slightly daft.

Yet Hannah went out of her own little sitting-room on that summer afternoon with, as she expressed it, trembling sensations running down her back, and causing her fingers to shake when she handled her cups and saucers.

"Dear, dear," she said to herself, "one would think I had some of those awful telegrams in me which Miss Primrose said was the nervous system. Why, I'm all upset from top to toe. I never had a good view of him before, for I didn't pay no heed to nobody when my dear little Miss Daisy was so ill; but I do say that the cut of the hand and the turn of the head is as like—as like as two peas. Now I do wonder—no, no, it can't be. Well, anyhow, my name ain't Hannah Martin if I don't find out where he comes from, and who he really is. Well, well, well—why this trembling won't leave me, and I don't dare go back into the room. I suppose I have got a few telegraphs, and I mustn't never laugh at poor little Miss Daisy again when she says she's nervous."

Hannah sat and rested for about half an hour—then she drank off a glass of cold water—then she washed her face and hands—then she said aloud that the telegrams should not get the better of her, and then she prepared as nice a little dinner as she could for Noel and the two sisters.

That evening, after Daisy was in bed, she came into the room where Primrose was quietly reading.

"You haven't never come across no one the least like that brother of yours in the London streets, Miss Primrose?" she asked. "London's a big place, and strange things happen there—yes, very, very strange things."

"Oh, Hannah, how you startle me!" said Primrose. "I come across my poor little brother Arthur? How could I? Why, he must be dead for many and many a year."

"Not a bit of him," said Hannah; "I don't believe he's dead. He was a fine, hearty, strong child, and nothing ever seemed to ail him. Oh, it rises up before me now what a beautiful picture he made when he stood in his little red velvet dress by your mamma's knee, and she so proud of him! There's no mistake, but he was the very light of her eyes. She took him up to London, and a nursemaid—not me, you may be quite sure—took him out. She went into a big shop, and the child was by her side. She kept him standing by her as she ordered some things across the counter, and, I suppose, she turned her head for a minute, for when she looked round again he was gone. From that day to this he was never heard of, though everything you can think of was done. Oh, my poor, poor mistress, what she did suffer!"

"Hannah, how excited you look!" said Primrose. "Why, you are all trembling. It is a terrible story, but as I say to Daisy about Mr. Dove, don't let us think of it."

"Right you are, honey," said Hannah; "what can't be cured, you know. If you don't mind, Miss Primrose, I'll just sit down for a minute. I'm not to say quite myself. Oh, it ain't nothing, dearie; just a bit of the trembles, and to prove to old Hannah that she is getting on in years. I nursed you all, darling—him, my beautiful boy, and you three. Miss Primrose, dear, how old would you say that Mr. Noel was. I didn't have a fair look at him until to-day, and he seems quite a young sort of man."

"Miss Egerton says that he is twenty-six, Hannah."

"Twenty-six," answered Hannah; "don't interrupt me for a minute, dear. I'm comparing dates—twenty-six—twenty-six. Law, goodness gracious me! You haven't never noticed, Miss Primrose, that he have a kind of a mole—long-shaped, and rather big, a little way up his left arm? Have you, now, dearies?"

"No, really, Hannah, I've never seen Mr. Noel's arm without his coat-sleeve. How very queerly you are speaking, Hannah."

"Not at all, dearie; it's only because I've got the trembles on me. Well, love, and so you don't want to be under no compliments to that Mrs. Ellsworthy, who never took no notice of your poor dear ma?"

Primrose sighed.

"I feel sore about it, Hannah," she said. "But I must try not to be too proud. I will ask God to help me to do what is really right in the matter."

"That's it, honey, and maybe you won't have to do it after all. I wonder, now, dear, if Mr. Noel is well off."

"Really, Hannah, I think you have got Mr. Noel on the brain! Yes, I have heard Miss Egerton say that he is a rich man. He was the adopted son of a very wealthy person, who left him all his property."

"Adopted, was he?" said Hannah. "On my word, these tremblings are terrible! Miss Primrose, dear, I have come in to say that I may be going a little journey in the morning. I'll be off by the first dawn, so as to be back by night, and the shop needn't be opened at all to-morrow. There's a nice cold roast fowl for you and Miss Daisy, and a dish of strawberries which I gathered with my own hands not an hour back, so you'll have no trouble with your dinner. You see that Miss Daisy eats plenty of cream with her strawberries, dear, for cream's fattening; and now good-night."



CHAPTER LIV.

A DISCOVERY.

Hannah Martin had never been much of a traveller. It was years since she set her foot inside a railway carriage. She often boasted of her abnormal lack of nerves, but she was also heard to say that accidents by rail were fearful and common, and likely to happen at any moment. She sighed for the old coaching days, and hated the thought of all locomotives propelled by steam. Nevertheless, early in the morning of the day following her interview with Primrose, Hannah, in her usual neat print dress, was seen to enter the little railway station at Rosebury, was observed to purchase for herself a third-class return ticket, and after carefully selecting her carriage, to depart for London.

In the afternoon of that same day Hannah reached her destination, and securing the first porter whose attention she could arrest, she placed a bit of paper in his hand, and asked him to direct her to the address written upon it. The man screwed up his eyes, stared at the paper, and suggested that Hannah should place herself in a hansom, and direct the driver to take her to Park Lane. Hannah had not an idea what a hansom meant; she had never visited London since her early days. She stared with horror at the proposed vehicle, and finally selecting the creakiest and most uninviting of the four-wheelers, drove off to her destination.

Mrs. Ellsworthy was enjoying some very fragrant tea in her little boudoir when a servant announced that a person of the name of Martin had come up from the country in a four-wheeler, and would be glad to see her as soon as possible.

"What kind of person, Henry?" asked the little lady. "I am very tired just now, and I must go out to dinner in less than two hours. A person from the country in a four-wheeler? What can she want with me?"

"She seems a respectable sort of body, ma'am," answered the footman, "but nervous and shaky, and mortal afraid to step out of the cab; the cabby and me we had both to lend her a hand in alighting, ma'am. She's sitting now in a chair in the hall, and I can see she's upset with her journey, but respectable; there's no word for the neatness of her person, ma'am."

"She is probably poor, and wants me to help her," replied Mrs. Ellsworthy. "I hate seeing beggars, for I find it absolutely impossible to say no to them. Show her up, Henry, and give her a hint that I'm going out to dinner, and can only spare her a very few moments."

Hannah could not certainly be accused when she entered Mrs. Ellsworthy's room, of any want of nerves. Her hands were shaking, her lips were tremulous, and her face, as she entered the room, became perfectly white.

"You'll excuse me, ma'am," she said. "I'm most sorry to trouble you, but I'm that anxious, I scarce know what I'm doing. I undertook a railway journey—which I don't think right—and I came here through most crowded streets in a dreadful vehicle, for I just wanted to ask you a single question, ma'am."

"Sit down, my poor woman," said Mrs. Ellsworthy, who, the moment she looked at Hannah, began to have a dim sort of idea that she had seen her before, and also became full of pity for her. "Sit down. How you tremble! I am sorry to see you are so nervous."

"Nervous, ma'am!" echoed Hannah. "That I should hear that said of me! No, ma'am, it ain't nervous I am, but I'm rather worried with the tremblings during the last few hours. I've come to ask you a plain question, ma'am, plain and direct. It's about the young man Mr. Noel. Have he, ma'am, or have he not, a mole on his left arm? I'd like yes or no, ma'am."

"A mole on his left arm!" echoed Mrs. Ellsworthy. "My good woman, what a very extraordinary question; you really quite startle me. Has Arthur Noel a mole on his left arm? Yes, of course he has; I used to notice it when he was a child. I suppose people don't outgrow moles, so he probably has it still. Why, Mrs. Martin—I am told your name is Martin—how very white you are. Would you—would you like a glass of wine?"

"Thank you, ma'am—no wine, thank you, ma'am. I'm a bit upset. Yes, I'm a bit upset, for I believe Mr. Arthur Noel is my long-lost baby."

The footman downstairs had given Mrs. Martin careful directions not to occupy more than a moment or two of his mistress's valuable time; but though he waited on the stairs and lingered about in the entrance-hall, no bell summoned him to show out this remarkable visitor. An hour passed away, an hour and a half, and still Mrs. Martin remained in close conversation with Mrs. Ellsworthy. At the end of the hour and a half Henry looked earnestly at the clock, sighed, and felt that it was his duty to go into the room to let Mrs. Ellsworthy know that she would be late for her dinner-party. He found that good lady sitting by her writing-table with very flushed cheeks and tearful eyes, and Hannah standing in quite a familiar attitude by her side.

"Give this note to Mr. Ellsworthy when he comes in, Henry, and order the carriage to be brought round directly. I am not going to dine out to-night. I will just go upstairs to change my bonnet. And Henry, take Mrs. Martin down to the servants' hall, and give her some dinner. She is coming out with me in the carriage, so be quick, please."

As Mrs. Ellsworthy stood before her glass re-arranging her toilet her maid saw her wiping some tears from her pretty eyes.

"Oh, my bonny Arthur," she said under her breath. "Oh, what your poor, poor mother must have suffered."

When the carriage came to the door Mrs. Ellsworthy gave the coachman Noel's address, and the two women drove there at once. They were fortunate in finding the young man within. He too was engaged to dine out that night, but he did not go. Hannah, Mrs. Ellsworthy, and he had a long conference, which lasted until late in the evening, and when Mr. Ellsworthy joined them he was told a very wonderful story. Hannah returned to Devonshire on the following morning very well pleased with her successful expedition.

"If there had been any doubt," she said to herself, as she was being whirled homewards in her third-class carriage, "if there had been any doubt after the sight of that mole on his dear, blessed arm, why, the little shirt which Mrs. Ellsworthy showed me, and which she took off his back herself after them horses had all but killed him, would prove that he's my own boy. Could I ever forget marking that shirt in cross-stitch, and making such a bungle over the A, and thinking I'd put Mainwaring in full, and then getting lazy, and only making the mark A.M.? Well, I was served out for that piece of laziness, for my boy might have been brought back to his mother but for it. Dear, dear! Well, there's no mistaking my own A.M., and when I peered close with my glasses on I could even see where I unpicked the A. and did it over again. Dear, dear, shall I ever forgive myself for not doing the surname in full—his poor, poor mother! Well, I mustn't think of that—it's a merciful Providence that has led me to him now, and he's as darling and elegant a young man as ever I clapped eyes on, and as fond of the young ladies as can be even now.

"'I always felt somehow as if they were my sisters,' he said to me. Well, well, God be praised for his mercies."



CHAPTER LV.

AN INVITATION FOR THE LADIES OF PENELOPE MANSION.

"There are limits to all things," said Mrs. Mortlock; "there's a time, as the blessed Bible says, to sorrow, and a time to rejoice, and what I say too is, that there is a time when a woman's patience may be exhausted. Yes, Mrs. Dredge, you may look at me with as round eyes as you please—I know they are round though I can't see them, but I will say, if it's my last dying breath, that the moment for my 'continual reader' to return has arrived. Miss Slowcum, no doubt you'll corroborate what I say, ma'am."

"It's hot weather for young bright flowers to shed their fragrance on the London streets," replied Miss Slowcum; "it's the kind of weather when flowers fade. I should imagine, Mrs. Mortlock, that your 'continual reader' was doing better for herself in the country."

Mrs. Mortlock's face became very red.

"Better for herself, is she?" she said, "and is that all the thanks I get for keeping my post vacant, and living through days the weariness of which none may know. If Miss Primrose Mainwaring is doing better for herself in the country she is welcome to stay there. The post is a good one, a light and an easy one, and I can get many another lass to fill it."

"I think, ma'am," said Mrs. Dredge, whose face had grown wonderfully smooth and pleasant of late, "that the dear girls will all be in town this week, and most likely Miss Primrose will come to pay you a visit. Oh, they are nice girls, pretty, elegant girls, just the kind of girls my good man would like to have been papa to. I can't help shivering, even now when I think of that wicked man Dove, and what a state he put dear little Daisy into."

"If praises of the Mainwarings is to begin," answered Mrs. Mortlock in her tartest voice, "what I say is, let me retire. It's all very well for them as has right to talk well of the absent, but when one of the absent ones is neglecting her duty the lady who has weak eyes feels it. Miss Slowcum, ma'am, have you any objection to moving with me into the drawing-room? I can lend you that pattern you admired so much for tatting if you read me the latest gossip from the evening papers, ma'am."

Mrs. Mortlock rose from her chair, and, accompanied by Miss Slowcum, left the room. Miss Slowcum took a ladylike interest in all kinds of needlework, and the desire to possess the tatting pattern overcame her great reluctance to read aloud to the very tart old lady.

Mrs. Mortlock placed herself in the most comfortable arm-chair the room afforded, and having secured her victim, began instantly to tyrannize over her.

"Now, Miss Slowcum, read up chirrupy and cheerful please. None of your drawling, by way of genteel voice, for me—I like my gossip crisp. I will say this of that dear girl Primrose Mainwaring, that she did her gossip crisp."

"You really are a very unaccountable person, Mrs. Mortlock," replied Miss Slowcum. "You begin by abusing Primrose Mainwaring, and then you praise her in the most absurd manner. I hope the refined reading of a cultivated lady is not to be compared to the immature utterances of a school-girl. If that is so, Mrs. Mortlock, even for the sake of the tatting pattern, I cannot consent to waste my words on you."

"Oh, my good creature," said Mrs. Mortlock, who by no means wished to be left to solitude and herself, "you read in a very pretty style of your own—obsolete it may be—h'm—I suppose we must expect that—mature it certainly is; yes, my dear, quite mature. If I praise Primrose Mainwaring, and a good girl she was when she was with me—yes, a good, painstaking girl, thankful for her mercies—it's no disparagement to you, Miss Slowcum. You're mellow, my dear, and you can't help being mellow, and Primrose Mainwaring is crisp, and she can't help being crisp. Oh, goodness gracious me! what sound is that falls on my ear?"

"An old friend's voice, I hope, Mrs. Mortlock," said a pleasant girlish tone, and Primrose Mainwaring herself bent down over the old lady and kissed her.

Notwithstanding all her grumbling Mrs. Mortlock had taken an immense fancy to Primrose. She returned her embrace warmly, and even took her hand and squeezed it.

"I'd like to see you, dear," she said, "but I'm getting blinder and blinder. Have you come back to your continual reading, dear? I hope so, for you do the gossip in a very chirruping style."

While Mrs. Mortlock was speaking to Primrose Miss Slowcum had taken Daisy in her arms, and covered her sweet little face with kisses, for Miss Slowcum was not all sour and affected, and she had shed some bitter tears in secret over the child's unaccountable disappearance. Mrs. Dredge and Mrs. Flint had both surrounded Jasmine, who, in a white summer frock, was looking extremely pretty, and was entertaining them with some animated conversation.

"Yes," said Primrose to Mrs. Mortlock, "I will come to read to you as often as ever I can. I shall know my plans better after to-morrow. We three girls returned to London a couple of days ago, and we received a letter from our kind friend Mrs. Ellsworthy. You don't know her, perhaps, but she is a very kind friend of ours. She is making some plans for us, but we don't quite know what they are. She has written us a letter, however, and it is on account of that letter that we have all come to you to-night. She has invited us to come to her to-morrow, and she wants all the friends who were kind to us, and who helped us in every way during our year in London, to come in the evening to hear what the plans are. Even if you can't see, Mrs. Mortlock, it will amuse you to come, and I hope so much you will do so. I will try to stay close to you myself when you do come, so you need not feel lonely."

"My dear, you are very kind," said Mrs. Mortlock, and the other ladies also said the Mainwarings were kind, and they sent their dutiful respects to Mrs. Ellsworthy and were pleased to accept. Accordingly, Primrose gave them full directions with regard to the right address, and the hour at which they were to be present; and finally the girls left Mrs. Flint and her three lady boarders in a state of considerable excitement and so deeply interested in what was about to occur that they forgot to grumble at each other.



CHAPTER LVI.

A PALACE BEAUTIFUL.

Hannah Martin had come up with her young ladies to London, and she also was invited by Mrs. Ellsworthy to come to her house. The girls all thought Hannah very much altered; they could not understand her queer illusions, or her mysterious little nods, or in particular the way she used to stare at Jasmine, and say under her breath, "Yes, yes, as like as two peas. What a blind old woman I was not to see it when I clapped eyes on him."

"I cannot make out what Hannah is always muttering," Jasmine said to her sisters. "Who is it I am so remarkably like. To judge from the way Hannah frowns and shakes her head, and then smiles, the fact of this accidental likeness seems to have a very disturbing effect upon her."

"I know whom you are like, Jasmine," said little Daisy. "I've seen it for a long time. You are the very image of my dear Prince. You have got just the same colored eyes, and just the same curly hair, and both your foreheads are broad and white. It's perfectly natural," continued Daisy, "for you are both geniuses, and all geniuses must have a look of each other."

Hannah had old-fashioned ideas on many subjects. One of these was that people could not remain too long in mourning. She liked very deep black, and wished those who had lost relations to wear it for a long, long time. The girls, therefore, were quite amazed when she suggested that they should all go to Mrs. Ellsworthy in white. They began to consider her quite an altered Hannah; but Jasmine took her advice, and bought many yards of soft flowing muslin, which the old servant helped her dear young ladies to make up.

At last the day and hour arrived when, as Primrose said sorrowfully, "Our fate is to be sealed and we are to bid 'Good-bye' to dear independence."

The girls, looking as sweet as girls could look, arrived at Mrs. Ellsworthy's at a fairly early hour in the afternoon. The good little lady received them with marked tenderness, but said, in an almost confused manner, and by no means with her usual self-possession that a slight change had been found necessary in the afternoon's programme, and that the meeting of friends and acquaintances to hear their future plans was not to take place at her house after all.

"We are to go to another house not far from this," she said, "indeed, only a stone's throw away. It is so close that we will walk it. Come, Daisy, I see a number of questions in your eyes, but they shall all be answered presently. Take my hand now, and let us lead the way. The other house is very pretty, but it is smaller than mine."

The other house was quite close to Mrs. Ellsworthy's luxurious mansion. It was built more in the cottage shape, was much smaller, and had a charming little garden and grounds round it. The hall door opened into a porch, which was covered with roses, so that though the house was really in London, the effect was quite that of the country. Standing in the porch, and looking extremely pretty in its flickering light and shade, stood Poppy Jenkins, in the neatest of handmaiden's attire, and as the girls all came into the shade of the cool porch, Noel himself, looking somewhat pale, and with a curious agitation in his manner, came out to meet them.