"Oh, I know quite well what really and truly happened," interrupted Maggie. "Let me tell you. I know that there came a certain day when a little girl who calls herself Merry Cardew was very discontented, and I know also that kind Mr. Cardew discovered the discontent of his child. Well, now, who put that discontent into your mind?"

"Why, I am afraid it was you," said Merry, turning pale and then red.

Maggie laughed. "Why, of course it was," she said; "and you suppose I didn't do it on purpose?"

"But, Maggie, you didn't really mean—you couldn't for a minute mean—that I was to be miserable at home if father didn't give his consent?"

"Of course not," said Maggie lightly; "but, you see, I meant him to give his consent—I meant it all the time. I own that there were several favoring circumstances; but I want to tell you now, Merry, in the strictest confidence of course, that from the moment I arrived at the rectory I determined that you and Cicely were to come with Molly and Isabel to Aylmer House."

"It was very kind of you, Maggie," said Merry; but she felt a certain sense of distress which she could not quite account for as she spoke.

"Why do you look so melancholy?" said Maggie, turning and fixing her queer, narrow eyes on the pretty face of her young companion.

"I am not really melancholy, only I would much rather you had told me openly at the time that you wished me to come to school."

Maggie gave a faint sigh. "Had I done so, darling," she said, "you would never have come. You must leave your poor friend Maggie to manage things in her own way. But now I have something else to talk about."

They had gone far down the glade, and were completely separated from their companions.

"Sit down," said Maggie; "it's too hot to walk far even under the shade of the trees."

They both sat down.

Maggie tossed off her hat. "To-morrow," she said, "you will perhaps be having another picnic, or, at any rate, the best of good times with your friends."

"I hope so," replied Merry.

"But I shall be in hot, stifling London, in a little house, in poky lodgings; to-morrow, at this hour, I shall not be having what you call a good time."

"But, Maggie, you will be with your mother."

"Yes, poor darling mother! of course."

"Don't you love her very much?" asked Merry.

Maggie flashed round an excited glance at her companion. "Love her? Yes," she said, "I love her."

"But you must love her tremendously," said Merry—"as much as I love my mother."

"As a rule all girls love their mothers," said Maggie. "We are not talking about that now, are we?"

"What do you want to say to me in particular, Maggie?" was Merry's response.

"This. We shall meet at school on the 20th of September. There will be, as I have told you already, twenty boarders at Aylmer House. You will arrive at the school as strangers; so will Molly and Isabel arrive as strangers; but you will have two friends—Aneta Lysle and myself. You're very much taken, with your cousin Aneta, are you not?"

"Taken with her?" said Merry. "That seems to me a curious expression. She is our cousin, and she is beautiful."

"Merry, I must tell you something. At Aylmer House there are two individuals who lead the school."

"Oh," said Merry, "I thought Mrs. Ward led the school."

"Of course, of course, Mrs. Ward is just splendid; but, you see, you, poor Merry, know nothing of school-life. School-life is really controlled—I mean the inner part of it—by the girls themselves. Now, there are two girls at Aylmer House who control the school: one of them is your humble servant, Maggie Howland; the other is your cousin, Aneta Lysle. Aneta does not love me; and, to be frank with you, I hate her."

Merry found herself turning very red. She remembered Aneta's words on the night of her arrival.

"She has already told you," said Maggie, "that she doesn't like me."

Merry remained silent.

"Oh, you needn't speak. I know quite well," said Maggie.

Merry felt more and more uncomfortable.

"The petition I have to make to you is this," continued Maggie: "that at school you will, for a time at least—say for the first month or so—be neutral. I want you and Cicely and Molly and Isabel to belong neither to Aneta's party nor to mine; and I want you to do this because—because I have been the person who has got you to Aylmer House. Just remain neutral for a month. Will you promise me that?"

"I don't understand you. You puzzle me very much indeed," said Merry.

"You will understand fast enough when you get to Aylmer House. I wish I were not going away; I wish I hadn't to return to mother. I wish I could go with you all to Scarborough; but I am the last girl on earth to neglect my duties, and my duty is to be with poor dear mother. You will understand that what I ask is but reasonable. If four new girls came to the school, and altogether went over to Aneta's side, where should I be? What chance should I have? But I do not ask you to come to my side; I only ask you to be neutral. Merry, will you promise?"

"You distress me more than I can say," replied Merry. "I feel so completely in the dark. I don't, of course, want to take any side."

"Ah, then you will promise?" said Maggie.

"I don't know what to say."

"Let me present a picture to you," continued Maggie. "There are two girls; they are not equally equipped for the battle of life. I say nothing of injustice in the matter; I only state a fact. One of them is rich and highly born, and endowed with remarkable beauty of face. That girl is your own cousin, Aneta Lysle. Then there is the other girl, Maggie Howland, who is ugly."

"Oh no—no!" said Merry affectionately.

"Yes, darling," said Maggie, using her most magnetic voice, "really ugly."

"Not in my eyes," said Merry.

"She is ugly," repeated Maggie, speaking with great calm; "and—yes—she is poor. I will tell you as a great secret—I have never breathed it to a soul yet—that it would be impossible for this girl to be an inmate of Aylmer House if Mrs. Ward, in the kindness of her great heart, had not offered her very special terms. You will never breathe that, Merry, not even to Cicely?"

"Oh, poor Maggie!" said Merry, "are you really—really as poor as that?"

"Church mice aren't poorer," said Maggie. "But never mind; I have got something which even your Aneta hasn't got. I have talent, and I have the power—the power of charming. I want most earnestly to be your special friend, Merry. I have a very affectionate heart, and I love you and Cicely and Molly and Isabel more than I can say; but of all you four girls I love you the best. You come first in my heart; and to see you at my school turning away from me and going altogether to Aneta's side would give me agony. There, I can't help it. Forgive me. I'll be all right in a minute."

Maggie turned her face aside. She had taken out her handkerchief and was pressing it to her eyes. Real tears had filled them, for her emotions were genuine enough.

"Don't you think," she said after a pause, "that you, who are so rich in this world's goods, might be kind and loving to a poor little plain girl who loves you but who has got very little?"

"Indeed, indeed, I shall always love you, dear Maggie," said Merry.

"Then you will do what I want?"

"I don't like to make promises, and I am so much in the dark; but I can certainly say this—that, whatever happens, I shall be your friend at school. I shall look to you to help me in a hundred ways."

"Will you indeed, darling Merry?"

"Of course I shall. I always intended to, and I think Cicely will do just the same."

"I don't want you to talk to Cicely about this. She doesn't care for me as much as you do."

"Perhaps not quite," said honest Merry.

"Oh, I am sure—certain of it. Then you will be my friend as I shall be yours, and when we meet at Aylmer House you will talk of me to others as your friend?"

"Of course I shall."

"That's what I require. The thought of your friendship when I love you so passionately makes sunshine in my heart. I sha'n't be miserable at all to-morrow after what you have said. I shall think of our pleasant talk under this great oak-tree; I shall recall this lovely, perfect day. Merry, you have made me very happy!"

"But please understand," said Merry, "that, although I am your friend, I cannot give up Aneta."

"Certainly not, dear; only, don't take what you call sides. It is quite reasonable to suppose that girls who have only just come to school would prefer to be there at first quite free and untrammeled; and to belong to a certain set immediately trammels you."

"Well, I, for one, will promise—at any rate at first—that I won't belong to any set," said Merry. "Now, are you satisfied, Maggie?"

"Oh, truly I am! Do let me kiss you, darling."

The girls kissed very affectionately.

Then Maggie said, "Now I am quite happy." After a pause, she continued as though it were an after-thought, "Of course you won't speak of this to any one?"

"Unless, perhaps, to Cicely," said Merry.

"No, not even to Cicely; for if you found it hard to understand, she would find it impossible."

"But," said Merry, "I never had a secret from her in my life. She is my twin, you know."

"Please, please," said Maggie, "keep this little secret all to yourself for my sake. Oh, do think how important it is to me, and how much more you have to be thankful for than I have!"

"If you feel it like that, poor Maggie," said Merry, "I will keep it as my own secret."

"Then I have nothing further to say." Maggie sprang to her feet. "There are the boys running to meet us," she said. "I know they'll want my help in preparing the fire for the gipsy-kettle."

"And I will join the others. There's Susan Heathfield; she is all alone," said Merry. "But one moment first, please, Maggie. Are you going to make Molly and Isabel bind themselves by the same promise?"

"Dear me, no!" said Maggie. "They will naturally be my friends without any effort; but you are the one I want, for you are the one I truly love."

"Hallo! there you are," called Andrew's voice, "hobnobbing, as usual, with Merry Cardew."

"I say, Merry," cried Jack, "it is unfair of you to take our Maggie away on her last day."

The two boys now rushed up.

"I am going to cry bottles-full to-morrow," said Andrew; "and, although I am a boy, about to be a man, I'm not a bit ashamed of it."

"I'll beat you at that," said Jackdaw, "for I'll cry basins-full."

"Dear me, boys, how horrid of you!" said Maggie. "What on earth good will crying do to me? And you'll both be so horribly limp and damp after it."

"Well, come now," said Jackdaw, pulling her by one arm while Peterkin secured the other.—"You've had your share of her, Merry, and it's our turn."

Maggie and her devoted satellites went off in the direction where the bonfire was to be made; and Merry, walking slowly, joined Susan Heathfield.

Susan was more than two years older than Merry, and on that account the younger girls looked up to her with a great deal of respect. Up to the present, however, they had had no confidential talk.

Susan now said, "So you are to be a schoolgirl after all?"

"Yes. Isn't it jolly?" said Merry.

"Oh, it has its pros and cons," replied Susan. "In one sense, there is no place like school; but in the best sense of all there is no place like home."

"Were you long at school, Susan?"

"Of course; Mary and I went to a school in Devonshire when we were quite little girls. I was eleven and Mary ten. Afterwards we were at a London school, and then we went to Paris. We had an excellent time at all our schools; but I think the best fun of all was the thought of the holidays and coming home again."

"That must be delightful," said Merry. "Did you make many friends at school?"

"Well, of course," said Susan. "But now let me give you a word of advice, Merry. You are going to a most delightful school, which, alas! we were not lucky enough to get admitted to, although mother tried very hard. It may be different at Aylmer House from what it is in the ordinary school, but I would strongly advise you and Cicely not to join any clique at school."

"Oh dear, how very queer!" said Merry, and she reddened deeply.

"Why do you look like that?" said Susan.

"Nothing, nothing," said Merry.

Susan was silent for a minute or two. Then she said, "That's a curious-looking girl."

"What girl?" said Merry indignantly.

"I think you said her name was Howland—Miss Howland."

"She is one of the most delightful girls I know," replied Merry at once.

"Well, I don't know her, you see, so I can't say. Aneta tells me that she is a member of your school."

"Yes; and I am so delighted!" said Merry.

Again Susan Heathfield was silent, feeling a little puzzled; but Merry quickly changed the conversation, for she did not want to have any more talk with regard to Maggie Howland. Merry, however, had a very transparent face. Her conversation with her friend had left traces of anxiety and even slight apprehension on her sweet, open face. Merry Cardew was oppressed by the first secret of her life, and it is perhaps to be regretted, or perhaps the reverse, that she found it almost impossible to keep a secret.

"Well," Cicely said to her as they were hurrying from the shady woods in the direction of the picnic-tea, "what is wrong with you, Merry? Have you a headache?"

"Oh no; I am perfectly all right," said Merry, brightening up. "It's only—well, to say the truth, I am sorry that Maggie is going to-morrow."

"You are very fond of her, aren't you?" said Cicely.

"Well, yes; that is it, I am," said Merry.

"We'll see plenty of her at school, anyway," said Cicely.

"I wish she were rich," said Merry. "I hate to think of her as poor."

"Is she poor?" asked Cicely.

"Oh yes; she was just telling me, poor darling!"

"I don't understand what it means to be poor," said Cicely. "People say it is very bad, but somehow I can't take it in."

"Maggie takes it in, at any rate," said Merry. "Think of us to-morrow, Cicely, having more fun, being out again in the open air, having pleasant companions all round us, and our beautiful home to go back to, and our parents, whom we love so dearly; and then, next week, of the house by the sea, and Aneta and Molly and Isabel our companions."

"Well, of course," said Cicely.

"And then think of poor Maggie," continued Merry. "She'll be shut up in a musty, fusty London lodging. I can't think how she endures it."

"I don't know what a musty, fusty lodging is," said Cicely; "but she could have come with us, because mother invited her."

"She can't, because her own mother wants her. Oh dear! I wish we could have her and her mother too."

"Come on now, Merry, I don't think we ought to ask father and mother to invite Mrs. Howland."

"Of course not. I quite understand that," replied Merry. "Nevertheless, I am a little sad about dear Maggie."

Merry's sadness took a practical form. She thought a great deal about her friend during the rest of that day, although Maggie rather avoided her. She thought, in particular, of Maggie's poverty, and wondered what poverty really meant. The poor people—those who were called poor at Meredith—did not really suffer at all, for it was the bounden duty of the squire of the Manor to see to all their wants, to provide them with comfortable houses and nice gardens, and if they were ill to give them the advice of a good doctor, also to send them nourishing food from the Manor. But poor people of that sort were quite different from the Maggie Howland sort. Merry could not imagine any lord of the manor taking Maggie and Mrs. Howland in hand and providing them with all the good things of life.

But all of a sudden it darted through her eager, affectionate little heart that she herself might be lord of the manor to Maggie, and might help Maggie out of her own abundance. If it were impossible to get Maggie Howland and her mother both invited to Scarborough, why should not she, Merry, provide Maggie with means to take her mother from the fusty, dusty lodgings to another seaside resort?

Merry thought over this for some time, and the more she thought over it the more enamored she was of the idea. She and Cicely had, of course, no special means of their own, nor could they have until they came of age. Nevertheless, they were allowed as pocket-money ten pounds every quarter. Now, Merry's ten pounds would be due in a week. She really did not want it. When she got it she spent it mostly on presents for her friends and little gifts for the villagers; but on this occasion she might give it all in one lump sum to Maggie Howland. Surely her father would let her have it? She might give it to Maggie early to-morrow morning. Maggie would not be too proud to accept it just as a tiny present.

Merry had as little idea how far ten pounds would go toward the expenses of a visit to the seaside as she had of what real poverty meant. But it occurred to her as a delightful way of assuring Maggie of her friendship to present Maggie with her quarter's pocket-money.

On their way home that evening, therefore, she was only too glad to find herself by her father's side.

"Well, little girl," he said, "so you're forsaking all your young companions and wish to sit close to the old dad?"

The old dad, it may be mentioned, was driving home in a mail-phaeton from the picnic, and Merry found herself perched high up beside him as he held the reins and guided a pair of thoroughbred horses.

"Well, what is it, little girl?" he said.

"I wonder, father, if you'd be most frightfully kind?"

"What!" he answered, just glancing at her; "that means that you are discontented again. What more can I do for you, Merry?"

"If I might only have my pocket-money to-night."

"You extravagant child! Your pocket-money! It isn't due for a week."

"But I do want it very specially. Will you advance it to me just this once, dad?"

"I am not to know why you want it?"

"No, dad darling, you are not to know."

Mr. Cardew considered for a minute.

"I hope you are not going to be a really extravagant woman, Merry," he said. "To tell the truth, I hate extravagance, although I equally hate stinginess. You will have no lack of money, child, but money is a great and wonderful gift and ought to be used to the best of best advantages. It ought never to be wasted, for there are so many people who haven't half enough, and those who are rich, my child, ought to help those who are not rich."

"Yes, darling father," said Merry; "and that is what I should so awfully like to do."

"Well, I think you have the root of the matter in you," said Mr. Cardew, "and I, for one, am the last person to pry on my child. Does Cicely also want her money in advance?"

"Oh no, no! I want it for a very special reason."

"Very well, my little girl. Come to me in the study to-night before you go to bed, and you shall have your money."

"In sovereigns, please, father?"

"Yes, child, in sovereigns."

"Thank you ever so much, darling."

During the rest of the drive there was no girl happier than Merry Cardew. Mr. Cardew looked at her once or twice, and wondered what all this meant. But he was not going to question her.

When they got home he took her away to his study, and, opening a drawer, took out ten sovereigns.

"I may as well tell you," he said as he put them into her hand, "that when you go to school I shall raise your pocket-money allowance to fifteen pounds a quarter. That is quite as large a sum as a girl of your age ought to have in the year. I do this because I well understand that at Mrs. Ward's school there will be special opportunities for you to act in a philanthropic manner."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, father!" said Merry.



CHAPTER XII.

SHEPHERD'S BUSH.

While Merry was in a state of high rejoicing at this simple means of helping her friend, Maggie Howland herself was not having quite such a good time. She had been much relieved by her conversation with Merry, but shortly after the picnic-tea Aneta had come up to her.

"Would you like to walk with me," said Aneta, "as far as the giant oak? It isn't a great distance from here, and I'll not keep you long."

"Certainly I will come with you, Aneta," said Maggie; but she felt uncomfortable, and wondered what it meant.

The two girls set off together. They made a contrast which must have been discernible to the eyes of all those who saw them: Aneta the very essence of elegance; Maggie spotlessly neat, but, compared to her companion, downright plain. Aneta was tall and slim; Maggie was short. Nevertheless, her figure was her good point, and she made the most of it by having perfectly fitting clothes. This very fact, however, took somewhat from her appearance, and gave her the look of a grown-up girl, whereas she was still only a child.

As soon as ever the girls got out of earshot, Aneta turned to Maggie and said gravely, "My cousins the Cardews are to join us all at Aylmer House in September."

Maggie longed to say, "Thank you for nothing," but she never dared to show rudeness to Aneta. No one had ever been rude to the stately young lady.

"Yes," she said. Then she added, "I am so glad! Aren't you?"

"For some reasons I am very glad," said Aneta.

"But surely for all, aren't you?"

"Not for all," replied Aneta.

How Maggie longed to give her companion a fierce push, or otherwise show how she detested her!

"I will tell you why I regret it," said Aneta, turning her calm, beautiful eyes upon Maggie's face.

"Thank you," said Maggie.

"I regret it, Maggie Howland, because you are at the school."

"How very polite!" said Maggie, turning crimson.

"It is not polite," said Aneta, "and I am sorry that I have to speak as I do; but it is necessary. We needn't go into particulars; but I have something to say to you, and please understand that what I say I mean. You know that when first you came to the school I was as anxious as any one else to be kind to you, to help you, to be good to you. You know the reason why I changed my mind. You know what you did. You know that were Mrs. Ward to have the slightest inkling of what really occurred you would not remain another hour at Aylmer House. I haven't told any one what I know; but if you, Maggie, tamper with Cicely and Merry Cardew, who are my cousins and dear friends—if you win them over to what you are pleased to call your side of the school—I shall consider it my duty to tell Mrs. Ward what I have hitherto kept back from her."

Maggie was trembling very violently.

"You could not be so cruel," she said after a pause.

"I have long thought," continued Aneta, speaking in her calm, gentle voice, "that I did wrong at the time to keep silent; but you got my promise, and I kept it."

"Yes, yes," said Maggie, "I got your promise; you wouldn't dare to break it?"

"You are mistaken," said Aneta. "If the circumstances to which I have just alluded should arise I would break that promise. Now you understand?"

"I think you are the meanest, the cruellest—I think you are——There, I hate you!" said Maggie.

"You have no reason to. I will not interfere with you if you, on your part, leave those I love alone. Cicely and Merry are coming to the school because I am there, because my aunt recommends the school, because it is a good school. Leave off doing wrong, and join us, Maggie, in what is noble and high; but continue your present course at your peril. You would do anything for power; you go too far. You have influenced one or two girls adversely already. I am convinced that Mrs. Ward does not trust you. If you interfere with Cicely or Merry, Mrs. Ward will have good reason to dislike you, for I myself shall open her eyes."

"You will be an informer, a tell-tale?"

"You can call me any names you like, Maggie; I shall simply do what I consider my duty."

"Oh, but——I hate you!" said Maggie again.

"I am sorry you hate me, for it isn't necessary; and if I saw you in the least like others I should do all in my power to help you. Now, will you give me your promise that you won't interfere with Cicely and Merry?"

"But does this mean—does this mean," said Maggie, who was almost choking with rage, "that I am to have nothing to do with the Cardews?"

"You are on no account to draw the Cardews into the circle of your friends, who are, I am thankful to say, limited. If you do, you know the consequences, and I am not the sort of girl to go back when I have firmly made up my mind on a certain point."

Maggie suddenly clutched hold of her companion's arm.

"I am miserable enough already," she said, "and you make my life unendurable! You don't know what it is to have a mother like mine, and to be starvingly poor."

"I am very sorry you are poor, Maggie, and I am very sorry for you with regard to your mother, although I do not think you ought to speak unkindly of her. But your father was a very good man, and you might live up to his memory. I saw you and Merry together to-day. Beware how you try to influence her."

"Oh, I can't stand you!" said Maggie.

"I have said my say. Shall we return to the others?" said Aneta in her calm voice.

"If she would only get into a rage and we might have a hand-to-hand fight I should feel better," thought Maggie. But she was seriously alarmed, for she well remembered something which had happened at school, which Aneta had discovered, and which, if known, would force Mrs. Ward to dismiss her from the establishment. Such a course would spell ruin. Maggie had strong feelings, but she had also self-control; and by the time the two joined the others her face looked much as usual.

On the following morning early a little girl ran swiftly from the Manor to the rectory. Maggie was to leave by the eleven o'clock train. Merry appeared on the scene soon after nine.

"I want you, Maggie, all quite by yourself," said Merry, speaking with such excitement that Molly and Belle looked at her in unbounded amazement.

"You can't keep her long," said Peterkins and Jackdaw, "for it is our very last day, and Spot-ear and Fanciful want to say good-bye to her. You can't have the darling more than three minutes at the most."

"I am going to keep Maggie for ten minutes, and no longer.—Come along at once, Maggie," said Merry Cardew.

They went out into the grounds, and Merry, putting her hand into her pocket, took out a little brown leather bag. She thrust it into her companion's hand.

"What is it?" said Maggie.

"It is for you—for you, darling," said Merry. "Take it, as a loan, if you like—only take it. It is only ten pounds. I am afraid you will think it nothing at all; but do take it, just as a mere loan. It is my pocket-money for the next quarter. Perhaps you could go from the musty, fusty lodgings to some fresher place with this to help you. Do—do take it, Maggie! I shall so love you if you do."

Maggie's narrow eyes grew wide. Maggie's sallow face flushed. There came a wild commotion in her heart—a real, genuine sense of downright love for the girl who had done this thing for her. And ten pounds, which meant so very little to Merry Cardew, held untold possibilities for Maggie.

"You will hurt me frightfully if you refuse," said Merry.

Maggie trembled from head to foot. Suppose, by any chance, it got to Aneta's ears that she had taken this money from Merry; suppose it got abroad in the school! Oh, she dared not take it! she must not!

"What is it, Maggie? Why don't you speak?" said Merry, looking at her in astonishment.

"I love you with all my heart and soul," said Maggie; "but I just can't take the money."

"Oh Maggie! but why?"

"I can't, dear; I can't. It—it would not be right. You mustn't lower me in my own estimation. I should feel low down if I took your money. I know well I am poor, and so is dear mother, and the lodgings are fusty and musty, but we are neither of us so poor as that. I'll never forget that you brought it to me, and I'll love you just more than I have ever done; but I can't take it."

"Do come on, Maggie!" shouted Jackdaw. "Fanciful is dying for his breakfast; and as to Peterkins, he has got Spot-ear out of his cage. Peterkins is crying like anything, and his tears are dropping on Spot-ear, and Spot-ear doesn't like it. Do come on!"

"Yes, yes; I am coming," said Maggie—"Good-bye, darling Merry. My best thanks and best love."

That evening, or in the course of the afternoon, Maggie appeared at Shepherd's Bush. She had been obliged to travel third-class, and the journey was hot and dusty.

She lay back against the cushions with a tired feeling all over her. For a time she had been able to forget her poverty. Now it had fully returned to her, and she was not in the mood to be good-natured. There was no need to show any charm or any kindliness to her neighbors, who, in their turn, thought her a disagreeable, plain girl, not worth any special notice.

It was, therefore, by no means a prepossessing-looking girl who ran up the high flight of steps which belonged to that lodging-house in Shepherd's Bush where Mrs. Howland was staying. Maggie knew the lodgings well, although she had never spent much time there. As a rule, she contrived to spend almost all her holidays with friends; but on this occasion her mother had sent for her in a very summary manner; and, although Maggie had no real love for her mother, she was afraid to disobey her.

Mrs. Howland occupied the drawing-room floor of the said lodgings. They were kept by a Mrs. Ross, an untidy and by no means too clean-looking woman. Mrs. Ross kept one small "general," and the general's name was Tildy. Tildy had bright-red hair and a great many freckles on her round face. She was squat in figure, and had a perpetual smut either on her cheek or forehead. In the morning she was nothing better than a slavey, but in the afternoon she generally managed to put on a cap with long white streamers and an apron with a bib. Tildy thought herself very fine in this attire, and she had donned it now in honor of Miss Howland's arrival. She had no particular respect for Mrs. Howland, but she had a secret and consuming admiration for Maggie.

Maggie had been kind to Tildy once or twice, and had even given the general a cast-off dress of her own. Maggie was plain, and yet people liked her and listened to her words.

"Oh miss," said Tildy when she opened the front door, "it's me that's glad to see you! Your ma is upstairs; she's took with a headache, but you'll find her lyin' down on the sofy in the drawin'-room."

"Then I'll run up at once, Matilda," said Maggie. "And how are you?" she added good-naturedly. "Oh, you've got your usual smut."

"Indicate the spot, miss, and it shall be moved instancious," said Tildy. "Seems to me as if never could get rid of smuts, what with the kitchen-range, and missus bein' so exacsheous, and Tildy here, Tildy there; Tildy do this, Tildy do t'other, soundin' in my hears all day long."

"You are a very good girl," said Maggie, "and if I were in your place I'd have a hundred smuts, not one. But take it off now, do; it's on the very center of your forehead. And bring me some tea to the drawing-room, for I'm ever so thirsty."

"You've been in a blessed wondrous castle since, haven't you, missie?" said Matilda in a voice of suppressed awe.

"I know some young ladies who live in a castle; but I myself have been at a rectory," said Maggie. "Now, don't keep me. Oh, here's a shilling for the cabman; give it to him, and get my box taken upstairs."

Maggie flew up the steep, badly carpeted stairs to the hideous drawing-room. Her spirits had been very low; but, somehow, Tildy had managed to revive them. Tildy was plain, and very much lower than Maggie in the social scale; but Tildy admired her, and because of that admiration made her life more or less endurable in the fusty, musty lodgings. She had always cultivated Tildy's good will, and she thought of the girl now with a strange sense of pity.

"Compared to her, I suppose I am well off," thought Maggie. "I have only five weeks at the most to endure this misery; then there will be Aylmer House."

She opened the drawing-room door and entered. Mrs. Howland was lying on a sofa, which was covered with faded rep and had a broken spring. She had a handkerchief wrung out of aromatic vinegar over her forehead. Her eyes were shut, and her exceedingly thin face was very pale. When her daughter entered the room she opened a pair of faded eyes and looked at her, but no sense of pleasure crossed Mrs. Howland's shallow face. On the contrary, she looked much worried, and said, in a cross tone, "I wish you would not be so noisy, Maggie. Didn't Tildy tell you that I had an acute headache?"

"Yes, mother; and I didn't know I was noisy," replied Maggie. "I came upstairs as softly as possible. That door"—she pointed to the door by which she had entered—"creaks horribly. That is not my fault."

"Excusing yourself, as usual," said Mrs. Howland.

"Well, mother," said Maggie after a pause, "may I kiss you now that I have come back against my will?"

"I knew you'd be horribly discontented," said Mrs. Howland; "but of course you may kiss me."

Maggie bent down and touched her mother's cheek with her young lips.

"I was having a beautiful time," she said, "and you don't seem glad now that I have come back. What is the matter?"

"I have something to communicate to you," said Mrs. Howland. "I did not think I could write it; therefore I was obliged to have you with me. But we won't talk of it for a little. Have you ordered tea?"

"Yes, mother. Tildy is bringing it."

"That's right," said Mrs. Howland. "What a hot day it is!" she continued.

"This room is stifling," replied Maggie. "Do you mind if I pull down the Venetian blinds? That will keep some of the sun out."

"The blinds are all broken," said Mrs. Howland. "I have spoken to that woman Ross till I am tired, but she never will see to my wishes in any way."

"I can't imagine why we stay here, mother."

"Oh! don't begin your grumbles now," said Mrs. Howland. "I have news for you when tea is over."

Just then the drawing-room door was opened by means of a kick and a bump, and Tildy entered, weighed down by an enormous tea-tray. Maggie ran to prepare a table for its reception, and Tildy looked at her with eyes of fresh admiration. Mrs. Howland raised herself and also looked at the girl.

"Have you kept the cakes downstairs, and the muffins that I ordered, and the gooseberries?"

"No, um," said Tildy. "I brought them up for Miss Maggie's tea."

"I told you they were not to be touched till Mr. Martin came."

"Yes, um," said Tildy; "but me and Mrs. Ross thought as Miss Maggie 'u'd want 'em."

Mrs. Howland glanced at her daughter. Then all of a sudden, and quite unexpectedly, her faded face grew red. She perceived an expression of inquiry in Maggie's eyes which rather frightened her.

"It's all right," she said. "Now that you've brought the things up, Tildy, leave them here, and go. When Mr. Martin comes, show him up. Now leave us, and be quick about it."

Tildy departed, slamming the door behind her.

"How noisy that girl is!" said Mrs. Howland. "Well, I am better now; I'll just go into our bedroom and get tidy. I'll be back in a few minutes. I mustn't be seen looking this fright when Mr. Martin comes."

"But who is Mr. Martin?" said Maggie.

"You will know presently," said Mrs. Howland. "It's about him that I have news."

Maggie felt her heart thumping in a very uncomfortable manner. The bedroom which she and her mother shared together—that is, when Maggie was with her mother—was at the back of the drawing-room. Mrs. Howland remained there for about five minutes, and during that time Maggie helped herself to a cup of tea, for she was feverishly hot and thirsty.

Her mother returned at the end of five minutes, looking wonderfully better, and in fact quite rejuvenated. Her dress was fairly neat. She had a slight color in her pale cheeks which considerably brightened her light-blue eyes. Her faded hair was arranged with some neatness, and she had put on a white blouse and a blue alpaca skirt.

"Oh mother," said Maggie, hailing this change with great relief, "how much better you look now! I am a comfort to you, am I not, mums? I sha'n't mind coming back and giving up all my fun if I am a real comfort to you."

"I wouldn't have sent for you but for Mr. Martin," said Mrs. Howland. "It was he who wished it. Yes, I am much better now, though I cannot honestly say that you are the cause. It's the thought of seeing Mr. Martin that cheers me up; I must be tidy for him. Yes, you may pour out a cup of tea for me; only see that you keep some really strong tea in the teapot for Mr. Martin, for he cannot bear it weak. He calls weak tea wish-wash."

"But whoever is this mysterious person?" said Maggie.

"I will tell you in a minute or two. You may give me one of those little cakes. No, I couldn't stand muffins; I hate them in hot weather. Besides, my digestion isn't what it was; but I shall be all right by-and-by; so will you too, my dear. And what I do, I do for you."

"Well, I wish you would tell me what you are doing for me, and get it over," said Maggie. "You were always very peculiar, mums, always—even when dear father was alive—and you're not less so now."

"That's a very unkind way for a child to speak of her parent," said Mrs. Howland; "but I can assure you, Maggie, that Mr. Martin won't allow it in the future."

Maggie now sprang to her feet.

"Good gracious, mother! What has Mr. Martin to do with me? Is he—is he—it cannot be, mother!"

"Yes, I can," said Mrs. Howland. "I may as well have it out first as last. I am going to marry Mr. Martin."

"Mother!"

There was a wailing cry in Maggie's voice. No girl can stand with equanimity her mother marrying a second time; and as Maggie, with all her dreams of her own future, had never for an instant contemplated this fact, she was simply staggered for a minute or two.

"You will have to take it in the right spirit, my dear," said her mother. "I can't stand this life any longer. I want money, and comforts, and devotion, and the love of a faithful husband, and Mr. Martin will give me all these things. He is willing to adopt you too. He said so. He has no children of his own. I mean, when I say that, that his first family are all settled in life, and he says that he wouldn't object at all to a pleasant, lively girl in the house. He wants you to leave school."

"Leave Aylmer House!" said Maggie. "Oh no, mother!"

"I knew you'd make a fuss about it," said Mrs. Howland. "He has a great dislike to what he calls fine folks. He speaks of them as daisies, and he hates daisies."

"But, mother—mother dear—before he comes, tell me something about him. Where did you meet him? Who is he? A clergyman—a barrister? What is he, mother?"

Mrs. Howland remained silent for a minute. Then she pressed her hand to her heart. Then she gave way to a burst of hysterical laughter.

"Just consider for a minute, Maggie," she said, "what utter nonsense you are talking. Where should I be likely to meet a clergyman or a barrister? Do clergymen or barristers or people in any profession come to houses like this? Do talk sense when you're about it."

"Well, tell me what he is, at least."

"He is in—I am by no means ashamed of it—in trade."

Now, it so happened that it had been duly impressed upon Maggie's mind that Mr. Cardew of Meredith Manor was also, so to speak, in trade; that is, he was the sleeping partner in one of the largest and wealthiest businesses in London. Maggie therefore, for a minute, had a glittering vision of a great country-house equal in splendor to Meredith Manor, where she and her mother could live together. But the next minute Mrs. Howland killed these glowing hopes even in the moment of their birth.

"I want to conceal nothing from you," she said. "Mr. Martin keeps the grocer's shop at the corner. I may as well say that I met him when I went to that shop to get the small articles of grocery which I required for my own consumption. He has served me often across the counter. Then one day I was taken rather weak and ill in the shop, and he took me into his back-parlor, a very comfortable room, and gave me a glass of excellent old port; and since then, somehow, we have been friends. He is a widower, I a widow. His children have gone into the world, and each one of them is doing well. My child is seldom or never with her mother. It is about a week ago since he asked me if I would accept him and plenty, instead of staying as I am—a genteel widow with so little money that I am half-starved. His only objection to our marriage is the thought of you, Maggie; for he said that I was bringing you up as a fine lady, with no provision whatever for the future. He hates fine ladies, as he calls them; in fact, he is dead nuts against the aristocracy."

"Oh mother!" wailed poor Maggie; "and my father was a gentleman!"

"Mr. Martin has quite a gentlemanly heart," said Mrs. Howland. "I don't pretend for a moment that he is in the same position as my late lamented husband; but he is ten times better off, and we shall live in a nice little house in Clapham, and I can have two servants of my own; he is having the house refurnished and repapered for me—in his own taste, it is true, for he will not hear of what he calls Liberty rubbish. But it is going to be very comfortable, and I look forward to my change of surroundings with great satisfaction."

"Yes, mother," said Maggie, "you always did think of yourself first. But what about me?"

"You had better not talk to me in that strain before Mr. Martin. He is very deeply devoted to me," said Mrs. Howland; "and do not imagine that we have not given you careful consideration. He is willing to adopt you, but insists on your leaving Aylmer House and coming to Laburnum Villa at Clapham. From what he says, you are quite sufficiently educated, and your duty now is to look after your mother and your new father, to be pleasant to me all day long, and to be bright and cheerful with him when he comes back from business in the evening. If you play your cards well, Maggie, he will leave you well provided for, as he is quite rich—of course, not rich like those people you are staying near, but rich for his class. I am very much pleased myself at the engagement. Our banns were called last Sunday in church, and we are to be married in a fortnight. After that, you had best stay on here until we desire you to join us at Laburnum Villa."

"I can't, mother," said Maggie. "I can't—and I won't."

"Oh, come, I hear a step on the stairs," said Mrs. Howland. "That is Mr. Martin. Now, you will restrain yourself for my sake."

There was a step on the stairs—firm, solid, heavy. The drawing-room door was opened about an inch, but no one came in.

Mrs. Howland said in a low whisper to her daughter, "He doesn't know you have returned; he is very playful. Just stay quiet. He really is a most amusing person."

"Bo-peep!" said a voice at the door; and a round, shining, bald head was popped in and then disappeared.

"Bo-peep!" said Mrs. Howland in response.

She stood up, and there came over her faded face a waggish expression. She held up her finger and shook it playfully. The bald head appeared again, followed immediately by a very round body. The playful finger continued to waggle.

"Ducksie dear!" said Mr. Martin, and he clasped Mrs. Howland in his arms.

Maggie gave a smothered groan.

"It's the child," said Mrs. Howland in a whisper. "She is a bit upset; but when she knows you, James, she'll love you as much as I do."

"Hope so," said Mr. Martin. "I'm a duckle, Little-sing; ain't I, Victoria?" Here he chuckled the good lady under the chin. "Ah, and so this is Maggie?—How do, my dear? How do, Popsy-wopsy?"

"How do you do?" said Maggie.

"Come, come," said Mr. Martin. "No flights and vapors, no fine airs, no affected, mincing ways. A little girl should love her new parent. A little girl should kiss her new parent."

"I won't kiss you, Mr. Martin," said Maggie.

"Oh, come, come—shy, is she? Let me tell you, Popsy-wopsy, that every man wouldn't want to kiss you.—She is not a bit like you, my dear Victoria. Wherever did she get that queer little face? She is no beauty, and that I will say.—Now, your mother, Popsy, is a most elegant woman; any one can see that she is a born aristocrat; but I hate 'em, my dear—hate 'em! I am one of those who vote for the abolition of the House of Lords. Give me the Commons; no bloated Lords for me. Well, you're a bit took aback, ain't you? Your mother and me—we settled things up very tidy while you were sporting in the country. I like you all the better, my dear, for being plain. I don't want no beauties except my beloved Victoria. She's the woman for me.—Ain't you, my Little-sing? Eh dear! Eh dear! It's we three who'll have the fun.—I'll take you right into my heart, Popsy-wopsy, and snug and comfortable you'll find yourself there."

Poor Maggie! The overwhelming contrast between this scene and the scenes of yesterday! The awful fact that her mother was going to marry such a being as Mr. Martin overpowered her with such a sense of horror that for the time she felt quite dumb and stupid.

Mr. Martin, however, was in a radiant humor. "Now then, Little-sing," he said, addressing Mrs. Howland, "where's the tea! Poor Bo-peep wants his tea. He's hungry and he's thirsty, is Bo-peep. Little-sing will pour out Bo-peep's tea with her own pretty, elegant hands, and butter his muffins for him, and Cross-patch in the corner can keep herself quiet."

"May I go into our bedroom, mother?" said Maggie at that juncture.

"No, miss, you may not," said Martin, suddenly rousing himself from a very comfortable position in the only easy-chair the room afforded. "I have something to say to you, and when I have said it you may do what you please."

"Stay quiet, dear Maggie, for the present," said Mrs. Howland.

The poor woman felt a queer sense of shame. Bo-peep and Little-sing had quite an agreeable time together when they were alone. She did not mind the boisterous attentions of her present swain; but with Maggie by there seemed to be a difference. Maggie made her ashamed of herself.

Maggie walked to the window, and, taking a low chair, sat down. Her heart was beating heavily. There was such a misery within her that she could scarcely contain herself. Could anything be done to rescue her mother from such a marriage? She was a very clever girl; but, clever as she was, she could see no way out.

Meanwhile Mr. Martin drank his tea with huge gulps, ate a quantity of muffins, pooh-poohed the gooseberries as not worth his attention, and then said, "Now, Victoria, my dearest dear, I am ready to propound my scheme to your offspring.—Come forward, Popsy-wopsy, and listen to what new pa intends to do for you."

Maggie rose, feeling that her limbs were turned to ice. She crossed the room and stood before Mr. Martin.

"Well?" she said.

"None of those airs, Popsy."

"I want to know what you mean to do," said Maggie, struggling hard to keep her temper.

"Well, missie miss, poor Bo-peep means to marry your good ma, and he wants a nice 'ittle dirl to come and live with ma and pa at Clapham; pretty house, solid furniture, garden stocked with fruit-trees, a swing for good 'ittle dirl, a nice room for dear Popsy to sleep in, no more lessons, no more fuss, no more POVERTY! That's what new pa proposes to ma's 'ittle dirl. What does 'ittle dirl say?"

There was a dead silence in the room. Mrs. Howland looked with wild apprehension at her daughter. Mr. Martin had, however, still a jovial and smiling face.

"Down on its knees ought Popsy-wopsy to go," he said. "Tears might come in Popsy-wopsy's eyes, and the 'ittle dirl might say, 'Dearest pa that is to be, I love you with all my heart, and I am glad that you're going to marry ma and to take me from horrid school.'"

But there was no sign on the part of Maggie Howland of fulfilling these expectations on the part of the new pa. On the contrary, she stood upright, and then said in a low voice, "This has been a very great shock to me."

"Shock!" cried Martin. "What do you mean by that, miss?"

"I must speak," said Maggie. "You must let me, sir; and, mother, you must let me. It is for the last time. Quite the last time. I will never be here to offend you any more."

"'Pon my word!" said Martin, springing to his feet, and his red, good-humored face growing crimson. "There's gratitude for you! There's manners for you!—Ma, how ever did you bring her up?"

"Let me speak," said Maggie. "I am sorry to hurt your feelings, sir. You are engaged to my mother."

"Ra-ther!" said Mr. Martin. "My pretty birdling hopped, so to speak, into my arms. No difficulties with her; no drawing back on the part of Little-sing. She wanted her Bo-peep, and she—well, her Bo-peep wanted her."

"Yes, sir," said Maggie. "I am exceedingly sorry—bitterly sorry—that my mother is going to marry again; but as she cares for you"——

"Which I do!" said Mrs. Howland, who was now reduced to tears.

"I have nothing more to say," continued Maggie, "except that I hope she will be happy. But I, sir, am my father's daughter as well as my mother's, and I cannot for a single moment accept your offer. It is impossible. I must go on with my own education as best I can."

"Then you re-fuse," said Martin, "to join your mother and me?"

"Yes," said Maggie, "I refuse."

"Has she anything to live on, ma?" asked Mr. Martin.

"Oh, dear James," said Mrs. Howland, "don't take all the poor child says in earnest now! She'll be down on her knees to you to-morrow. I know she will. Leave her to me, James dear, and I'll manage her."

"You can manage most things, Little-sing," said Mr. Martin; "but I don't know that I want that insolent piece. She is very different from you. If she is to be about our pleasant, cheerful home snubbing me and putting on airs—why, I'll have none of it. Let her go, Victoria, I say—let her go if she wants to; but if she comes to me she must come in a cheerful spirit, and joke with me, and take my fun, and be as agreeable as you are yourself, Little-sing."

"Well, at least," said Mrs. Howland, "give us till to-morrow. The child is surprised; she will be different to-morrow."

"I hope so," said Mr. Martin; "but if there's any philandering, or falling back, or if there's any on-gratitude, I'll have naught to do with her. I only take her to oblige you, Victoria."

"You had best leave us now, dear," said Mrs. Howland. "I will talk to Maggie, and let you know."

Mr. Martin sat quite still for a minute. Then he rose, took not the slightest notice of Maggie, but, motioning Mrs. Howland to follow him, performed a sort of cake-walk out of the room.

When he reached the door and had said good-bye, he opened it again and said, "Bo-peep!" pushing a little bit of his bald head in, and then withdrawing it, while Mrs. Howland pretended to admire his antics.

At last he was gone; but by this time Maggie had vanished into the bedroom. She had flung herself on her knees by the bed, and pushed her handkerchief against her mouth to stifle the sound of her sobs. Mrs. Howland gently opened the door, looked at her daughter, and then shut it again. She felt thoroughly afraid of Maggie.

An hour or two later a pale, subdued-looking girl came out of the bedroom and sat down by her mother.

"Well," said Mrs. Howland, "he is very pleasant and cheerful, isn't he?"

"Mother, he is horrible!"

"Maggie, you have no right to say those things to me. I want a good husband to take care of me. I am very lonely, and no one appreciates me."

"Oh mother!" said poor Maggie—"my father!"

"He was a very good man," said Mrs. Howland restlessly; "but he was above me, somehow, and I never, never could reach up to his heights."

"And you really tell me, his child, that you prefer that person?"

"I think I shall be quite happy with him," said Mrs. Howland. "I really do. He is awfully kind, and his funny little ways amuse me."

"Oh mother!"

"You will be good about it, Maggie; won't you?" said Mrs. Howland. "You won't destroy your poor mother's happiness? I have had such lonely years, and such a struggle to keep my head above water; and now that good man comes along and offers me a home and every comfort. I am not young, dear; I am five-and-forty; and there is nothing before me if I refuse Mr. Martin but an old age of great poverty and terrible loneliness. You won't stand in my way, Maggie?"

"I can't, mother; though it gives me agony to think of your marrying him."

"But you'll get quite accustomed to it after a little; and he is really very funny, I can assure you; he puts me into fits of laughter. You will get accustomed to him, darling; you will come and live with your new father and me at Laburnum Villa?"

"Mother, you must know that I never will."

"But what are you to do, Maggie? You've got no money at all."

"Oh mother!" said poor Maggie, "it costs very little to keep me at Aylmer House; you know that quite, quite well. Please do let me go on with my education. Afterwards I can earn my living as a teacher or in some profession, for I have plenty of talent. I take after father in that."

"Oh yes, I know I always was a fool," said Mrs. Howland; "but I have a way with people for all that."

"Mother, you have a great deal that is quite sweet about you, and you're throwing yourself away on that awful man! Can't we go on as we did for a year or two, you living here, and I coming to you in the holidays? Then, as soon as ever I get a good post I shall be able to help you splendidly. Can't you do it, mother? This whole thing seems so dreadful to me."

"No, I can't, and won't," said Mrs. Howland in a decided voice. "I am exceedingly fond of my Bo-peep—as I call him—and greatly enjoy the prospect of being his wife. Oh Maggie, you have not returned to be a thorn in our sides? You will submit?"

"Never, never, never!" said Maggie.

"Then I don't know what you are to do; for your new father insists on my keeping the very little money I have for my own personal use, and if you refuse to conform to his wishes he will not allow me to spend a farthing of it on you. You can't live on nothing at all."

"I can't," said Maggie. "I don't know quite what to do. Are you going to be so very cruel as to take away the little money you have hitherto spent on me?"

"I must, dear; in fact, it is done already. Mr. Martin has invested it in the grocery business. He already provides for all my wants, and we are to be married in a fortnight. I have nothing whatever to spend on you."

"Well, mother, we'll say no more to-night. I have a headache, but I'll sleep on the sofa here; it's less hot than the bedroom."

"Won't you sleep with your poor old mother?"

"No, I can't, really. Oh, how dreadfully hot this place is!"

"You are spoilt by your fine life, Maggie; but I grant that these lodgings are hot. The house at Clapham, however, is very cool and fresh. Oh Maggie! My dear Bo-peep is getting such a sweet little bedroom ready for you. I could cry when I think of your cross obstinacy."

But even the thought of the sweet little bedroom didn't move Maggie Howland. Tildy presently brought up a meagre supper, of which the mother and daughter partook almost in silence. Then Mrs. Howland went to her room, where she fell fast asleep, and Maggie had the drawing-room to herself. She had arranged a sort of extempore bed on the hard sofa, and was about to lie down, when Tildy opened the door.

"I say," said Tildy, "ain't he cunnin'?"

"What do you mean, Matilda?" said Maggie.

"Oh my," said Tildy, "wot a 'arsh word! Does you know, missie, that he's arsked me to go down to Clap'am presently to 'elp wait on your ma? If you're there, miss, it'll be the 'eight of 'appiness to me."

"I may as well say at once, Matilda, that I shall not be there."

"You don't like 'im, then?" said Tildy, backing a step. "And 'e is so enticin'—the prettiest ways 'e 'ave—at least, that's wot me and Mrs. Ross thinks. We always listen on the stairs for 'im to greet your ma. We like 'im, that we do."

"I have an old dress in my trunk, Tildy, which I will give you. You can manage to make it look quite nice for your new post as parlor-maid at Laburnum Villa. But now go, please; for I must be alone to think."

Tildy went. She crept downstairs to the kitchen regions. There she met Mrs. Ross.

"The blessed young lady's full of ructions," said Tildy.

"And no wonder," replied Mrs. Ross. "She's a step above Martin, and Martin knows it."

"I 'ope as she won't refuse to jine us at Laburnum Villa," said Tildy.

"There's no sayin' wot a spirited gel like that'll do," said Mrs. Ross; "but ef she do go down, Martin 'll be a match for 'er."

"I don't know about that," replied Tildy. "She 'ave a strong, determined w'y about 'er, has our Miss Maggie."

If Mrs. Howland slept profoundly, poor Maggie could not close her eyes. She suddenly found herself surrounded by calamity. The comparatively small trials which she had thought big enough in connection with Aylmer House and Cicely and Merry Cardew completely disappeared before this great trouble which now faced her. Her mother's income amounted to a hundred and fifty pounds a year, and out of that meagre sum the pair had contrived to live, and, owing to Mrs. Ward's generosity, Maggie had been educated. But now that dreadful Mr. Martin had secured Mrs. Howland's little property, and the only condition on which it could be spent on Maggie was that she should accept a home with her future stepfather. This nothing whatever would induce her to do. But what was to be done?

She had no compunction whatever in leaving her mother. They had never been really friends, for the girl took after her father, whom her mother had never even pretended to understand. Mrs. Howland, when she became Mrs. Martin, would be absolutely happy without Maggie, and Maggie knew well that she would be equally miserable with her. On the other hand, how was Maggie to live?

Suddenly it flashed across her mind that there was a way out, or at least a way of providing sufficient funds for the coming term at Aylmer House. Her mother had, after all, some sort of affection for her, and if Maggie made her request she was certain it would not be refused. She meant to get her mother to give her all that famous collection of jewels which her father had collected in different parts of the world. In especial, the bracelets flashed before her memory. These could be sold, and would produce a sum which might keep Maggie at Aylmer House, perhaps for a year—certainly for the approaching term.



CHAPTER XIII.

BREAKFAST WITH BO-PEEP.

After Maggie's restless night she got up early. The day promised to be even hotter than the one before; but as the drawing-room faced west it was comparatively cool at this hour.

Tildy brought her favorite young lady a cup of tea, and suggested that she should go for an outing while Tildy herself freshened up the room. Maggie thought that a good idea, and when she found herself in the street her spirits rose a trifle.

A curious sort of fascination drew her in the direction of Martin's shop. It was a very large corner shop, had several entrances, and at this early hour the young shopmen and shopwomen were busy dressing the windows; they were putting appetizing sweetmeats and cakes and biscuits and all kinds of delectable things in the different windows to tempt the passers-by.

Maggie felt a hot sense of burning shame rising to her cheeks as she passed the shop. She was about to turn back, when whom should she see standing in the doorway but the prosperous owner himself! He recognized her immediately, and called out to her in his full, pompous voice, "Come along here, Wopsy!"

The young shop-people turned to gaze in some wonder as the refined-looking girl approached the fat, loud-mannered man.

"I'm in a hurry back to breakfast with my mother," said Maggie in her coldest voice.

"Well, then, I will come along with you, my dear; I am just in the mood. Little-sing, she will give me breakfast this morning. I'll be back again in the shop soon after nine. It's a fine shop, ain't it, Popsy?"

"It does seem large," said Maggie.

"It's the sort of shop," responded Martin, "that takes a deal of getting. It's not done in a day, nor a month, nor a year. It takes a lifetime to build up premises like these. It means riches, my dear—riches." He rolled out the words luxuriously.

"I am sure it does," said Maggie, who felt that for her own sake she must humor him.

"You think so, do you?" said Martin, giving her a keen glance.

"Of course I do," replied Maggie.

Martin gazed at her from head to foot. She was plain. He rather liked her for that. He admired her, too, for, as he expressed it, standing up to him. His dear Little-sing would never stand up to him. But this girl was not the least like her mother. She had a lot of character; Little-sing had none.

"You'd make an admirable accountant, Popsy," he said. "How would you like to take that post by-and-by in my shop?"

Maggie was about to reply that nothing would induce her to accept such a position, when a quick thought darted through her mind. She could scarcely hope to make anything of her mother, for, alack and alas! Mrs. Howland was one of those weak characters who slip away from you even as you try to grasp them. But Martin, with his terrible vulgarity and awful pleasantry, was at least fairly strong.

"Mr. Martin," said Maggie then, "instead of going in to breakfast with mother, will you take me to some restaurant and give me a good meal, and let me talk to you?"

"Well, now," said Martin, chuckling, "you are a girl! You have cheek! I am not a man to waste my money, and breakfast with Little-sing won't cost me anything."

"But under the circumstances you will waste a little money in order to oblige me?" said Maggie.

"There now, I admire your cheek. So be it. You don't deserve anything from me, for a ruder 'ittle dirl than you were yesterday to poor Bo-peep could not have been found in the length and breadth of England."

"You could scarcely expect me to be pleased, sir. The news was broken to me very suddenly, and I was tired after my long journey, too."

"Yes; and you vented your spite on me, on poor old Bo-peep, who has the kindest heart in Christendom."

"I may have said some things that I regret," said Maggie; "but, at any rate, I had the night to think matters over, and if you give me some breakfast I can talk to you."

"I will take you to Harrison's for breakfast," said Martin. "You'll get a topper there, I can tell you—eggs, bacon, kidneys, liver, game-pie, cocoa, coffee, tea, chocolate; anything and everything you fancy, and the best marmalade in London."

Maggie felt rather hungry, and when the pair entered Harrison's she was not displeased at the liberal supply of food which her future stepfather ordered. He pretended to hate the aristocracy, as he called them, and poor Maggie could certainly never claim this distinction in her own little person. Nevertheless, she was entirely superior to Martin, and he felt a sort of pride in her as she walked up the long restaurant by his side.

"Now, waiter," he said to the man who approached to take orders, "you look slippy. This young 'oman and me, we want a real comfortable, all-round, filling meal. You give us the best the house contains; and look slippy, I say."

The waiter did look "slippy," whatever that word might imply, and Martin proceeded to treat Maggie to really excellent viands and to satisfy himself to his heart's content. Maggie ate with a certain amount of relish, for, as has been said, she was really hungry.

"Like it, don't you?" said Martin as he watched her consuming her eggs and bacon.

"Oh yes, very much indeed," said Maggie.

"I'm fond of a good table myself," said Martin. "This is the sort of thing you'll have on all occasions and at every meal at Laburnum Villa. We'll soon fill your poor mother's thin cheeks out, and get her rosy and plump, and then she'll be a more charming Little-sing to her own Bo-peep than ever."

Maggie was silent.

"Come, come," said Martin, patting her hand; "it's all right about Laburnum Villa, ain't it, my girl?"

"No, Mr. Martin," said Maggie then.

She withdrew her hand and turned and looked at him fixedly. "I want to tell you all about myself," she said. "I was really rude to you yesterday, and I am sorry; but I couldn't go to live with you and mother at Laburnum Villa. I will tell you the principal reason why I couldn't go."

"Oh, come, come, you're only a child; you must do what you are told. Your mother has no money to give you, and you can't live on air, you know. Air is all very well, but it don't keep folks alive. You'll have to come to me whether you like it or not."

"Before you come to that determination, Mr. Martin, may I tell you something about myself?"

"Oh dear! I hope it isn't a long story."

"It's very important, and not very long. I am not the least like mother"——

"My good girl, any one can see that. Your mother's a remarkably pretty and elegant woman, and you're the plainest young person I ever came across."

"I am plain," said Maggie; "and, in addition, I am by no means good-natured."

"Oh, you admit that? For shame!"

"I was born that way," said Maggie. "I'm a very high-spirited girl, and I have got ideas with regard to my future. You said just now that perhaps some day you might make me accountant in your shop. That was kind of you, and I might be a good accountant; but, of course, all that is for the future. I shouldn't mind that—I mean, not particularly. But if you were to follow out your plan, and take me to live with you and mother at Laburnum Villa, you would never have a happy moment; for, you see, I am much stronger in character than mother, and I couldn't help making your life miserable; whereas you and mother would be awfully happy without me. Mother says that she loves you, and wishes to be your wife"—

"Now, what are you driving at, Popsy? For if you have nothing hanging on your hands I have a vast lot hanging on mine, and time is precious."

"I will tell you quite frankly what I want you to do, Mr. Martin. You are taking mother."

"I am willing to take you too. I can't do any more."

"But then, you see, I don't want to be taken. Until you came forward and proposed to mother to be your wife she spent a little of her money on my education. She tells me that she has put it now into your business."

"Poor thing!" said Martin. "She was making ducks and drakes of it; but it is safe enough now."

"Yes," said Maggie in a determined voice; "but I think, somehow, that a part of it does lawfully belong to me."

"Oh, come! tut, tut!"

"I think so," said Maggie in a resolute tone; "for, you see, it was father's money; and though he left it absolutely to mother, it was to go to me at her death, and it was meant, little as it was, to help to educate me. I could ask a lawyer all about the rights, of course."

For some extraordinary reason Martin looked rather frightened.

"You can go to any lawyer you please," he said; "but what for? let me ask. If I take you, and do for you, and provide for you, what has a lawyer to say in the matter?"

"Well, that is just it—that's just what I have to inquire into; because, you see, Mr. Martin, I don't want you to provide for me at all."

"I think now we are coming to the point," said Martin. "Stick to it, Popsy, for time's precious."

"I think you ought to allow me to be educated out of mother's money."

"Highty-tighty! I'm sure you know enough."

"I don't really know enough. Mrs. Ward, of Aylmer House, has taken me as an inmate of her school for forty pounds a year. Her terms for most girls are a great deal more."

Martin looked with great earnestness at Maggie.

"I want to go on being Mrs. Ward's pupil, and I want you to allow me forty pounds a year for the purpose, and twenty over for my clothes and small expenses—that is, sixty pounds a year altogether. I shall be thoroughly educated then, and it seems only fair that, out of mother's hundred and fifty a year, sixty pounds of the money should be spent on me. There's no use talking to mother, for she gets so easily puzzled about money; but you have a very good business head. You see, Mr. Martin, I am only just sixteen, and if I get two more years' education, I shall be worth something in the world, whereas now I am worth nothing. I hope you will think it over, Mr. Martin, and do what I wish."

Martin was quite silent for a minute. The waiter came along and was paid his bill, with a very substantial tip for himself thrown in. Still Martin lingered at the breakfast-table with his eyes lowered.

"There's one thing—and one thing only—I like about this, Popsy-wopsy," he said.

"And what is that?" asked Maggie.

"That you came to me on the matter instead of going to your mother; that you recognized the strength and force of my character."

"Oh, any one can see that," said Maggie.

"You put it straight, too, with regard to your own disagreeable nature."

"Yes, I put it straight," said Maggie.

"Well, all I can say at present is this: I will think it over. You go home to your mother now, and tell her that her Bo-peep will be in as usual to tea; and you, little girl, may as well make yourself scarce at that hour. Here's a sovereign for you. Go and have a jolly time somewhere."

"Oh, Mr. Martin, I"——began Maggie, her face crimson.

"You had best not put on airs," said Martin; and Maggie slipped the sovereign into her pocket.

When she reached her mother's lodgings she felt well assured that she had done the right thing. Hitherto she had been too stunned and miserable to use any of her power—that strange power which she possessed—on Mr. Martin. But she felt well assured that she could do so in the future. She had gauged his character correctly. He was hopelessly vulgar, but an absolutely good-natured and straight person.

"He will do what I wish," she thought. Her uneasiness vanished as soon as the first shock of her mother's disclosure was over. She entered the house.

"Why, missie?" said Tildy, "w'erehever 'ave you been? The breakfast's stony cold upstairs, and Mrs. 'Owland's cryin' like nothin' at all."

"Thank you, Tildy; I'll see mother immediately," said Maggie. "And I don't want any breakfast, for I've had it already."

"With the haristocracy?" asked Tildy in a low, awed kind of voice. "You always was one o' they, Miss Maggie."

"No, not with the aristocracy," said Maggie, trying to suppress her feelings. "Tildy, your smut is on your left cheek this morning. You can remove the breakfast-things, and I'll go up to mother."

Maggie ran upstairs. Mrs. Howland had eaten a little, very indifferent breakfast, and was looking weepy and washed-out as she sat in her faded dressing-gown near the open window.

"Really, Maggie," she said when her daughter entered, "your ways frighten me most terribly! I do wish poor Mr. Martin would insist on your coming to live with us. I shall never have an easy moment with your queer pranks and goings-on."

"I am sure you won't, dear mother," said Maggie. "But come, don't be cross with me. Here's Matilda; she'll clear away the breakfast-things in no time, and then I have something I want to say to you."

"Oh dear! my head is so weak this morning," said Mrs. Howland.

"If I were you, Miss Maggie," said Tildy as she swept the cups and saucers with noisy vehemence on to a tray, "I wouldn't worrit the poor mistress, and she just on the eve of a matrimonial venture. It's tryin' to the nerves, it is; so Mrs. Ross tells me. Says she, 'When I married Tom,' says she, 'I was on the twitter for a good month.' It's awful to think as your poor ma's so near the brink—for that's 'ow Mrs. Ross speaks o' matrimony."

"Please be quick, Tildy, and go," said Maggie in a determined voice.

Matilda cleared the table, but before she would take her departure she required definite instructions with regard to dinner, tea, and supper.

Mrs. Howland raised a distracted face. "Really, I can't think," she said, "my head is so weak."

"Well, mum," said Matilda, "s'pose as missus and me does the 'ousekeepin' for you to-day. You ain't fit, mum; it's but to look at you to know that. It's lyin' down you ought to be, with haromatic vinegar on your 'ead."

"You're quite right, Matilda. Well, you see to the things to-day. Have them choice, but not too choice; fairly expensive, but not too expensive, you understand."

"Yus, 'um," said Tildy, and left the room.

Maggie found herself alone with her mother. "Mother," she said eagerly, "now I will tell you why I was not home for breakfast this morning."

"Oh, it doesn't matter, Maggie," said Mrs. Howland; "I am too weak to be worried, and that's a fact."

"It won't worry you, mother. I breakfasted with Mr. Martin."

"What—what!" said Mrs. Howland, astonishment in her voice, and with eyebrows raised almost to meet her hair.

"And an excellent breakfast we had," said Maggie. "He isn't a bad sort at all, mother."

"Well, I am glad you've found that out. Do you suppose your mother would marry a man who was not most estimable in character?"

"He is quite estimable, mother; the only unfortunate thing against him is that he is not in your rank in life."

"A woman who lives in these rooms," said Mrs. Howland, "has no rank in life."

"Well, dear mother, I cannot agree with you. However, as I said, I breakfasted with him."

"Then you're coming round?" said Mrs. Howland. "You're going to be good, and a comfort to us both?"

"No, mother, I haven't come round a bit. When I was breakfasting with Mr. Martin I fully explained to him what a fearful trial I should be to him; how, day by day and hour by hour, I'd annoy him."

"You did that! Oh you wicked child!"

"I thought it best to be frank, mother. I made an impression on him. I did what I did as much for your sake as for mine."

"Then he'll break off the engagement—of course he will!" said Mrs. Howland. She took a moist handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her eyes.

"Not he. He is just devoted to you, mother; you need have no such apprehension."

"What else did you say to him?"

"Well, mother darling, I said what I thought right."

"Oh, of course you won't confide in me."

"I think not. I will let him do that. He is coming to tea this afternoon, and he has given me a sovereign"—how Maggie felt inclined to kick that sovereign!—"to go and have some pleasure somewhere. So I mean to take the train to Richmond, and perhaps get a boatman to take me out on the river for a little."

"He is certainly more playful and amusing when you are not here," said Mrs. Howland, a faint smile dawning on her face.

"I am certain of that," said Maggie; "and what's more, he is very fond of good living. I mean to go out presently and get some excellent things for his tea."

"Will you, Maggie? Will you, my child? Why, that will be quite sweet of you."

"I will do it with pleasure, mother. But now I want you to do something for me."

"Ah," said Mrs. Howland, "I thought you were coming to that."

"Well, it is this," said Maggie. "When he talks to you about me, don't oppose him. He will most probably propound a scheme to you, as his own perhaps; and you are to be quite certain to let him think that it is his own scheme. And you might make out to him, mother, that I am really very disagreeable, and that nothing in all the world would make me anything else. And if you are a very wise little mother you will tell him that you are happier alone with him."

"Which I am—I am," said Mrs. Howland. "He is a dear, quite a dear; and so comical and amusing!"

"Then it's all right," said Maggie. "You know I told you yesterday that nothing would induce me to live at Laburnum Villa; but I will certainly come to you, mums, in the holidays, if you wish it."

"But, dear child, there is no money to keep you at that expensive school. There isn't a penny."

"Oh, well, well, mother, perhaps that can be managed. But now we needn't talk any more about my future until after Mr. Martin has had tea with you to-day. If you have any news for me when I return from Richmond you can let me know."

"You are a very independent girl to go to Richmond by yourself."

"Oh, that'll be all right," said Maggie in a cheerful tone.

"Have you anything else to say to me?"

"Yes. You know all that beautiful jewellery that my dear father brought back with him from those different countries where he spent his life."

Mrs. Howland looked mysterious and frightened.

"It was meant for me eventually, was it not?" said Maggie.

"Oh, well, I suppose so; only, somehow, I have a life-interest in it."

"You won't want for jewellery when you are Mr. Martin's wife."

"Indeed no; why, he has given me a diamond ornament for my hair already. He means to take me out a great deal, he says."

"Out!—oh mother—in his set!"

"Well, dear child, I shall get accustomed to that."

"Don't you think you might give me father's jewellery?" said Maggie.

"Is it worth a great deal?" said Mrs. Howland. "I never could bear to look at it—that is, since he died."

"You haven't given it to Mr. Martin, have you, mother?"

"No, nor said a word about it to him either."

"Well, suppose, now that we have a quiet time, we look at the jewellery?" said Maggie.

"Very well," said Mrs. Howland. Then she added, "I was half-tempted to sell some of it; but your father was so queer, and the things seemed so very ugly and unlike what is worn, that I never had the heart to part with them. I don't suppose they'd fetch a great deal."

"Let's look at them," said Maggie.

Mrs. Howland half-rose from her chair, then sank back again.

"No," she said, "I am afraid of them. Your father told me so many stories about each and all. He courted death to get some of them, and others came into his hands through such extraordinary adventures that I shudder at night when I recall what he said. I want to forget them. Mr. Martin would never admire them at all. I want to forget all my past life absolutely. You're like your father, and perhaps you admire that sort of thing; but they are not to my taste. Here's the key of my wardrobe. You will find the tin boxes which hold the jewels. You can take them; only never let out a word to your stepfather. He doesn't know I posses them—no one does."

"Thank you, mother," said Maggie in a low voice. "Will you lie down on the sofa, mums? Oh, here's a nice new novel for you to read. I bought it coming up in the train yesterday. You read and rest and feel quite contented, and let me go to the bedroom to look at the jewels."

"Very well," said Mrs. Howland; "you can have them. I consider them of little or no importance; only don't tell your stepfather."

"He is not that yet, mums."

"Well, well," said Mrs. Howland, "what does a fortnight matter? He'll be your stepfather in a fortnight. Yes, take the key and go. I shall be glad to rest on the sofa. You're in a much more reasonable frame of mind to-day."

"Thank you, dear mother," said Maggie.

She entered the bedroom and closed the door softly behind her. She held her mother's bunch of keys in her hand. First of all she unlocked the wardrobe, and then, removing the tin boxes, laid them on the table which stood at the foot of the bed. She took the precaution first, however, to lock the bedroom door. Having done this, she seated herself at the table, and, selecting the proper keys, unlocked the two tin boxes. One of them contained the twelve famous bracelets which Maggie had described to Molly and Isabel Tristram. She would keep her word: she would give a bracelet to each girl. She recognized at once the two which she considered suitable for the girls, and then examined the others with minute care.

Her mother could not admire what was strange in pattern and dimmed by neglect; but Maggie, with her wider knowledge, knew well that she possessed great treasures, which, if possible, she would keep, but which, if necessary, she could sell for sums of money which would enable her to start in life according to her own ideas.

She put the twelve bracelets back into their case, and then, opening the second tin box, took from it many quaint curios, the value of which she had no means of ascertaining. There was a great deal of gold and silver, and queer beaten-work in brass, and there were pendants and long chains and brooches and queer ornaments of all kinds.

"Poor father!" thought the girl. She felt a lump in her throat—a choking sensation, which seemed to make her mother's present conduct all the more intolerable. How was she to live in the future with the knowledge that her father's memory was, as she felt, profaned? But at least she had got his treasures.

She relocked the two tin boxes, and, stowing them carefully away in her own trunk, transferred the keys from her mother's bunch to her own, and brought her mother's keys back to Mrs. Howland.

"Have you looked at them? Are they worth anything, Maggie?"

"Memories mostly," said Maggie evasively.

"Oh, then," said Mrs. Howland, "I am glad you have them; for I hate memories."

"Mother," said Maggie, and she went on her knees to her parent, "you have really given them to me?"

"Well, of course, child. Didn't I say so? I don't want them. I haven't looked at the things for years."

"I wonder, mums, if you would write something on a piece of paper for me."

"Oh dear! oh dear!" said Mrs. Howland. "Mr. Martin doesn't approve of what he calls documents."

"Darling mother, you're not Mr. Martin's wife yet. I want you to put on paper that you have given me father's curios. He always meant them for me, didn't he?"

"He did! he did!" said Mrs. Howland. "One of the very last things he said—in his letter, I mean, for you know he died in Africa—was: 'The treasures I am sending home will be appreciated by my little girl.'"

"Oh mother! yes, and they are. Please, mother, write something on this bit of paper."

"My head is so weak. I haven't an idea what to say."

"I'll dictate it to you, if I may."

"Very well, child; I suppose I can't prevent you."

Maggie brought paper, blotting-pad, and pen, and Mrs. Howland presently wrote: "I have given, on the eve of my marriage to Mr. Martin, her father's treasures to my daughter, Margaret Howland."

"Thank you, mother," said Maggie.

The date was affixed. Mrs. Howland added the name she was so soon to resign, and Maggie almost skipped into the bedroom.

"It's all right now," she said to herself.

She unlocked her trunk, also unlocking one of the tin boxes. In the box which contained the twelve bracelets she put the piece of paper in her mother's handwriting. She then relocked the box, relocked the trunk, and came back to her mother, restored to perfect good-humor.

Maggie was in her element when she was planning things. Yesterday was a day of despair, but to-day was a day of hope. She sat down by her mother's desk and wrote a long letter to Molly Tristram, in which she told Molly that her mother was about to be married again to a very rich man. She mentioned the coming marriage in a few brief words, and then went on to speak of herself, and of how delightful it would be to welcome Molly and Isabel when they arrived at Aylmer House. Not by the faintest suggestion did she give her friend to understand the step down in the social scale which Mrs. Howland's marriage with Mr. Martin meant.

Having finished her letter, she thought for a minute, then wrote a careful line to Merry Cardew. She did not tell Merry about her mother's approaching marriage, but said that Molly would have news for her. In other respects her letter to Merry was very much more confidential than her letter to Molly. She assured Merry of her deep love, and begged of her friend to regard this letter as quite private. "If you feel you must show it to people, tear it up rather than do so," said Maggie, "for I cannot bear that our great and sacred love each for the other should be commented on."

When Merry received the letter she neither showed it to any one else nor tore it up. She could not forget Maggie's face as she parted from her, and the fact that she had refused to accept the ten pounds which the little girl had wanted to give her in order to remove her from musty, fusty lodgings had raised Maggie considerably in her friend's estimation.

Meanwhile Maggie Howland, having finished her letters, went out and posted them. She then changed her sovereign, and bought some excellent and appetizing fruit and cakes for her mother's and Mr. Martin's tea. She consulted with Tildy as to how these dainties were to be arranged, and Tildy entered into the spirit of the thing with effusion, and declared that they were perfect crowns of beauty, and that most assuredly they would melt in Mr. Martin's mouth.

On hearing this Maggie hastened to change the conversation; but when she had impressed upon Tildy the all-importance of a snowy cloth being placed upon the ugly tray, and further begged of her to polish up the teapot and spoons, Tildy thought that Miss Maggie was more wonderful than ever.

"With them as is about to step into the life-matrimonial, pains should be took," thought Tildy, and she mentioned her sentiments to Mrs. Ross, who shook her head sadly, and replied that one ought to do the best one could for the poor things.

At three o'clock Maggie put on her hat, drew her gloves on, and, taking up a parasol, went out.

"Good-bye, darling," she said to her mother.

After all, she did not go to Richmond; it was too far off, and she was feeling a little tired. Besides, the thought of her father's wonderful treasures filled her mind. She determined to go to South Kensington and look at similar jewels and ornaments which she believed she could find there. It occurred to her, too, that it might be possible some day to consult the manager of the jewel department with regard to the worth of the things which her dear father had sent home; but this she would not do to-day.

Her visit to the South Kensington Museum made her feel positively assured that she had articles of great value in the tin boxes.

Meanwhile Mrs. Howland waited impatiently for Mr. Martin. She was puzzled about Maggie, and yet relieved. She wondered much what Maggie could have said to Mr. Martin that day when she breakfasted with him. She was not really alarmed. But had she been able to look into Mr. Martin's mind she would have felt a considerable amount of surprise. The worthy grocer, although an excellent man of business, knew little or nothing about law. Maggie's words had made him distinctly uncomfortable. Suppose, after all, the girl could claim a right in her father's beggarly hundred and fifty pounds a year? Perhaps the child of the man who had settled that little income on his wife must have some sort of right to it? It would be horrible to consult lawyers; they were so terribly expensive, too.

There was a man in the shop, however, of the name of Howard. He was the principal shopwalker, and Mr. Martin had a great respect for him. Without mentioning names, he put the case before him—as he himself expressed it—in a nutshell.

Howard thought for a few minutes, then said slowly that he had not the slightest doubt that a certain portion of the money should be spent on the child—in fact, that the child had a right to it.

Martin did not like this. A heavy frown came between his brows. The girl was a smart and clever girl, not a bit like Little-sing, and she could make herself very disagreeable. Her modest request for sixty pounds a year did not seem unreasonable. He thought and thought, and the more he thought the more inclined he felt to give Maggie her way.

When he arrived at Mrs. Ross's house he did not look quite as cheerful as usual. He went upstairs, as Tildy expressed it, "heavy-like"; and although both she and Mrs. Ross watched for that delightful scene when he was "Bo-peep" to "Little-sing," Martin entered the drawing-room without making any exhibition of himself. The room looked quite clean and inviting, for Maggie had dusted it with her own hands, and there was a very nice tea on the board, and Mrs. Howland was dressed very prettily indeed. Martin gave a long whistle.