Her only chance was in writing to her mother. But then, if, by any chance, Maggie's letter got into the hands of Bo-peep, his wrath would be so great that he would, in all probability, take her from the school at once. What was to be done? Poor Maggie felt herself between two fires. In either direction was danger. On the whole, she resolved to throw herself on her mother's mercy. Mrs. Martin, as she was now, would much prefer Maggie to remain at school, and she might be clever enough to keep Maggie's stepfather from putting in an appearance at Aylmer House.

Maggie wrote a short and frantic letter. She was in the midst of it when there came a tap at her room-door.

"It's I, Maggie," said Miss Johnson's voice from without. "Your light is still burning; you ought to be in bed."

Maggie flew and opened the door. "I am sorry," she said. "I was a good deal upset about those detestable clothes. I am writing to my mother. Please, Lucy, let me finish the letter. When it's done—and I won't be a minute longer—I'll put it in the post-box myself, so that it can go by the first post in the morning."

"Very well, dear," said Lucy, who was too kind not to be good to any girl in the school; "only be quick, Maggie," she said, "for you know you are breaking the rules."

"Yes! oh yes!" said Maggie; "and I will never do it again."

Miss Johnson left her, and Maggie flew back to bend over her paper and continue her writing:

"Darling, you must not let him come here. He threatens to come, but you must keep him away. All will be up with me if he is seen at the school. I beseech of you have a little mercy on me. For the sake of my own father, keep him—do keep him—from Aylmer House.—Your distracted daughter,

"MAGGIE HOWLAND."

This letter was addressed to Mrs. Martin (spelt this time with an "i"), Laburnum Villa, Clapham. Maggie stamped it, and, flying downstairs, popped it into the box which held the letters.



CHAPTER XX.

THE VILLA.

Laburnum Villa, in the suburb of Clapham, was, in the new Mrs. Martin's eyes, quite a delightful place. She had never appreciated her first husband, Professor Howland, but she thoroughly appreciated Bo-peep, and after her own fashion was fond of him. He gave her comforts. She had lived so long without comforts that she appreciated these good things of life to the full. She had never really been much attached to Maggie, who was too like her own father and too unlike herself to allow of the existence of any sympathy between them. Maggie, even before Mrs. Howland met Martin the Shepherd's Bush grocer, had been more or less a thorn in the flesh to her mother.

Laburnum Villa was furnished, as James Martin expressed it, with an eye to comfort. There were solid arm-chairs with deep seats and good springs, and these were covered with maroon-colored leather. There were thick, maroon-colored curtains to the dining-room windows, and all the furniture of the room was of solid oak. There was a rich Turkey carpet on the floor, and prints of different hunting scenes—by no means bad in their way—hanging on the walls. The paint-work of the room was of dull red, and the paper was of the same tone. It was a small room, and the furniture was large and heavy, but it represented in Martin's eyes the very essence of comfort. The fireplace was modern, and when it was piled up with goodly lumps of coal it caused a warmth to pervade the whole room which, as Mrs. Martin expressed it, was very stimulating. The house had electric light, which both Mr. and Mrs. Martin considered distinguished.

They spent most of their time in the dining-room, although Mrs. Martin, with some faint instinct still left of her own life, would have preferred to use the drawing-room in the evenings; but when she suggested this Bo-peep said, "No, no, Little-sing; I can smoke here and sit by the fire, and enjoy the rest which I have rightly earned. I hate rooms full of fal-lals. You can keep your drawing-room for the time when I am out, Little-sing."

Mrs. Martin knew better than to oppose her husband. She recognized her own weakness, and knew that against his fiat she could no more exercise her puny strength than a babbling stream can disturb a great rock. She used her drawing-room when Bo-peep was out, and regarded it with intense satisfaction. It is true that the colors were crude, for James Martin would have screamed at any Liberty tints. But the carpet was good of its kind, the pictures on the walls not too atrocious. Although they were in gilt frames, the large mirrors over the mantelpiece and at one end of the room were first rate; in short, the drawing-room was fairly presentable, and Mrs. Martin had some traces of her old life still lingering about her which gave a look of domesticity and even repose to the place. Her little work-basket, with its embroidery, was home-like and pleasant. She had forgotten how to play, but she always kept the piano open. Bo-peep suggested buying a pianola, and Mrs. Martin thought it would be a good idea.

"We'll have all the comic operas on it," said Bo-peep; "nothing of the classic order for me—nothing over-my-head, but the popular tunes, plenty of them—no stint. What do you say, Little-sing?"

Little-sing replied that it would be charming; but in her heart she somewhat shuddered, and was glad that the pianola was still a thing to be purchased.

Tildy had been turned into a very presentable little parlor-maid. There was also a first-rate cook, for Martin was fond of the pleasures of the table. On the whole, the little household was comfortable, and Mrs. Martin enjoyed her life. She had some cards printed with her new name and address, and the notification that she was "at home" on the third, fourth, and fifth of each month. Tildy was very much excited about these At Home days; but the first month after Mrs. Martin's marriage passed without a single individual calling upon her.

Mrs. Martin had been settled for over six weeks, and the day of Queen Maggie's great reception at the school in Kensington was drawing on apace. Mrs. Martin was in a state of subdued excitement. She was dressed in her best. Her best consisted of a light fawn-colored silk with velvet trimmings of the same. The silk rustled as she walked. On her fingers were many rings of much brilliancy, and she wore a small diamond brooch at her throat. The reason of all this festive attire was a simple one, a good one, a domestic one. James Martin was coming home. He had been in Liverpool, engaged on special business, for the greater part of a week; but he was now returning to his beloved Little-sing, who had missed him, and he was pleased to feel that he would be with her again. She knew his tastes to a nicety, and had desired the cook to prepare a very special dinner for his delectation.

"Beef-steak pudding, cook," she said, "with mutton kidneys, and plenty of oysters; and be sure the crust is very light."

Cook replied that if she did not know how to make beef-steak pudding she ought immediately to leave her "perfession." She was a stout, red-faced woman, and had a way of frightening Mrs. Martin, who generally retreated from the kitchen premises as quickly as possible.

"Very well," said Mrs. Martin; "I am glad you quite understand. You know that my husband is very particular. Then we'll have potatoes and fried mushrooms, and I think afterwards apple-tart and cream."

The cook, whose name was Horniman, condescended to signify her willingness to provide this dinner, and Mrs. Martin went up to the drawing-room.

"You had better light a fire here, Matilda," she said. "It's going to be a very cold day."

"I'd a sight rayther you called me Tildy, mum. It seems like as though a lump o' ice got on my 'eart when you say Mat-tilda."

"'Matilda' is more refined and suitable," said Mrs. Martin with dignity.

"Oh yes, 'um—'course, 'um. When 'ull Miss Maggie be comin' to see us, 'um?"

"Not before Christmas, you silly girl. Miss Maggie is at school."

"So I 'ave 'eard," said Matilda. "You 'aven't give me no 'olidays, 'um, sence I come to yer; and it were understood, sure-ly, that I were to 'ave my day out once a month."

"You shall go out to-morrow, Matilda. I haven't the slightest wish to keep you indoors against your will."

"To-morrer's cook's day, 'um."

"Well, then, you shall go the next day."

"Thank you, 'um. I thought I'd go and see Miss Maggie ef you'd give me her address."

"Well, now, that's a very good idea," said Mrs. Martin. "I could write her a little note, and you could take it to her. That's very thoughtful of you, Tilda. Yes, I should like you to go and bring me word how she is."

"It's longin' I am to lay eyes on 'er, mum. She's a bee-utiful way with 'er," said Matilda.

When she was quite alone Mrs. Martin took that letter of Maggie's, which she had received during her husband's absence, from her pocket. She was terrified lest Bo-peep should read it. The letter had offended her. Maggie had written with great fire and distress: "You must not let him come here. All will be up with me if he is seen at the school. For the sake of my own father, keep him from Aylmer House."

Mrs. Martin slipped it back into her pocket, and then sat by her comfortable drawing-room fire waiting for the arrival of the good Bo-peep. He was a very playful creature. His one idea of happiness consisted in endless jokes—practical jokes or otherwise, just as it suited him at the moment.

He had done a very successful stroke of business in Liverpool, and was returning to Laburnum Villa in the highest spirits. While he was in the train he was planning how he could most effectively announce his return. To ring at his own hall-door, or to open it with a latch-key, or to walk in in the ordinary fashion of the master of the house did not content him at all. He must invent a more novel manner of return than that. He was really fond of Little-sing. She suited him to perfection. What he called her "fine-lady airs," when they were displayed to any one but himself, pleased him mightily. He thought of her as pretty and gracious and sweet. He really loved her after his own fashion, and would do anything in his power to make her happy. But he must, as he expressed it, have his joke.

Mrs. Martin was seated by the fire in the drawing-room. It was getting late—nearly four o'clock; but, according to an expressed wish of Bo-peep, the window-blinds had not yet been drawn down. He liked, as he said, to see his home before he entered it. Mrs. Martin, therefore, with the electric light on, was perfectly visible from the road. Mr. Martin guessed that this would be the case, and he stopped the cab at a little distance from the house, paid the fare, shouldered his bag, and walked softly down the street. He went and stood outside the window. He looked in. The street was a quiet one, and at that moment there were no passers-by. Mrs. Martin was seated in her smart dress which he had given her, with her profile towards him. He thought her very beautiful indeed. His heart swelled with pride. She belonged to him. He hated fine ladies, as a rule; but a fine lady who was his very own was a different matter. He even felt romantic.

She was reading a letter. Who could have been writing to Little-sing? Suddenly it occurred to him to slip down the area steps and stand close under the window. He did so, to the terror of cook and Tildy. Cook was about to scream, "Burglars!" but Tildy recognized her master.

"It's his joke," she said. "'E's a wonderful man for jokes. Don't let on to Mrs. Martin that 'e's 'ere for your life. 'E'll do something so comic in a minute."

The comicality of Martin consisted, in the present instance, of singing in a harsh baritone the song of the Troubadour:

"Gaily the Troubadour Touched his guitar, When he was hastening Home from the war; Singing, 'From Palestine Hither I come. Ladye love! ladye love! Welcome me home.'"

Mrs. Martin gave a shriek. She had the presence of mind to pop her letter into her pocket. Then she approached the window, trembling and blushing. Bo-peep uttered a huge laugh of delight, let himself in by the back way, and ran up the stairs.

"Little-sing!" he said, and clasped his wife in his arms.

During dinner James Martin was in high good humor, and it was not until dessert was put on the table and he had helped himself liberally to port wine, and was filling his pipe for his evening smoke, that it occurred to him to speak to his wife about Maggie.

"By the way," he said, "I did a right good turn for that girl of yours, Little-sing, before I left for Liverpool. I sent her a box of clothes—two smart everyday dresses, an evening dress, and no end of fal-lals. She wrote to thank me, I suppose?"

"She wrote to me, dear," said Mrs. Martin, trembling a good deal. "She was very much obliged to you."

"And well she ought to be. Did she clearly understand that I sent her the things—that you had nothing to do with them?"

"Oh yes, yes," said Mrs. Martin. "Won't you have some coffee, James? I'll tell Matilda to bring it in."

"Coffee—fiddlestick!" said Martin; "and you know I hate to be called 'James.' Where's Bo-peep?"

"You are Bo-peep," said his wife with a funny smile.

"Well, then, no 'Jamesing' of me. I think it is very queer of your daughter not to reply to me when I send her expensive and handsome things. What did she say in her letter to you?"

"Oh, she was very grateful, of course, Bo-peep."

"Well—but—where's the letter? I may as well see it. There's stuff in that girl. I don't despair of her yet. She has a head for business. I wouldn't have your dear little head muddled with business, but your daughter's a different person. She has nothing whatever to live on except what I allow her, and unless she is to starve she has got to please me."

Mrs. Martin might have said, had she not been afraid, that Maggie was certainly entitled to her own father's money; but it is to be regretted that Little-sing had not much courage.

Matilda came in with the coffee, which caused a slight diversion, more particularly as it was not to Martin's taste, who desired her to take it away again, and request Horniman to send him something fit to drink. When the door was closed behind Matilda he renewed the subject of the letter.

"I saw you reading something as I came along," he said. "When I peeped in at the window you had a letter in your hand. Who has been writing to you?"

"Only Maggie."

"And that is the letter you spoke about?"

"Yes, dear James—I mean Bo-peep—yes. The child is very grateful."

"She ought to be. I'd like to see the letter. Where is it?"

"I will go upstairs and fetch it," said Mrs. Martin, who knew well that it was safe in her pocket all the time.

James Martin roused himself and gave her a studied look.

"Do so," he said. "Bring it back to me at once. If I have to support that girl, and keep her at school, and pay for her clothing, I'll allow her to have no secrets from me. You understand that, don't you, Little-sing?"

"Yes. I will fetch the letter," said Mrs. Martin.

She left the room. Martin was fond of her, but he was no fool. He was certain now that there was something in the letter which his wife did not wish him to see, and his curiosity was instantly aroused. He was determined to read poor Maggie's letter at any cost. He waited impatiently, drumming his large, fat hand on the highly polished oak table the while. Tildy came in with fresh coffee.

"Please, sir," she said, "cook wants to see you for a minute."

"I can't see her now. Tell her so," replied Martin.

"Which is no message for a woman of my class," said Horniman, entering the room and showing a very heated face. "I wishes to give notice that I leave your service this day month."

"You can go to-morrow," said Martin.

"As you please, sir; wages in full."

"You go to-morrow," said Martin; "and if you say another word you go to-night. Leave the room."

Tildy breathed a little quickly, felt inclined to pat master on the back, thought better of it, and left the room.

"Whatever is keeping Little-sing?" thought Martin to himself.

He was not going to worry about cook and her whims, but of Little-sing and the letter. He grew a little more suspicious, and consequently a little more angry.

"She has that letter in her pocket; I saw her put it there when I was acting the part of the Troubadour," he said to himself. "She is destroying it now; but she sha'n't—not before I get it."

He softly left the dining-room and crept with catlike steps upstairs. He stopped outside his wife's bedroom. There was a light burning there. He turned the handle of the door. It was locked.

"Open the door at once," he said; and Mrs. Martin flew to do so.

"Oh Bo-peep, you gave me a fright!"

"Where is that letter, Victoria?"

"It—it—I can't find it," she replied.

"What are those papers lying on the floor?"

Mrs. Martin gave a cry. Mr. Martin was too quick for her. He swept up the pieces of torn letter, collected them in his great hand, and, taking Mrs. Martin with the other hand, returned with her to the dining-room.

"Now, you sit there, Little-sing," he said, "while I piece the letter together. There is something in it that you want hidden from me; but you've quite mistook your man. There are to be no secrets between you and me. I'm not the least bit angry with you, but I am not going to have that girl ruling you. You're frightened of that girl. Now, let's see what she has to say."

Poor Mrs. Martin trembled from head to foot. Suddenly she went on her knees, clasped her hands round Bo-peep's arm, and looked into his face. "She was naughty. She was a silly child. Oh, forgive her! I ought to have destroyed the letter. I ought not to have kept it until you came back. Please—please, don't read it!"

"Nonsense, Little-sing," he replied, restored once more to the height of good humor. "You have roused my curiosity; nothing will induce me not to see every word of the letter now."

It took Martin some time to piece together poor Maggie's letter; but at last the greater part of its meaning was made plain to him. Mrs. Martin sat, white as death, looking at her lord and master. What was going to happen? What awful thing lay ahead of her? She felt crushed beyond words. Once again she struggled to get on her knees to implore him, to entreat; but Martin put out his great hand and kept her forcibly in her seat.

When he had quite taken in the meaning of the letter he made no comment whatever, but carefully deposited the torn fragments in his pocket-book. Then he said quietly, "I don't blame you, Little-sing, not one bit. But we've got to punish this girl. To-morrow I shall be busy in town. The day after will be Friday, and I shall be busy then; but on Saturday we'll take a half-holiday and go to visit Miss Margaret Howland at Aylmer House—you and me together, Little-sing—the grocer and his wife together. Not a word, my love; not a word."



CHAPTER XXI.

TILDY'S MESSAGE.

Nothing ever kept Mrs. Martin awake; and, notwithstanding her anxiety with regard to Maggie, she slept soundly that night. Bo-peep was his own delightful self. His jokes were really too good for anything! She regarded him as the wittiest man of her acquaintance. She laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. He told her that he would take her to the theater on the following evening, and further said that he would engage a cook himself in town, send her out in the course of the morning, and that Horniman could go.

Horniman came up to interview her mistress soon after Martin's departure. She was penitent now, and willing to stay; but nothing would induce Martin himself to forgive her, and, in consequence, Mrs. Martin did not dare to do so. The woman was paid her wages in full, and dismissed. Then it occurred to Mrs. Martin that here was her opportunity to send a short note of warning to Maggie. Why she did not send it by post it is hard to ascertain; but she thought that it would go more swiftly and surely if Tildy were the messenger.

Accordingly she sent for Tildy and told her what she expected her to do.

"Matilda," she said, "cook has gone, and I shall be quite content with tea and toast and a lightly boiled egg for my lunch. After lunch you can take the train to London and convey a message from me to Miss Maggie."

"Oh mum, 'ow beauteous!" said Tildy.

"I will have a letter ready which you are, if possible, to put into her own hands."

"Yes, 'um; and don't I long to see 'er, jest!"

"Well, this is the address," said Mrs. Martin. "Get everything cosy and comfortable in the house, and bring me my tea by one o'clock. A train will take you to Victoria at half-past one, which you ought to catch. You can easily be back here between four and five; by that time the new cook will have arrived."

"Things ain't dull a bit to-day'," said Tildy. "They're much more Shepherd's Bushy, and I like 'em a sight better than I did."

"Well, go now, and attend to your business," said Mrs. Martin.

Having secured a messenger, Mrs. Martin next prepared to write to poor Maggie:

"MY DEAR CHILD,—Most unfortunately your father has discovered the letter you wrote to me. He doesn't say much, but I can see that he is furiously angry. He intends to take me with him to call on you next Saturday—I presume, some time in the afternoon. I will try to make him dress in as gentlemanly a manner as possible, and also will endeavor to prevent his talking about the shop. You must make the very best of things you can, dear; for there's no possible way of keeping him from Aylmer House.—Your affectionate mother,

"VICTORIA MARTIN."

When the letter was finished Mrs. Martin put it into an envelope, addressed to Miss Maggie Howland, Aylmer House, Randal Square, South Kensington, and put it into Tildy's care. Tildy caught her train all in good time, arrived at Victoria, and took a bus to South Kensington. A very little inquiry enabled her to find Randal Square, and at about half-past two she was standing on the steps of that most refined and genteel home, Aylmer House. The look of the place impressed her, but did not give her any sense of intimidation. When the door was opened to her modest ring, and the pleasant, bright-looking parlor-maid answered her summons, Tildy gazed at her with great interest but without a scrap of shyness.

"I've come from 'er 'ome to see Miss Maggie 'Owland," said Tildy; "and I've a message for 'er from 'er ma."

The girl, whose name was Agnes, stared for a minute at Tildy. She recognized her "sort" in a moment. Tildy belonged to the lodging-house sort of girl. What she could have to do with one of Agnes's young ladies puzzled that young person considerably. It was the rule, however, at Aylmer House that no one, however poor or humble, should be treated with rudeness, and certainly a person bringing a message to one of the young ladies was entitled to respect. Agnes said, therefore, in a polite and superior tone, "Step in, will you, miss? and I will find out if Miss Howland is in."

Tildy stepped into the hall, feeling, as she expressed it, "dream-like and queer all over." She did not dare to sit down, but stood on the mat, gazing with her bright, inquisitive eyes at the various things in this new world in which she found herself.

"How beauteous!" she kept repeating at intervals. "Why, Laburnum Villa ain't a patch on this. How very beauteous! No wonder Miss Maggie 'ave the hair of a queen."

Now, it so happened that Maggie Howland was out, and would not be back for some time. This was the day when she and the other girls belonging to her kingdom had gone forth to purchase all sorts of good things for the coming feast. Maggie, as queen, had put a whole sovereign into the bag. There would, therefore, be no stint of first-class provisions. Every sort of eatable that was not usually permitted at Aylmer House was to grace the board—jelly, meringues, frosted cake, tipsy cake, as well as chickens garnished in the most exquisite way and prepared specially by a confectioner round the corner; also different dainties in aspic jellies were to be ordered. Then flowers were to be secured in advance, so as to make the table really very beautiful.

Maggie, Kathleen O'Donnell, and Janet were the people selected to arrange about the supper. Not a single thing was to be cooked in the establishment; this would give extra trouble to the servants, and was therefore not to be permitted. The girls would make their own sandwiches; and, oh, what troublesome thoughts they had over these! Maggie was in the highest spirits, and left the house with her companions—Miss Johnson, of course, in close attendance—half-an-hour before Tildy with her ominous letter appeared on the scene.

Now, it so happened that Agnes knew nothing at all of the absence of the young ladies. They usually went out by a side-door which had been specially assigned to their use when the house was turned into a school. As Agnes was going upstairs, however, in order to try to find Maggie, she met Aneta coming down.

"Oh miss," she said, "can you tell me if Miss Howland is in?"

"No," said Aneta, "I happen to know that she is out, and I don't think she will be in for some little time."

"Very well, miss; the young person will be sorry, I expect."

"What young person?" asked Aneta, eager in her turn to find out why Maggie was inquired for.

"A girl, miss, who has called, and has asked very particularly to see Miss Howland. She's rather a common sort of girl, miss, although I dare say she means well."

"I will go and see her myself," said Aneta; "perhaps I can convey a message from her to Miss Howland, for I know she won't be back for some little time."

Agnes, quite relieved in her mind, turned down the back-stairs and went to attend to her numerous duties. A few minutes after, Aneta, in all her slim grace, stood in the hall and confronted Tildy. Aneta was herself going out; she was going out with Mademoiselle Laplage. They had some commissions to execute. The day was a foggy one, and they were both rather in a hurry. Nevertheless, Aneta stopped to say a kind word to Tildy. Tildy gazed at her with open-eyed admiration. Beautiful as the house was, this young lady was indeed a radiant and dazzling vision.

"She made me sort o' choky," said Tildy as she related the circumstance afterwards to Mrs. Martin. "There was a hair about her. Well, much as I loves our Miss Maggie, she ain't got the hair o' that beauteous young lady, with 'er eyes as blue as the sky, and 'er walk so very distinguishified."

"What can I do for you?" said Aneta now, in a kind tone.

Tildy dropped an awkward curtsy. "I've come, miss," she said, "to see our Miss Maggie."

"Miss Howland is out," said Aneta.

"Oh, miss!" replied Tildy, the corners of her mouth beginning to droop, "that's crool 'ard on me. Do you think, miss, if I may make so bold as to inquire, that Miss Maggie 'll be in soon?"

"I do not think so," replied Aneta; "but I can convey any message you like to her, if you will trust me."

"Oh miss," said Tildy, worshipping Aneta on the spot, "who wouldn't trust one like you?"

"Well, what is it? What can I do for you?"

"I was maid, miss—maid-of-all-work—at Shepherd's Bush when Miss Maggie and 'er ma used to live there; and when Mrs. 'Owland married Martin the grocer they was that kind they took me to live at Laburnum Villa. It's a very rich and comfortable 'ouse, miss; and the way they two goes on is most excitin'. It's joke, joke, and play, play, from morn till night—that's the ma and steppa of Miss Maggie. I've brought a letter from Mrs. Martin to be delivered straight to Miss Maggie."

"I can give it to her," said Aneta in her calm voice.

"You'll per'aps mention, miss," said Tildy, taking the letter from her pocket, "as I called, and as I love our dear Miss Maggie as much as I ever did. You'll per'aps say, miss, with my dutiful respects, that my 'eart is 'ers, and always will be."

"I will give her a kind message," said Aneta, "and safely deliver her mother's letter to her. I am afraid there's no use in asking you to stay, as Miss Howland is very much occupied just now."

"Very well, miss, I've delivered my message faithful."

"You have."

As Aneta spoke she herself opened the hall-door.

"Good-day, miss," said Tildy, dropping another curtsy, "and I wishes you well."

"Good-day," replied Aneta.

Tildy's little form was swallowed up in the fog, which was growing thicker each moment, and at that instant Mademoiselle Laplage, profuse in apologies for her brief delay, entered the hall.

"Pardon me, ma chere, that I have caused you to wait. I was just ready to descend, when—see! the lace of my shoe was broken. But what will you? You will go out in this dreadful fog?"

Aneta replied in French that she did not think the fog was too thick, and the French governess and the girl went out together into the street. But all the time Aneta Lysle was thinking hard. She was in possession of Maggie's secret. Her stepfather, instead of being related to the Martyns of The Meadows, was a grocer! Aneta belonged to that class of persons who think a great deal of good birth. She did not mind Tildy in the least, for Tildy was so far below her as to be after a fashion quite companionable; but—a grocer! Nevertheless, Aneta had a heart. She thought of Maggie, and the more she thought of her the more pitiful she felt towards her. She did not want to crush or humiliate her schoolfellow. She felt almost glad that the secret of Maggie's unhappiness had been made known to her. She might at last gain a true influence over the girl.

Her walk, therefore, with Mademoiselle Laplage took place almost in silence. They hastily executed their commissions, and presently found themselves in Pearce's shop, where Aneta had taken a brooch a day or two ago to have a pin put on.

The shopman, as he handed her the mended brooch, said at the same time, "If you will excuse me, miss, you are one of the young ladies who live at Aylmer House?"

"Yes," said Aneta, "that is true."

"Then I wonder, miss, if"——He paused a minute, looked hard at the girl, and then continued, "Might my brother speak to you for a minute, miss?"

"But it make so cold!" said mademoiselle, who knew very little of the English tongue, "and behold—zee fog! I have such fear of it. It is not to joke when it fogs in your country, ma chere. Il faute bien depecher."

"I shall be quite ready to come back with you in a minute or two," said Aneta.

Just then the man who had bought the brooch from Maggie appeared. "I am very sorry, miss," he said, "but I thought that, instead of writing to Miss Howland, I might send her a message; otherwise I should have to see Mrs. Ward on the matter."

"But what matter is it?" said Aneta. "You want to see Miss Howland, or you want me to take her a message?"

"Well, miss, it's no special secret; only my brother and I cannot afford to buy the brooch which she sold us the other day."

"But I don't understand," said Aneta. "Miss Howland sold you a brooch? Then if she sold it, you did buy it."

"The fact is, miss," said young Pearce, coloring rather deeply, "I was not myself quite aware of its value at the time, and I gave the young lady much too small a sum of money for it. I want her to return me the money, and I will give her back the brooch. My brother and I have been talking it over, and we cannot do an injustice to one of the ladies at Aylmer House—it is quite impossible."

"I will give your message," said Aneta coldly. "Please do not purchase anything else from Miss Howland. She will doubtless call to see you to-morrow."

"Thank you, miss; then that is all right," said the man, looking much relieved.

Aneta hastened home. She felt perplexed and alarmed. She must see Maggie, and as soon as possible. It was a strange fact that while Maggie was in no danger at all, while everything seemed to be going right with her, and as long as she held an undeniable position in the school as one of the queens, Aneta could scarcely endure her; that now that Maggie Howland, was, so to speak, at her mercy, this girl, whose nature was fine and brave and good, felt a strong desire to help her.

There were, however, very strict rules at Aylmer House, and one of them was that no girl on any account whatsoever was to sell any of her possessions in order to make money. This was one of the unwritten rules of the school; but the idea of an Aylmer House girl really requiring to do such a thing was never contemplated for an instant. There were broad lines of conduct, however, which no girl was expected to pass. Liberty was allowed to a great extent at Aylmer House; but it was a liberty which only those who struggle to walk in the right path can fully enjoy. Crooked ways, underhand dealings, could not be permitted in the school.

Maggie had done quite enough to cause her to be expelled. There had been times when Aneta almost wished for this; when she had felt deep down in her heart that Maggie Howland was the one adverse influence in the school; when she had been certain that if Maggie Howland were removed all the other girls would come more or less under her own gentle sway, and she would be queen, not of the greater number of the girls at Aylmer House, but of all the girls, and very gentle, very loving, very sympathetic would be her rule. Her subjects should feel her sympathy, but at the same time they should acknowledge her power. Maggie's was a counter-influence; and now there was a chance of putting a stop to it.

Aneta knew well that, kind as Mrs. Ward was to Maggie, she did not in her heart absolutely trust her. Therefore, if Maggie left it would also be a relief to Mrs. Ward. Miss Johnson might be sorry, and one or two of the girls might be sorry; in particular, dear little Merry. Aneta had a great love for Merry, and was deeply sorry to feel that Merry was under Maggie's spell; that was the case, although she did not openly belong to Maggie's party. So Merry too would be saved if Maggie left the school. Oh! it was most desirable, and Aneta held the key of the position in her hand. She also had in her pocket Mrs. Martin's letter. That did not perhaps so greatly matter, for Maggie's father, whatever her mother had done, was himself a gentleman; but the fact of Maggie's slipping out of doors alone to sell an ornament was a sufficiently grave offense to banish her from such a school as Aylmer House.

Yes, Aneta could send her away, but it might be managed dexterously. Maggie might stay till the end of the present term and then go, knowing herself that she would never return, whereas the girls would know nothing about it until the beginning of the next term, when they would no longer see her familiar face or hear her pleasant voice. A few of them might be sorry, but they would quickly forget. The school would be the better for her absence. The thing could be done, and it would be done, if Aneta used that knowledge which she now possessed.

The girls all met at tea, and Maggie was in the highest spirits. She knew nothing whatever of all the information which Aneta had gathered in her absence. She knew nothing of Tildy's arrival, of Tildy's departure, nor of the letter which Aneta had put into one of her drawers. Still less did she know anything of Pearce and his betrayal of her. She and her companions had had a very pleasant time, and immediately after tea, in the "leisure hours," they were to meet in the girl's private sitting-room to discuss matters officially.

The Aneta girls had, by common consent, given up the room to them during these last important days. There were plenty of nooks and corners all over the cheerful house where they could amuse themselves and talk secrets, and have that sort of confidence which schoolgirls delight in.

As soon as tea was over Maggie jumped up and said, "Now, Kitty"—she turned to Kathleen O'Donnell as she spoke—"you and I, and Rosamond and Jane, and Matty and Clara, and the Tristrams will get through our work as quickly as possible.—I suppose, girls"—here she glanced at Aneta in particular—"you will let us have the sitting-room as usual during the leisure hours?"

"Of course we will," said Sylvia St. John in her gentle tone; but she had scarcely uttered the words before Aneta rose.

"Of course you can have the sitting-room," she said; "but I want to talk to you, Maggie."

"You can't, I am afraid, just now," said Maggie. "I am much too busy.—We have to go into accounts, girls," she added. "There are no end of things to be done, besides, at the rehearsal." Here she dropped her voice slightly.

"The rest of you can go to the sitting-room and do what is necessary," continued Aneta. "I want you, Maggie, and you had better come with me." She spoke very firmly.

A dogged look came into Maggie's face. She threw back her head and glanced full at Aneta. "I go with you," she said, "just because you ask me, forsooth! You forget yourself, Queen Aneta. I also am a queen and have a kingdom."

"My business with you has something to do with a person who calls herself Tildy," said Aneta in her gravest voice; and Maggie suddenly felt as though a cold douche had been thrown over her. She colored a vivid red. Then she turned eagerly to Kathleen.

"I won't be a minute," she said. "You all go into the sitting-room and get the accounts in order. You might also go over that tableaux with Diana Vernon.—Kathleen, you know that you must put a little more life into your face than you did the other day; and—and—oh dear, how annoying this is!—Yes, of course I will go with you, Aneta. You won't keep me a minute?"

Maggie and Aneta left the room.

Merry turned to her sister and said in a troubled voice, "I can't imagine why it is that Aneta doesn't care for poor Maggie. I love Aneta, of course, for she is our very own cousin; but I cannot understand her want of sympathy for dearest Maggie."

"I am not altogether quite so fond of Maggie as you are, Merry; and you know that," said Cicely.

"I know it," said Merry. "You are altogether taken up with Aneta."

"Oh, and with school generally," said Cicely, "it is all so splendid. But come, we are alone in the room, and losing some of our delightful leisure hours."

The Maggie-girls had meanwhile retired into the sitting-room, where they stood together in groups, talking about the excitement which was to take place on the following Saturday (it was now Thursday), and paying very little heed to Maggie's injunctions to put the accounts in order.

"Don't bother about accounts," said Kitty; "there's heaps of money left in the bag. Wasn't it scrumptious of old Mags to put a whole sovereign in? And I know she is not rich, the dear old precious!"

"She is exactly the sort of girl who would do a generous thing," said Clara Roache, "and of course, as queen, she felt that she must put a little more money into the bag than the rest of us."

"Well, she needn't," said Kathleen. "I'd have loved her just as much if she hadn't put a penny in. She is a duck, though! I can't think why I care so much about her, for she's not beautiful."

"Strictly speaking, she is plain," said Janet Burns; "but in a case like Maggie's plain face doesn't matter in the least."

"She has got something inside," said Matty, "which makes up for her plain features. It's her soul shining out of her eyes."

"Yes, of course," said Kathleen O'Donnell; "and it fills her voice too. She has got power and—what you call charm. She is meant to rule people."

"I admire her myself more than Aneta Lysle," said Janet Burns, "although of course all the world would call Aneta beautiful."

"Yes, that is quite true," said Kathleen; "but I call Aneta a little stiff, and she is very determined too, and she doesn't like poor old Mags one single bit. Wasn't it jolly of Mags to get up this glorious day for us? Won't we have fun? Aneta may look to her laurels, for it's my opinion that the Gibsons and the Cardews will both come over to our side after Saturday."

While this conversation was going on, and Maggie's absence was deplored, and no business whatever was being done towards the entertainment of Saturday, Maggie found herself seated opposite to Aneta in Aneta's own bedroom. Maggie felt queer and shaken. She did not quite know what was the matter. Aneta's face was very quiet.

After a time she drew a letter from her pocket and put it into Maggie's hand.

"Who brought this?" asked Maggie.

"A person who called herself Tildy."

Maggie held the letter unopened in her lap.

"Why don't you read it?" said Aneta.

Maggie took it up and glanced at the handwriting. Then she put it down again.

"It's from my mother," she said. "It can keep."

"I cannot imagine," said Aneta, "anybody waiting even for one moment to read a letter which one's own mother has written. My mother is dead, you know."

She spoke in a low tone, and her pretty eyelashes rested on her softly rounded cheeks.

Maggie looked at her. "Why did you bring me up here, Aneta, away from all the others, away from our important business, to give me this letter?"

"I thought you would rather have it in private," said Aneta.

"You thought more than that, Aneta."

"Yes, I thought more than that," said Aneta in her gentlest tone.

Maggie's queer, narrow, eyes flashed fire. Suddenly she stood up. "You have something to say. Say it, and be quick, for I must go."

"I don't think you must go just yet, Maggie; for what I have to say cannot be said in a minute. You will have to give up your leisure hours to-day."

"I cannot. Our entertainment is on Saturday."

"The entertainment must wait," said Aneta. "It is of no consequence compared to what I have to say to you."

"Oh, have it out!" said Maggie. "You were always spying and prying on me. You always hated me. I don't know what I have done to you. I'd have left you alone if you had left me alone; but you have interfered with me and made my life miserable. God knows, I am not too happy"—Maggie struggled with her emotion—"but you have made things twice as bad."

"Do you really, really think that, Maggie? Please don't say any more, then, until you hear me out to the end. I will tell you as quickly as possible; I will put you out of suspense. I could have made things very different for you, but at least I will put you out of suspense."

"Well, go on; I am willing to listen. I hope you will be brief."

"It is this, Maggie. I will say nothing about your past; I simply tell you what, through no fault of mine, I found out to-day. You gave the girls of this school to understand that your mother's husband—your stepfather—was a gentleman of old family. The person called Tildy told me about Mr. Martin. He may be a gentleman by nature, but he is not one by profession."

Maggie clutched one of her hands so tightly that the nails almost pierced her flesh.

"I won't hurt you, Maggie, by saying much on that subject. Your own father was a gentleman, and you cannot help your mother having married beneath her."

Maggie gasped. Such words as these from the proud Aneta!

"But there is worse to follow," continued Aneta. "I happened to go to Pearce's to-day."

Maggie, who had half-risen, sank back again in her seat.

"And Pearce wants to see you in order to return a brooch which you sold him. He says that he cannot afford the right price for the brooch. He wants you to give him back the money which he lent you on it, and he wants you to have the brooch again in your possession. You, of course, know, Maggie, that in selling one of your belongings and in going out without leave you broke one of the fundamental rules of Aylmer House. You know that, therefore——Why, what is the matter?"

Maggie's queer face was working convulsively. After a time slow, big tears gathered in her eyes. Her complexion changed from its usual dull ugliness to a vivid red; it then went white, so ghastly white that the girl might have been going to faint. All this took place in less than a minute. At the end of that time Maggie was her old disdainful, angry self once more.

"You must be very glad," she said. "You have me in your power at last. My stepfather is a grocer. He keeps a shop at Shepherd's Bush. He is one of the most horribly vulgar men that ever lived. Had I been at home my mother would not have consented to marry him. But my mother, although pretty and refined-looking, and in herself a lady, has little force of character, and she was quite alone and very poor indeed. You, who don't know the meaning of the word 'poor,' cannot conceive what it meant to her. Little Merry guessed—dear, dear little Merry; but as to you, you think when you subscribe to this charity and the other, you think when you adopt an East End child and write letters to her, and give of your superabundance to benefit her, that you understand the poor. I tell you you don't! Your wealth is a curse to you, not a blessing. You no more understand what people like mother and like myself have lived through than you understand what the inhabitants of Mars do—the petty shifts, the smallnesses, the queer efforts to make two ends meet! You in your lovely home, and surrounded by lovely things, and your aunt so proud of you—how can you understand what lodgings in the hot weather in Shepherd's Bush are like? Mother understood—never any fresh air, never any tempting food; Tildy, that poor little faithful girl as servant—slavey was her right name; Tildy at every one's beck and call, always with a smut on her cheek, and her hair so untidy, and her little person so disreputable; and mother alone, wondering how she could make two ends meet. Talk of your knowing what the poor people in my class go through!"

"I don't pretend that I do know, Maggie," said Aneta, who was impressed by the passion and strength of Maggie's words. "I don't pretend it for a moment. The poverty of such lives is to me a sealed book. But—forgive me—if you are so poor, how could you come here?"

"I don't mind your knowing everything now," said Maggie. "I am disgraced, and nothing will ever get me out of my trouble. I am up to my neck, and I may as well drown at once; but Mrs. Ward—she understood what a poor girl whose father was a gentleman could feel, and she—oh, she was good!—she took me for so little that mother could afford it. She made no difference between you and me, Aneta, who are so rich, and your cousins the Cardews, who are so rich too. She said, 'Maggie Howland, your father was a gentleman and a man of honor, a man of whom his country was proud; and I will educate you, and give you your chance.' And, oh, I was happy here! And I—and I should be happy now but for you and your prying ways."

"You are unkind to me, Maggie. The knowledge that your stepfather was a grocer was brought to me in a most unexpected way. I was not to blame for the little person who called herself Tildy coming here to-day. Tildy felt no shame in the fact that your mother had married a grocer. She was far more lady-like about it than you are, Maggie. No one could have blamed you because your mother chose to marry beneath her. But you were to blame, Maggie, when you gave us to understand that her husband was in quite a different position from what he is."

"And you think," said Maggie, stamping her foot, "that the girls of this house—Kathleen O'Donnell, Sylvia St. John, Henrietta and Mary Gibson, the Cardews, the Tristrams, you yourself—would put up with me for a single moment if it was known what my mother has done?"

"I think you underrate us all," said Aneta. Then she came close to Maggie and took one of her hands. "I want to tell you something," she added.

Maggie had never before allowed her hand to remain for a second in Aneta's grasp. But there was something at this moment about the young girl, a look in her eyes, which absolutely puzzled Maggie and caused her to remain mute. She had struggled for a minute, but now her hand lay still in Aneta's clasp.

"I want to help you," said Aneta.

"To—help me! How? I thought you hated me."

"Well, as a matter of fact," said Aneta, "I did not love you until"——

"Until?" said Maggie, her eyes shining and her little face becoming transformed in a minute.

"Until I knew what you must have suffered."

"You do not mean to say that you love me now?"

"I believe," said Aneta, looking fixedly at Maggie, "that I could love you."

"Oh!" said Maggie. She snatched her hand away, and, walking to the window, looked out. The fog was thicker than ever, and she could see nothing. But that did not matter. She wanted to keep her back turned to Aneta. Presently her shoulders began to heave, and, taking her handkerchief from her pocket, she pressed it to her eyes. Then she turned round. "Go on," she said.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Aneta.

"Say what you want to say. I am the stepdaughter of a grocer, and I have broken one of the strictest rules in the school. When will you tell Mrs. Ward? I had better leave at once."

"You needn't leave at all."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," said Aneta, "that if you will tell Mrs. Ward everything—all about your stepfather, and all about your selling that jewel and going out without leave—I am positively sure that dear Mrs. Ward will not expel you from the school. I am also sure, Maggie, that there will not be one girl at Aylmer House who will ever reproach you. As to your stepfather being what he is, no girl in her senses would blame you for that. You are the daughter of Professor Howland, one of the greatest explorers of his time—a man who has had a book written about him, and has largely contributed to the world's knowledge. Don't forget that, please; none of us are likely to forget it. As to the other thing—well, there is always the road of confession, and I am quite certain that if you will see Mrs. Ward she will be kind to you and forgive you; for her heart is very big and her sympathies very wide; and then, afterwards, I myself will, for your sake, try to understand your position, and I myself will be your true friend."

"Oh Aneta!" said Maggie.

She ran up to Aneta; she took her hand; she raised it to her lips and kissed it.

"Give me till to-morrow," she said. "Promise that you won't say anything till to-morrow."

Aneta promised. Maggie went to her room.



CHAPTER XXII.

ANETA'S PLAN.

The girls downstairs wondered why Maggie Howland did not appear. After an hour of waiting Kathleen O'Donnell took the lead. The accounts were left alone, but the tableaux vivants were diligently rehearsed, the Tristrams and Jane Burns being the three critics; Rosamond Dacre, Kathleen O'Donnell, and Matty and Clara Roache the performers. But, somehow, there was no life in the acting, for the moving spirit was not there; the bright, quick eye was missed, the eager words were lacking, with the pointed and telling criticism. Then there was the scene where Maggie herself was to take a part. It was from The Talisman, and a night-scene, which she was able to render with great precision and even beauty, and the dun light would be in her favor. It was to be the crowning one, and the last of the tableaux. It was expected to bring down the house. But Maggie was not there, and the girls could not help feeling a little disconsolate and a little surprised.

At supper that evening there were eager inquiries with regard to Maggie Howland. All the girls came up to ask Aneta where the other queen was.

"She is not quite well, and has gone to bed," said Aneta. "She does not wish to be disturbed until the morning."

Aneta's words had a curious effect upon every one who heard her speak. It was as though she had, for the first time in her life, absolutely taken Maggie's part. Her eyes, when she spoke of Maggie, were full of affection. The girls were puzzled; but Merry, as they turned away, suddenly ran back to Aneta, swept her arm round the girl's neck, and said, "Oh Neta, I do love you!"

Aneta pressed Merry's hand. For the first time these two understood each other.

Meanwhile poor Maggie was living through one of the most dreadful periods of her life. Her mother's intimation that she and her stepfather were coming without fail to Aylmer House on Saturday—the day, the glorious day when Maggie and her friends were to entertain Mrs. Ward and the rest of the school—drove the girl nearly wild. Aneta had discovered her secret, and Aneta had urged, as the one way out, the painful but salutary road of confession. Maggie writhed at the thought, but she writhed far more terribly at the news which her mother's letter contained.

The girl said to herself, "I cannot stand it! I will run away! He has destroyed my last chance. I will run away and hide. I will go to-night. There is no use in waiting. Aneta is kind; she is far kinder than I could ever have given her credit for. She would, I believe, help me; and dear Mrs. Ward would help me—I am sure of that. And I don't really mind now that it comes to the point of losing my position in the school as queen; but for all the school—for the Tristrams, for Merry Cardew, for Kathleen—to see that man is beyond my power of endurance. He will call here, and he will bring poor mother, but as I won't be here I won't feel anything. I will go to-night. I'll slip downstairs and let myself out. I have some money—thank goodness for that!—and I have my father's treasures. I can take them out of the tin box and wear them on my person, and I can sell them one by one. Yes, I will run away. There's no help for it."

Maggie, at Aneta's suggestion, had got into bed, but even to think of sleep was beyond her power. She got up again presently, dressed, and sat by the foggy window. The fog was worse; it was so thick now that you could not see your way even as far as the trees in the middle of the square. There were fog-signals sounding from time to time, and cabs going very slowly, and boys carrying torches to light belated and lost passengers.

Maggie was safe enough in her room, which had, like all the other bedrooms at Aylmer House, a small fire burning in the grate. By-and-by some one tapped at the door. Maggie said, "Don't come in"; but her words were unheeded. The door was opened an inch or two, and Merry Cardew entered.

"Oh Merry, you—of all people!" said Maggie.

"And why not?" said Merry. "I am your friend—your own very, very great friend. What is the matter, Mags? You were so jolly at tea; what can have happened since?"

"Something most dreadful," said Maggie; "but you will know on Saturday."

"Oh!" said Merry, coming up to Maggie and dropping on her knees and fondling one of the girl's cold hands, "why should I wait till Saturday? Why should I not know now?"

"I can't talk of it, Merry. I am glad you—you—loved me. You won't love me in the future. But kiss me just this once."

"I am not going to leave you like this," said Merry.

"You must, dear; yes, you must. Please, please go! And—please, be quick. Some one will see us together. Lucy Johnson will come in. Oh! don't make matters worse for me. Good-night, Merry, good-night."

Maggie seemed so anxious that Merry should go that the girl felt hurt and rose to her feet.

"Good-night, Merry dear," said Maggie as Merry was walking towards the door. Then she added, in a semi-whisper which Merry did not catch, "And good-bye, Merry dear; we shall never meet again."

Merry left the room, feeling full of apprehension. She thought for a minute as she stood outside. Then she went and knocked at Aneta's door.

"Aneta, may I come in?"

"Of course, dear. What is the matter?" said her cousin.

Merry entered at once.

"I have been to see Maggie. She is awfully queer. Oh, I know I broke the rules. I must tell Miss Johnson in the morning."

"I did beg of you, Merry, not to go to her," said Aneta.

"Yes, I know you did; but I could not help thinking and thinking about her. She is very queer. Her eyes look so strange."

"I hoped she was in bed and asleep," said Aneta.

"In bed!" said Merry. "Not a bit of it. She was up and sitting by the window gazing at the fog."

"I will go and see her myself," said Aneta.

"Will you, Neta? And you will be kind to her?"

"Yes, darling, of course."

"Somehow, she used to think that—that you didn't love her," said Merry.

"Nor did I," said Aneta. "But I will be kind to her; don't be afraid. I think I can guess what is the matter."

"It is all very queer," said Merry. "She was in such splendid spirits to-day; all the girls said so when they were out preparing for our party, and now she looks years older and utterly miserable."

"Go to bed, Merry, and leave your friend in my care."

"Then you don't think it wrong of me to be very fond of her?"

"I do not, Merry. There was a time when I hoped you would not care for her; now I earnestly want you to be her true friend. There is a very great deal of good in her, and she has had many sorrows. Pray for her to-night. Don't be anxious. Everything will come as right as possible."

"Oh Neta," said Merry, "you are a darling! And when you talk like that I love you more than I ever did before. You see, dear, I could not help caring for Maggie from the very first, and nothing nor anybody can alter my love."

Aneta kissed Merry, who left the room. Then Aneta herself, taking up her candle, went out. She was wearing a long white wrapper, and her clouds of golden hair were falling far below her waist. She looked almost like an angel as she went down the corridor as far as Miss Johnson's room.

Lucy Johnson was just getting into bed when Aneta knocked.

"What is it, Neta?" said the governess in a tone almost of alarm.

"I want to break a rule, Lucy," said Aneta; "so put me down for punishment to-morrow."

"Oh, but why? What are you going to do?"

"I am going to do something which I shall be punished for. I am going to spend to-night, if necessary, with Maggie Howland."

"Is she ill, Neta? Ought we to send for the doctor?"

"Oh no, she is not a bit ill in that way. Good-night, Lucy; I felt I ought to tell you."

Aneta continued her way until she reached Maggie's room. It was now past midnight. The quiet and regular household had all retired to bed, and Maggie had feverishly begun to prepare for departure. She knew how to let herself out. Once out of the house, she would be, so she felt, through the worst part of her trouble. She was not unacquainted with the ways of this cruel world, and thought that she might be taken in at some hotel, not too far away, for the night. Early in the morning she would go by train to some seaside place. From there she would embark for the Continent. Beyond that she had made no plans.

Maggie was in the act of removing her father's treasures from the tin boxes when, without any warning, the room-door was opened, and Aneta, in her pure white dress, with her golden hair surrounding her very fair face, entered the room.

"Oh!" said Maggie, dropping a curiously made cross in her confusion and turning a dull brick-red. "Whatever have you come about?"

Aneta closed the door calmly, and placed her lighted candle on the top of Maggie's chest of drawers.

"I hoped you were in bed and asleep," she said; "but instead of that you are up. I have made arrangements to spend the night with you. It is bitterly cold. We must build up the fire."

Maggie felt wild.

Aneta did not take the slightest notice. She knelt down and put knobs of fresh coal on the fire. Soon it was blazing up merrily. "That's better," she said. "Now, don't you think a cup of cocoa each would be advisable?"

"I don't want to eat," said Maggie.

"I should like the cocoa," said Aneta; "and I have brought it with me. I thought your supply might be out. Here's your glass of milk which you never drank, and here's a little saucepan, and there are cups and saucers in your cupboard, and a box of biscuits. Just sit down, won't you? while I make the cocoa."

Maggie felt very strange. Her dislike of Aneta was growing less and less moment by moment. Nevertheless, she by no means gave up her primary idea of running away. She felt that she must hoodwink Aneta. Surely she was clever enough for that. The best plan would be to acquiesce in the cocoa scheme, afterwards to pretend that she was sleepy, and go to bed. Then Aneta would, of course, leave her, and there would still be plenty of time to get out of the house and disappear into the foggy world of London. The glowing fire, the beautiful young girl kneeling by it, the preparation for the little meal which she made with such swiftness and dexterity, caused Maggie to gaze at her in speechless amazement.

Maggie drank her delicious cocoa and munched her biscuits with appetite, and afterwards she felt better. The world was not quite so black and desolate, and Aneta looked lovely with her soft eyes glowing and the rose-color in her cheeks.

"Why are you doing all this for me?" said Maggie then.

"Why?" said Aneta. "I think the reason is very simple." Then she paused for a minute and her eyes filled with sudden tears. "I think it is, Maggie, because quite unexpectedly I have learned to love you."

"You—to love me—me?" said Maggie.

"Yes."

Maggie felt herself trembling. She could not reply. She did not understand that she returned the love so suddenly given to her—given to her, too, in her moment of deepest degradation, of her most utter misery. Once again the feeling that she must go, that she could not face confession and the scorn of the school, and the awful words of Bo-peep, and her poor mother as Bo-peep's wife, overpowered her.

"You are—very kind," she said in a broken voice; "and the cocoa was good; and, if you don't mind—I will—go to bed now, and perhaps—sleep a little."

"What have you been doing with all those lovely curios?" said Aneta.

"I?" said Maggie. "I—oh, I like to look at them."

"Do pick up that cross which is lying on the floor, and let me examine it."

Maggie did so rather unwillingly.

"Please bring over all the other things, and let me look at them," said Aneta then.

Maggie obeyed, but grudgingly, as though she did not care that Aneta should handle them.

"Why have you taken them out of their boxes and put them all in a muddle like this?" said Aneta.

"I—I wanted something to do," said Maggie. "I couldn't sleep."

"Was that the only reason—honor bright?" said Aneta.

Maggie dropped her eyes.

Aneta did not question her any further, but she drew her down to a low chair by the fire, and put a hand on her lap, and kept on looking at the treasures: the bracelets, the crosses, the brooches, the quaint designs belonging to a bygone period. After a time she said, "I am not at all sure—I am not a real judge of treasures; but I have an uncle, Sir Charles Lysle, who knows more about these things than any one else in London; and if he thinks what I am inclined to think with regard to the contents of these two boxes, you will be"——She stopped abruptly.

Maggie's eyes were shining. "Aneta," she said, "don't talk of these any more; and don't talk either of wealth or poverty any more. There is something I want to say. When you came into my room just now I was packing up to run away."

"Oh yes, I know that," said Aneta. "I saw that you had that intention the moment I entered the room."

"And you said nothing!"

"Why should I? I didn't want to force your confidence. But you're not going to run away now, Mags?" She bent towards her and kissed her on the forehead.

"Yes," said Maggie, trembling. "I want you to let me go."

"I cannot possibly do that, dear. If you go, I go too."

"I must go," said Maggie. "You don't understand. You found things out about me to-day, and you have behaved—well, splendidly. I didn't give you credit for it. I didn't know you. Now I do know you, and I see that no girl in the school can be compared to you for nobleness and courage, and just for being downright splendid. But, Aneta, I cannot bear that which is before me."

"The fact is," said Aneta, "you are in the midst of a terrible battle, and you mean to give in and turn tail, and let the enemy walk over the field. That is not a bit what I should have expected at one time from Maggie Howland."

"I will tell you," said Maggie. "I am not really a bit brave; there is nothing good in me."

"We won't talk about that," said Aneta. "What we have to think about now is what lies straight ahead of you; not of your past any more, but your immediate future. You have a tough time before you; in fact, you have a very great battle to fight, but I do not think you will turn tail."

"You want me," said Maggie, "to go to Mrs. Ward and tell her everything?"

"You must do that, Maggie. There is no second course to pursue. There is no way out. But I have been thinking since I saw you that perhaps you might have your day on Saturday. I think it would be best for you to tell Mrs. Ward to-morrow; and I think she would not prevent you having your day on Saturday. Perhaps it will be necessary—but she is the one to decide—that some of your schoolfellows should be told; and of course your little brooch which you sold to Pearce must be got back. Even Pearce is far too honest to keep it for the price he paid you."

"He gave me five pounds, and I have spent one. There are still four pounds left," said Maggie. "I meant to run away with the help of these."

"I will lend you a pound," said Aneta, "and we'll get the brooch back to-morrow."

"But, Aneta, I have not yet told you—it is too fearful—you cannot conceive what my stepfather is like. It isn't only his being a grocer—for I have no doubt there are lots of grocers who are quite, quite tolerable; but you cannot imagine what he is. I had a letter from him a little time ago—that time, you remember, when he sent me those perfectly awful dresses—and he said then that he and my mother were coming to see me, as he wanted to interview Mrs. Ward and to look at the school for himself. Well, that poor Tildy brought me a letter to-day from mother. I had written to mother to beg of her not to let him come; but he got hold of the letter, and he was nearly mad about it. The end of it is that he and she are coming on Saturday, and, somehow, I can't bear it. I must run away; I cannot endure it!"

"I don't wonder," said Aneta. "Let me think. Lay your head on my shoulder, Maggie. Oh, how tired you are!"

"Aneta, you seem to me quite new—just as though I had never seen you before."

"I think you and your story have opened my eyes and done me good," said Aneta. "Then what you said about the sufferings of the poor—I mean your sort of poor—gave me great pain. Will you take off your things and lie down, and let me lie by your side? Do, Maggie darling!"

Maggie darling! Such words to come from Aneta Lysle's lips! Maggie felt subjugated. She allowed her rival queen to undress her, and presently the two girls were lying side by side in the little bed. Maggie dropped off into heavy slumber. Aneta lay awake.

It was early morning when Aneta touched her companion.

"Maggie, I have been thinking hard all night, and I am going to do something."

"You! What can you do? Oh, I remember everything now. Oh, the horror! Oh, how can I endure it? Why didn't I run away?"

"Maggie, you must promise me faithfully that you will never run away. Say it now, this minute. I believe in your word; I believe in your fine nature. I will help you with all my might and main through school-life, and afterwards. Give me your word now. You will stay at Aylmer House?"

"I will stay," said poor Maggie.

"I don't ask any more. Thank you, dear. Maggie, do nothing to-day, but leave matters in my hands. You are not well; your head aches, your forehead is so hot."

"Yes, I have a headache," owned Maggie.

"I shall be away for the greater part of the day, but I will ask Miss Johnson to look after you. Don't say anything until I return."

"But what are you going to do?"

"I am going to see your mother and your stepfather."

"Aneta!"

"Yes."

"Oh Aneta, you must not see him!"

"It is probable that I shall seem him, dear; I am not easily alarmed. I will take Aunt Lucia with me. I am going downstairs now to ask Mrs. Ward's permission."

"And you will say nothing about me?"

"Something, but nothing of your story. When you feel well enough you can get up and go on with the preparations for to-morrow. I believe we shall have our happy day."



CHAPTER XXIII.

AT LABURNUM VILLA.

Aneta went back to her room, where she dressed with her usual expedition and extreme neatness. When she had finished her toilet she ran downstairs. It was not yet eight o'clock; but most of the girls were assembled in the large hall waiting for prayers, which always took place before breakfast. Mrs. Ward was seen passing to the library, where prayers were held. Aneta went up to her.

"Prayers first, of course," said Aneta, "and afterwards may I talk to you?"

Mrs. Ward looked at Aneta. "What is the matter, dear?"

"Something very important indeed. I must see you."

"Well, breakfast follows prayers; come to me the minute breakfast is over."

"Thank you, dear Mrs. Ward," said Aneta.

At breakfast Merry asked Aneta how Maggie was. Aneta said that Maggie had a headache, and would not be in school during the morning.

"Then what are we to do about our day?" said Molly Tristram, who overheard this remark. "We have absolutely more to get through than we can possibly manage."

"Oh, to-morrow will be quite all right," said Aneta; "and Maggie will join you presently."

Aneta was so respected in the school, so little given to exaggeration, so absolutely to be relied on, that these words of hers had a most calming effect. The girls continued their breakfast, those who were in the secret of to-morrow occasionally alluding to the subject in French, which was the only language allowed to be spoken. The others talked about their different occupations.

As soon as ever breakfast was over, Aneta went to Mrs. Ward's private room.

"Now, dear, what is it?" said the head-mistress. "I have to take the class for literature at half-past nine, and have very little time to spare."

"I won't keep you," said Aneta; "but what I wanted was to beg for a day's holiday."

"My dear girl! What do you mean? In the middle of term—a day's holiday! Can you not take it to-morrow?—oh, I forgot, to-morrow Maggie is having her grand carnival, as I call it. But what is the matter, Aneta? Have you any trouble?"

"Yes," said Aneta; "and I cannot tell you, dear Mrs. Ward."

"I trust you, of course, Aneta."

"I know you do; and I want you to trust me more than ever. It has something to do with Maggie."

Mrs. Ward slightly frowned. "I am never sure"—she began.

But Aneta stopped her impulsively. "If you give me that holiday to-day," she said, "and if you trust me, and if you will also give me Mrs. Martin's address, which, of course, you must have on your books"——

"Mrs. Martin's address?" said Mrs. Ward.

"Yes. You know Maggie's mother has married again; she is Mrs. Martin."

"Of course, of course; I had forgotten for the moment. Yes, I have her address."

"Well, if you will do all that," continued Aneta, "I think that you will find a new Maggie in the future, one whom you—will trust, and—and love, as I love her."

"My dear girl! as you love Maggie Howland?"

Aneta lowered her head for a minute. "It is true I did not love her," she said, "in the past, but I have changed my views. I have been narrow-minded, and small, and silly. She herself has opened my eyes. I cannot tell you more now. Maggie will come down, and will be able to go on with her lessons just as usual this afternoon; but I want a day off, and I want it at once."

"But where are you going, dear?"

"I am going to Aunt Lucia. You will let me have a cab, and I will drive to Aunt Lucia's house in Eaton Square at once?"

Mrs. Ward looked doubtful. "You have a very grave reason for this?" she said.

"Very, very grave; and I will tell you all presently."

"I have never had reason to doubt you," said Mrs. Ward, "and I won't doubt you now. Does Maggie know of this?"

"Yes—oh yes; but please don't question her until I return."

"Very well, dear; you shall have your way. Oh, you want Mrs. Martin's address. It is Laburnum Villa, Clapham."

Aneta entered the address in a little tablet bound in gold which she always wore at her waist.

"Thank you ever so much," she said, and then left the room.

A minute or two later she met Miss Johnson. "Give me something stiff to learn—something that I don't like—to-night, dear Lucy," she said. "I am off for a whole day's holiday, but I shall be back in the evening."

"That is very queer," said Miss Johnson. "What does it mean?"

"I cannot explain, but Mrs. Ward knows. Be specially kind to dear Maggie, and give me something that I don't like to do when I return."

Miss Johnson smiled. "You shall hem some dusters," she said.

Aneta made a wry face. "Thanks ever so much," she replied; then she ran upstairs to get ready for her visit.

Just before leaving the house she looked in at Maggie. "I'm off, Mags. It's all right. I shall probably see you about tea-time."

Before Maggie had time even to expostulate Aneta closed the door, and a minute or two later had stepped into the cab which Agnes had called for her. The cabman was desired to drive Miss Lysle to Lady Lysle's house in Eaton Square. This was accordingly done, and soon after ten o'clock Lady Lysle, who had not yet completed her morning toilet, was most amazed at being informed by her maid that Miss Lysle was waiting for her downstairs.

"Aneta! You don't mean Aneta, Purcell?"

"Yes, my lady; and she wants to see you in a very great hurry."

"Then send her up to me."

Purcell disappeared. Lady Lysle wondered what was wrong. Presently Aneta burst into the room.

"My dear child," said her aunt, "what can be wrong? Why have you left school? I do hope no illness has broken out there. It would be very inconvenient for me to have you here at present."

"There is no illness whatever at the school, Aunt Lucia," said Aneta, going up to her aunt and kissing her; "only there is a girl there, one of my schoolfellows, in a good bit of trouble, and I want to help her, and I have got a day off from Mrs. Ward, who doesn't know why she is giving it to me, but trusts me all the same. And now, auntie, I want you to come with me at once."

"Oh my dear child, where?"

"To Clapham, auntie."

"Clapham! I never stopped at Clapham in my life. I have driven through the place, it is true."

"Well, we'll stop there to-day," said Aneta, "at Laburnum Villa, Clapham. I want to see Mrs. Martin, Maggie's mother."

"Oh, dear child," said Lady Lysle, "you mean Miss Howland when you speak of Maggie? Now, you know I told you that her stepfather is no relation whatever to the Martyns of The Meadows. I cannot make out why she should have given you to understand that he was. A man who lives at Clapham! Dear Aneta, I would rather be excused."

"There is no excuse, auntie, that I can listen to for a single moment. I know all about Maggie's stepfather, and I will tell you as we are driving out to Clapham. You have always let me have my own way, and I have—yes, I have tried to be a good girl; but there is something before me to-day more important and more difficult than I ever tackled yet, and if I can't come to my own aunt—I, who am a motherless girl—for help at this crisis I shall think the world is coming to an end."

"What a strange, earnest way you do speak in, Aneta!"

"I am very sorry, darling; but I assure you the case is most urgent. You are quite well, aren't you?"

"Oh yes, my love; I am never an ailing sort of person."

"Well, then, I will send Purcell back to you, and please order the carriage, and please be as quick as possible. We have to go somewhere else after we have done with Mrs. Martin."

"Well, Aneta, I always was wax in your hands, and I suppose I must do what you wish. But remember your promise that you will tell me the meaning of this extraordinary thing during our drive to Clapham."

"I promise faithfully to tell you what is necessary, for the fact is I want your help. Darling auntie! you are doing about the best work of your life to-day. I knew you would stand by me; I felt certain of it, and I told Maggie so."

"That girl!" said Lady Lysle. "I don't care for that girl."

"You will change your mind about her presently," said Aneta, and she ran downstairs to request Davidson, the butler, to bring her something to eat, for her breakfast had been slight, and she was quite hungry enough to enjoy some of her aunt's nice food.

By-and-by Lady Lysle, looking slim and beautiful, wearing her becoming sables and her toque with its long black ostrich plume, appeared on the scene, and a minute later Davidson announced that the carriage was at the door.

The two ladies stepped in, Aneta giving very careful directions to the driver.

He expressed some astonishment at the address. "Laburnum Villa, Clapham!" he said. "Martin, Laburnum Villa, Clapham! Clapham's a big place, miss."

"I know that," said Aneta; "but that is all the address I can obtain. We must call at the post-office, if necessary, to get the name of the street."

The footman sprang into his place, and Aneta and her aunt drove off in the comfortable brougham towards that suburb known as Clapham.

"Now, Aneta, I suppose you will tell me what is the meaning of this?"

"Yes, I will," said Aneta. "I made a mistake about Maggie, and I am willing to own it. She has been placed in a difficult position. I do not mean for a minute to imply that she has acted in a straight way, for she has not. But there is that in her which will make her the best of girls in the future, as she is one of the cleverest and one of the most charming. Yes, auntie, she has got a great power about her. She is a sort of magnet—she attracts people to her."

"She has never attracted me," said Lady Lysle. "I have always thought her a singularly plain girl."

"Ugliness like hers is really attractive," said Aneta. "But, now, the thing is this: if we don't help her she will be absolutely lost, all her chance taken from her, and her character ruined for ever. We do a lot at our school for those poor slum-girls, but we never do anything for girls in our class. Now, I mean my girl in future to be Maggie Howland."

"Aneta, you are absurd!"

"I mean it, auntie; her father's daughter deserves help. Her father was as good a man as ever lived, and for his sake something ought to be done for his only child. As to her mother"——

"Yes, the woman who has married a person of the name of Martin, and to whose house I presume we are going"——

"Auntie, I have rather a shock to give you. Poor Maggie did mean to imply that her stepfather was in a different class of life from what he is. He is a—grocer!"

Lady Lysle put up her hand to pull the check-string.

"Pray, auntie, don't do that. Maggie isn't the daughter of a grocer, and she can't help her mother having married this dreadful man. I want Maggie to have nothing to do with her stepfather in the future, and I mean to carry out my ideas, and you have got to help me."

"Indeed, I will do nothing of the kind. What a disgraceful girl! She must leave Aylmer House at once."

"Then I will go too," said Aneta.

"Aneta, I never knew you behave in such a way before."

"Come, auntie darling, you know you are the sweetest and the most loving and sympathetic person in the world; and why should you turn away from a poor little girl who quite against her own will finds herself the stepdaughter of a grocer? Maggie has given me to understand that he is a dreadful man. She is horrified with him, and what I am going now to Laburnum Villa about is to try to prevent his visiting the school with his wife on Saturday. I will do the talking, dear, and you have only to sit by and look dignified."

"I never was put in such a dreadful position before," said Lady Lysle, "and really even you, Aneta, go too far when you expect me to do this."

"But you would visit a poor woman in East London without the smallest compunction," said Aneta.

"That is different," replied Lady Lysle with dignity.

"It is different," replied Aneta; "but the difference lies in the fact that the grocer's wife is very much higher up in the social scale than the East End woman."

"Oh my dear child, this is really appalling! I have always distrusted that Miss Howland. Does Mrs. Ward know of your project?"

"Not yet, but she will to-night."

"And what am I to do when I visit this person?"

"Just look your dear, sweet, dignified self, and allow me to do the talking."

"I think you have taken leave of your senses."

"I haven't taken leave of my senses, and I would do more than I am now doing to help a fine girl round a nasty corner. So cheer up, auntie! After we have seen Mrs. Martin we have to go on and visit the grocer."

"Aneta, that I do decline!"

"I am sure you won't decline. But let us think of Mrs. Martin herself first, and try to remember that by birth she is a lady."

Just at this moment the carriage drew up outside a post-office. There was a short delay while Laburnum Villa was being inquired for by the footman. At last the street in which this small suburban dwelling was situated was discovered, and a few minutes later the carriage, with its splendid horses and two servants on the box, drew up before the green-painted door.

The villa was small, but it was exceedingly neat. The little brass knocker shone, even though yesterday was a day of such fog. The footman came to the carriage-door to make inquiries.

"I will get out," said Aneta.

"Hadn't James best inquire if the woman is in?" said Lady Lysle.

"No, I think I will," said Aneta.

She went up the narrow path and rang the front-door bell. Tildy opened the door. The new cook had been peeping above the blinds in the kitchen. Tildy had hastily put on a white apron, but it is to be regretted that a smut was once more on her cheek. Somehow, Aneta liked her all the better for that smut.

"I want to see your mistress, Tildy," she said. "It is something about Miss Maggie, and I am, as you know, one of her schoolfellows."

"Lor', miss! yes, for certain, miss. Mrs. Martin 'll be that proud, miss."

"I have brought my aunt with me," said Aneta. "She would like to come in too in order to see Mrs. Martin."

"Yes, miss; in course, miss. There's no fire lit in the drawin'-room. But there's the dinin'-room; it do smell a bit smoky, for master 'e loves 'is pipe. 'E smokes a lot in the dinin'-room, miss."

"Show us into the dining-room," said Aneta. She ran back to fetch Lady Lysle, and conducted that amazed and indignant woman into the house.

Tildy rushed upstairs to fetch her mistress. "You get into your best gown in no time, mum. There's visitors downstairs—that most beauteous young lady who spoke to me yesterday at Aylmer House, and a lady alongside of 'er as 'u'd make yer 'eart quake. Ef Queen Victoria was alive I'd say yes, it was 'erself. Never did I mark such a sweepin' and 'aughty manner. They're fine folks, both of 'em, and no mistake."

"Did they give their names?" asked Mrs. Martin.

"I didn't even arsk, mum. They want to see you about our Miss Maggie."

"Well, I will go down. What a queer, early hour for visitors! What dress shall I wear, Tildy?"

"I'd say the amber satin, mum, ef I'd a voice in the choice. You look elegant in it, mum, and you might 'ave your black lace shawl."

"I don't think I will wear satin in the morning," said Mrs. Martin.

Tildy helped her into a dark-brown merino dress, one of her extensive trousseau. Mrs. Martin then went downstairs, prepared to show these visitors that she was "as good as them, if not better." But the glimpse of the carriage and horses which she got through the lobby-window very nearly bowled her over.

"Go in, mum, now; you've kept them waitin' long enough. I can serve up an elegant lunch if you want it."

Tildy felt almost inclined to poke at her mistress in order to hurry her movements. Mrs. Martin opened the dining-room door and stood just for a minute on the threshold. She looked at that moment a perfect lady. Her gentle, faded face and extreme slimness gave her a grace of demeanor which Lady Lysle was quick to acknowledge. She bowed, and looked at Aneta to speak for her.

"How do you do, Mrs. Martin," said that young lady. "I am Aneta Lysle, one of your daughter's schoolfellows. My aunt, Lady Lysle"—Mrs. Martin bowed—"has kindly come with me to see you. We want to have a little confidential talk with you."

"Oh, indeed!" said Mrs. Martin. "Has Maggie done anything wrong? She always was a particularly troublesome girl."

"I quite agree with you," said Lady Lysle. At that moment she had an idea of Maggie in disgrace and banished from Aylmer House, which pleased her.