"It's a better colour nor that yonder," she whispered.

Peter stood stolidly unconscious of her excitement, but he turned his quiet eyes upon the eager face lifted to his, and nodded kindly. Mr Benson caught sight of him and bustled up.

"Morning, Peter," he said briskly. "How's your mother?"

"Middling, thank you," said Peter, and without any further words he pointed at the basket on the counter.

"Butter—eh?" said the grocer. "Well, I hope it's as good as the last." He unpacked the basket and proceeded to weigh the butter, talking all the time.

"It's an odd thing to me how your butter varies. Now, the last month it's been as good again as it used to be. Of course in the winter there will be a difference because of the feed, I can understand that; but I can't see why it shouldn't be always the same in the summer. I don't mind telling you," he continued, leaning forward and speaking in a confidential tone, "that I'd made up my mind at one time to give it up. People won't buy inferior butter, and I don't blame 'em."

"It's good this time, anyhow," said Peter.

"It's prime," said Mr Benson. "Is it the cows now, that you've got new, or is it the dairymaid?"

"The cows isn't new, nor yet the dairymaid," said Peter.

"Well, whichever it is," said the grocer, "the credit of the farm's coming back. Orchards Farm always had a name for its dairy in the old days. I remember my father talking of it when I was a boy."

Mrs Pinhorn, who had been standing near during this conversation, now struck sharply in:

"They do say there was a brownie at the farm in those days, but when it got into other hands he was angered and quitted."

"That's a curious superstition, ma'am," said the grocer politely.

"There's folks in Danecross who give credit to it still," continued Mrs Pinhorn. "Old Grannie Dunch'll tell you ever so many tales about the brownie and his goings-on."

"Well, if we didn't live, so to say, within the pale of civilisation," said the grocer, sticking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, "we might think you'd got him back again at the farm. What do you say to that, Peter?"

Everyone knew that Peter believed in all sorts of crazy things, and when Mr Benson put this jocular question to him several people turned to see how he took it.

Lilac looked eagerly up at him also, for she had a faint hope that he might somehow know that she was dairymaid, and would tell them so. That would be a triumph indeed. At any rate he would stop all this silly talk about the brownie. She had heard Grannie Dunch's stories scores of times, and they were very interesting, but as to believing them—Lilac felt far above such folly, and held them all in equal contempt, whether they were of charms, ghosts, brownies, or other spirits. It was therefore with dismay that she saw Peter's face get redder and redder under the general gaze, and heard him instead of speaking up only mutter, "I don't know nothing about it."

Moved by indignation at such foolishness, and at the mocking expression an Mr Benson's round face, she ventured to give Peter's sleeve a sharp pull. No more words came, he only shuffled his feet uneasily and showed an evident desire to get out of the shop.

"Well, well," said the grocer, turning his attention to some money he was counting out of a drawer, "never you mind, Peter. If you've got him you'd better keep him, for he knows how to make good butter at any rate."

Everyone laughed, as they always did at Mr Benson's speeches, and in the midst of it Peter gathered up his money and left the shop with Lilac. She felt so ruffled and vexed by what had passed, that she could hardly attend to his directions as he pointed out the different shops she had to go to. They were an ironmonger's, a linendraper's, and a china shop, and in the last he told her she must wait until he came to fetch her with the cart in about an hour's time. Lilac stood for a moment looking after him as he drove away to put up his horse at the inn. She was angry with Mr Benson, angry with the people who had laughed, and angry with Peter. No wonder folks thought him half-silly when he looked like that. And yet he knew twice as much as all of 'em put together. Only that morning when Sober had cut his foot badly with broken glass, it was Peter with his clumsy-looking gentle fingers who had known how to stop the bleeding and bind up the wound in the best way. But in spite of all this he could stand like a gaby and let folks make a laughing-stock of him? It was so provoking to remember how silly he had looked, that it was only by a determined effort that Lilac could get it out of her head, and bend her attention on Bella's ribbons and her aunt's pots and pans. When she had once began her shopping, however, she found it took all her thoughts, and it was not till she was seated in the china shop, her business finished, and her parcels disposed round her, that the scene came back to her again. Could it be possible that Peter put any faith in such nonsensical tales?

Grannie Dunch believed them; but then she was very ignorant, over ninety years old, and had never been to school. When Grannie Dunch was young perhaps folks did believe such things, and she had never been taught better; there were excuses for her. On one point Lilac was determined. Peter's mind should be cleared up as to who made the butter. What had Mr Benson said about it? "The credit of the farm's coming back." She repeated the words to herself in a whisper. What a grand thing if she, Lilac White, had helped to bring back the credit of the farm!

At this point in her reflections the white horse appeared at the door, and Lilac and all her belongings were lifted up into the cart. Very soon they were out of the noisy stony streets of Lenham, and on the quiet country road again. She took a side glance at her companion. He looked undisturbed, with his eyes fixed placidly on the horse's ears, and had evidently nothing more on his mind than to sit quietly there until they reached home. It made Lilac feel quite cross, and she gave him a sharp little nudge with her elbow to make him attend to what she had to say.

"Why ever did you let 'em go on so silly about the brownie?" she said. "You looked for all the world as if you believed in it."

Peter flicked his horse thoughtfully.

"There's a many cur'ous things in the world," he said; "cur'ouser than that."

"There ain't no such things as brownies, though," said Lilac, with decision; "nor yet ghosts, nor yet witches, nor yet any of them things as Grannie Dunch tells about."

Peter was silent.

"Is there?" she repeated with another nudge of the elbow.

"I don't says as there is," he answered slowly.

"Of course not!" exclaimed Lilac triumphantly.

"And I don't say as there isn't," finished Peter in exactly the same voice.

This unexpected conclusion quite took Lilac's breath away. She stared speechlessly at her cousin, and he presently went on in a reflective tone with his eyes still fixed on the horse's ears:

"It's been a wonderful lucky year, there's no denying. Hay turned out well, corn's going to be good. More eggs, more milk, better butter, bees swarmed early."

"But," put in Lilac, "Aunt sprained her ankle, and the colt went lame, and you had to sell None-so-pretty. That wasn't lucky. Why didn't the brownie hinder that?"

Peter shook his head.

"I don't say as there is a brownie at the farm," he said.

"But you think he helps make the butter," said Lilac scornfully.

Peter turned his eyes upon his companion; her face was hidden from him by her sunbonnet, but her slender form and the sound of her voice seemed both to quiver with indignation and contempt.

"Well, then, who does?" he asked.

But Lilac only held her head up higher and kept a dignified silence; she was thoroughly put out with Peter, and if he was so silly it really was no use to talk to him.

Conscious that he was in disgrace, Peter fidgeted uneasily with his reins, whipped his horse, and cast some almost frightened glances over his shoulder at the silent little figure beside him, then he coughed several times, and finally, with an effort which seemed to make his face broader and redder every minute, began to speak:

"I'd sooner plough a field than talk any day, but but I'll tell you something if I can put it together. Words is so hard to frame, so as to say what you mean. Maybe you'll only think me stupider after I'm done, but this is how it was—"

He stopped short, and Lilac said gently and encouragingly, "How was it, Peter?"

"I've had a sort of a queer feeling lately that there's something different at the farm. Something that runs through everything, as you might say. The beasts do their work as well again, and the sun shines brighter, and the flowers bloom prettier, and there's a kind of a pleasantness about the place. I can't set it down to anything, any more than I know why the sky's blue, but it's there all the same. So I thought over it a deal, and one day I was up in the High field, and all of a sudden it rapped into my head what Grannie Dunch says about the brownie as used to work at the farm. 'Maybe,' I says to myself, 'he's come back.' So I didn't say nothing, but I took notice, and things went on getting better, and I got to feel there was someone there helping on the work—but I wasn't not to say certain sure it was the brownie, till one night—"

"When?" said Lilac eagerly as Peter paused.

"It was last Saint Barnaby's, and I'd been up to Cuddingham with None-so-pretty. It was late when I got back, and I remembered I hadn't locked the stable door, and I went across the yard to do it—"

"Well?" said Lilac with breathless interest.

"So as I went, it was most as light as day, and I saw as plain as could be something flit in at the stable door. 'Twasn't so big as a man, nor so small as a boy, and its head was white. So then I thought, 'Surely 'tis the brownie, for night's his working time,' and I'd half a mind to take a peep and see him at it. But they say if you look him in the face he'll quit, so I just locked the door and left him there. When Benson talked that way about the credit of the farm, I knew who we'd got to thank. Howsomever," added Peter seriously, "you mustn't thank him, nor yet pay him, else he'll spite you instead of working for you."

As he finished his story he turned to his cousin a face beaming with the most childlike faith; but it suddenly clouded with disappointment, for Lilac, no longer gravely attentive, was laughing heartily.

"I thought maybe you'd laugh at me," he said, turning his head away ashamed.

Lilac checked her laughter. "Here's a riddle," she said. "The brownie you locked into the stable that night always makes the butter. He isn't never thanked nor yet paid, but you've looked him in the face scores of times."

Peter gazed blankly at her.

"You're doing of it now!" she cried with a chuckle of delight; "you're looking at the brownie now! Why, you great goose, it's me as has made the butter this ever so long, and it was me as was in the stable on Saint Barnaby's!"

It was only by very slow degrees that Peter could turn his mind from the brownie, on whom it had been fixed for weeks past, to take in this new and astonishing idea. Even when Lilac had told her story many times, and explained every detail of how she had learnt to be dairymaid, he broke out again:

"But how could you do it? You didn't know before you came, and there's Bella and Agnetta was born on the farm, and doesn't know now. Wonderful quick you must be, surely. And so little as you are—and quiet," he went on, staring at his cousin. "You don't make no more clatter nor fuss than a field-mouse."

"'Tisn't only noisy big things as is useful," said Lilac with some pride.

"It's harder to believe than the brownie," went on Peter, shaking his head; "a deal more cur'ous. I thought I had got hold of him, but I don't seem to understand this at all."

He fell into deep thought, shaking his head at intervals, and it was not until the farm was in sight that he broke silence again.

"The smallest person in the farm," he said slowly, "has brought back the credit of the farm. It's downright amazing. I'm not agoin' to say 'thank you,' though," he added with a smile as they drove in at the gate.

A sudden thought flashed into Lilac's mind. "Oh, Peter," she cried, "the flowers was lovely on May Day, and the cactus is blooming beautiful! Was it the brownie as sent 'em, do you think?"

Peter made no reply to this, and his face was hidden, for he was plunging down to collect the parcels in the back of the cart. Lilac laughed as she ran into the house. What a funny one he was surely, and what a fine day's holiday she had been having!



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE CONCERT.

"But I will wear my own brown gown And never look too fine."

Months came and went. August turned his beaming yellow face on the waving cornfields, and passed on leaving them shorn and bare. Then came September bending under his weight of apples and pears, and after him October, who took away the green mantle the woods had worn all the summer, and gave them one of scarlet and gold. He spread on the ground, too, a gorgeous carpet of crimson leaves, which covered the hillside with splendour so that it glowed in the distance like fire. Here and there the naked branches of the trees began to show sharply against the sky—soon it would be winter. Already it was so cold, that although it was earlier than usual Miss Ellen said they must begin to think of warming the church, and to do this they must have some money, and therefore the yearly village concert must be arranged.

"It was the new curate as come to me about it," said the cobbler to Mr Dimbleby one evening. "'You must give us a solo on the clar'net, Mr Snell,' says he."

"He's a civil-spoken young feller enough," remarked Mr Dimbleby, "but he's too much of a boy to please me. The last was the man for my money."

"Time'll mend that," said Joshua. "And what I like about him is that he don't bear no sort of malice when he's worsted in argeyment. We'd been differing over a passage of Scripture t'other day, and when he got up to go, 'Ah, Mr Snell,' says he, 'you've a deal to learn.' 'And so have you, young man,' says I. Bless you, he took it as pleasant as could be, and I've liked him ever since."

He turned to Bella Greenways, who had just entered.

"And what's your place in the programme, Miss Greenways?"

Bella always avoided speaking to the cobbler if she could, for while she despised him as a "low" person, she feared his opinion, and knew that he disapproved of her. She now put on her most mincing air as she replied:

"Agnetta and me's to play a duet, the 'Edinburgh Quadrilles,' and Mr Buckle accompanies on the drum and triangle."

"Why, you'd better fall in too with the clar'net, Mr Snell," suggested Mr Dimbleby. "That'd make a fine thing of it with four instruments."

Joshua shook his head solemnly.

"Mine's a solo," he said. "A sacred one: 'Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea.' That'll give a variety."

"Mr Buckle's going to recite a beautiful thing," put in Bella: "'The Dream of Eugene Aram'. He's been practising it ever so long. He's going to do it with action."

"I don't know as I can make much of that reciting," said Joshua doubtfully. "Now a good tune, or a song, or a bit of reading, I can take hold of and carry along, but it's poor sport to see a man twist hisself, and make mouths, and point about at nothing at all. I remember the first time the curate did it. He stares straight at me for a second, and then he shakes his fist and shouts out suddenly: 'Wretch!' or 'Villain!' or summat of that sort. I was so taken aback I nearly got up and went out. Downright uncomfortable I was."

"It's all the fashion now. But of course," said Bella disdainfully, "it isn't everybody as is used to it. I'm sure it's beautiful to hear Charlie! It makes your blood run cold. There's a part where he has to speak it in a sort of a hissing whisper. He's afraid the back seats won't hear."

"And a good thing for 'em," muttered Joshua. "It's bad enough to see a man make a fool of hisself without having to hear him as well."

"But after all," continued Bella, without noticing this remark, "it's only the gentry as matter much, and they'll be in the two front rows. Mrs Leigh's going to bring some friends."

"And what's Lilac White going to do?" said Joshua, turning round with sudden sharpness. "She used to sing the prettiest of 'em all at school."

"Oh, I dare say she'll sing in the part songs with the other children," said Bella carelessly. "They haven't asked her for a solo."

But although this was the case Lilac felt quite as interested and pleased as though she were to be the chief performer at the concert. When the programme was discussed at the farm, which was very often, she listened eagerly, and was delighted to find that Mrs Leigh wished her to sing in two glees which she had learnt at school. The concert would be unusually good this year, everyone said, and each performer felt as anxious about his or her part as if its success depended on that alone. Mr Buckle, next to his own recitation, relied a good deal on the introduction of a friend of his from Lenham, who had promised to perform on the banjo and sing a comic song—if possible.

"If you can get Busby," he repeated over and over again, "it'll be the making of the thing, and so I told Mrs Leigh."

"What did she say?" enquired Bella.

"Well, she wanted to know what he would sing. But, as I said to her, you can't treat Busby as you would the people about here. He moves in higher circles and he wouldn't stand it. You can't tie him down to a particular song, he must sing what he feels inclined to. After all, I don't suppose he'll come. He's so sought after."

"Well, it is awkward," said Bella, "not being certain—because of the programme."

"Oh, they must just put down, Song, Mr Busby, and leave a blank. It's often done."

Each time Mr Buckle dropped in at the farm just now he brought fresh news relating to Mr Busby.

He could, or could not come to the concert, so that an exciting state of uncertainty was kept up. As the day grew nearer the news changed. Busby would certainly come, but he had a dreadful cold so that it was hardly probable he would be able to sing. Lilac heard it all with the greatest sympathy. The house seemed full of the concert from morning till night. As she went about her work the strains of the "Edinburgh Quadrilles" sounded perpetually from the piano in the parlour. Sometimes it was Agnetta alone, slowly pounding away at the bass, and often coming down with great force and determination on the wrong chords; sometimes Bella and Agnetta at the same time, the treble dashing along brilliantly, and the bass lumbering heavily in the distance but contriving to catch it up at the end by missing a few bars; sometimes Mr Buckle arriving with his drum and triangle there was a grand performance of all three, when Lilac and Molly, taking furtive peeps at them through the half-open door, were struck with the sincerest admiration and awe. It was indeed wonderful as well as deafening to hear the noise that could be got out of those three instruments; they seemed to be engaged in a sort of battle in which first one was triumphant and then another.

"It's a little loud for this room," observed Mr Buckle complacently, "but it'll sound very well at the concert." Bella felt sure that it would be far the best thing in the programme, not only because the execution was spirited and brilliant but on account of the stylish appearance of the performers. Mr Buckle had been persuaded to wear his volunteer uniform on the occasion, in which, with his drum slung from his shoulders and the triangle fastened to a chair, so that he could kick it with one foot, he made a very imposing effect.

Agnetta and Bella had coaxed their mother into giving them new dresses of a bright blue colour called "electric", which, being made up by themselves in the last fashion, were calculated to attract all eyes.

These preparations, whilst they excited and interested Lilac, also made her a little envious. She began to wish she had something pretty to put on in honour of the concert, and even to have a faint hope that her aunt might give her a new dress too. But this did not seem even to occur to Mrs Greenways, and Lilac soon gave up all thoughts of it with a sigh. Her Sunday frock was very shabby, but after all just to stand up amongst the other children it would not show much. She took it out of her box and looked at it: perhaps there was something she could do to smarten it up a little. It certainly hung in a limp flattened manner across the bed, and was even beginning to turn a rusty colour; nothing would make it look any different. Would one of her cottons be better, Lilac wondered anxiously. But none of the children would wear cottons, she knew—they all put on their Sunday best for the concert. The black frock must do. She could put a clean frill in the neck, and brush her hair very neatly, but that was all. There was no one she remembered to take much notice what she wore, so it did not matter.

The evening came. Everyone had practised their parts and brought them to a high pitch of perfection; and except Mr Busby, whose appearance was still uncertain, everyone was prepared to fill their places in the programme.

"You won't find two better-looking girls than that," said Mrs Greenways to her husband, looking proudly at her two daughters. "That blue does set 'em off, to be sure!"

"La!" said Bella with a giggle, "I feel that nervous I know I shall break down. I'm all of a twitter."

"Well, it's no matter how you play as long as you look well," said Mrs Greenways; "with Charlie making all that noise on the drum, you only hear the piano now and again. But where's Lilac!" she added. "It's more than time we started."

Lilac had been ready long ago, and waiting for her cousins, but just before they came downstairs she had caught sight of Peter looking into the room from the garden, and making mysterious signs to her to come out. When she appeared he held towards her a bunch of small red and white chrysanthemums. "Here's a posy for you," he said. "Stick it in your front. They're a bit frost-bitten, but they're better than nothing."

Lilac took the flowers joyfully; after all she was not to be quite unadorned at the concert.

"You ain't got a new frock," he continued, looking at her seriously when she had fastened them in her dress. "You look nice, though."

"Ain't you coming?" asked Lilac. She felt that she should miss Peter's friendly face when she sang, and that she should like him to hear her.

"Presently," he said. "Got summat to see to first."

When the party reached the school-house it was already late. The Greenways were always late on such occasions. The room was full, and Mr Martin, the curate, who had the arrangement of it all, was bustling about with a programme in his hand, finding seats for the audience, greeting acquaintances, and rushing into the inner room at intervals to see if the performers had arrived.

"All here?" he said. "Then we'd better begin. Drum and fife band!"

The band, grinning with embarrassment and pleasure, stumbled up the rickety steps on to the platform. The sounds of their instruments and then the clapping and stamping of the audience were plainly heard in the green room, which had only a curtain across the doorway.

"Lor'!" said Bella, pulling it a little on one side and peeping through at the audience, "there is a lot of people! Packed just as close as herrings. There's a whole row from the Rectory. How I do palpitate, to be sure! I wish Charlie was here!"

Mr Buckle soon arrived with vexation on his brow. No sign of Busby! He was down twice in the programme, and there was hardly a chance he would turn up. It was too bad of Busby to throw them over like that. He might at least have come.

"Well, if he wasn't going to sing I don't see the good of that," said Bella; "but it is a pity."

"It just spoils the whole thing," said Mr Buckle, and the other performers agreed. But to Lilac nothing could spoil the concert. It was all beautiful and glorious, and she thought each thing grander than the last. Uncle Joshua's solo almost brought tears to her eyes, partly of affection and pride and partly because he extracted such lovely and stirring sounds from the clar'net. It made her think of her mother and the cottage, and of so many dear old things of the past, that she felt sorrowful and happy at once. Next she was filled with awe by Mr Buckle's recitation, which, however, fell rather flat on the rest of the assembly; and then came the "Edinburgh Quadrilles", in which the performers surpassed themselves in banging and clattering. Lilac was quite carried away by enthusiasm. She stood as close to the curtain as she could, clapping with all her might. The programme was now nearly half over, and Mr Busby's first blank had been filled up by someone else. Mr Martin came hurriedly in.

"Who'll sing or play something?" he said. "We must fill up this second place or the programme will be too short."

His glance fell upon Lilac.

"Why, you're the little girl who was Queen? You can sing, I know. That'll do capitally—come along."

Lilac shrank back timidly. It was an honour to be singled out in that way, but it was also most alarming. She looked appealingly at her cousin Bella, who at once came forward.

"I don't think she knows any songs alone, sir," she said; "but I'll play something if you like."

"Oh, thank you, Miss Greenways," said Mr Martin hastily, "we've had so much playing I think they'd like a song. I expect she knows some little thing—don't you?" to Lilac.

Lilac hesitated. There stood Mr Martin in front of her, eager and urgent, with outstretched hand as though he would hurry her at once to the platform; there was Bella fixing a mortified and angry gaze upon her; and, in the background, the other performers with surprise and disapproval on their faces. She felt that she could not do it, and yet it was almost as impossible to disoblige Mr Martin, the habit of obedience, especially to a clergyman, was so strong within her. Suddenly there sounded close to her ear a gruff and friendly voice:

"Give 'em the 'Last Rose of Summer', Lilac. You can sing that very pretty." It came from Uncle Joshua.

"The very thing!" exclaimed Mr Martin. "Couldn't possibly be better, and I'll play it for you. Come along!"

Without more words Lilac found herself hurried out of the room, up the steps, and on to the platform, with Mr Martin seated at the piano. Breathless and frightened she stood for a second half uncertain whether to turn and run away. There were so many faces looking up at her from below, and she felt so small and unprotected standing there alone in front of them. Her heart beat fast, her lips were as though fastened together, how could she possibly sing? Suddenly in the midst of that dim mass of heads she caught sight of something that encouraged her. It was Peter's round red face with mouth and eyes open to their widest extent, and it stood out from all the rest, just as it had done on May Day. Then it had vexed her to see it, now it was such a comfort that it filled her with courage. Instead of running away she straightened herself up, folded her hands neatly in front of her, and took a long breath. When Mr Martin looked round at her she was able to begin, and though her voice trembled a little it was sweet and clear, and could be heard quite to the end of the room. Very soon she forgot her rears altogether, and felt as much at her ease as though she were singing in Uncle Joshua's cottage as she had done so often. The audience kept the most perfect silence, and gazed at her attentively throughout. It was a very simple little figure in its straight black frock, its red and white nosegay, and thick, laced boots, and it looked all the more so after the ribbons and finery of those which had come before it; yet there was a certain dignity about its very simplicity, and the earnest expression in the small face showed that Lilac was not thinking of herself, but was only anxious to sing her song as well as she could. She finished it, and dropped the straight little curtsy she had been taught at school. "After all it had not been so bad," she thought with relief, as she turned to go away in the midst of an outburst of claps and stamps from the audience. But she was not allowed to go far, for it soon became evident that they wanted her to sing again; nothing in the whole programme had created so much excitement as this one little simple song. They applauded not only in the usual manner but even by shouts and whistling, and through it all was to be heard the steady thump, thump, thump of a stick on the floor from the middle of the room where Peter sat. Lilac looked round half-frightened at Mr Martin as the noise rose higher and higher, and made her way quickly to the steps which led from the platform.

"They won't leave off till you sing again," he said, following her, "though we settled not to have any encores. You'd better sing the last verse."

So it turned out that Lilac's song was the most successful performance of the evening; it was impossible to conceal the fact that it had won more applause than anything, not even excepting the "Edinburgh Quadrilles." This was felt to be most unjust, for she had taken no trouble in preparing it, and was not even properly dressed to receive such an honour.

"I must own," said Mrs Greenways in a mortified tone, "that I did feel disgraced to see Lilac standing up there in that old black frock. I can't think what took hold of the folks to make so much fuss with her. But there! 'Tain't the best as gets the most praise."

"I declare," added Bella bitterly, "it's a thankless task to get up anything for the people here. They're so ignorant they don't know what's what. To think of passing over Charley's recitation and encoring a silly old song like Lilac's. It's a good thing Mr Busby didn't come, I think—he wouldn't 'a been appreciated."

"'Twasn't only the poor people though," said Agnetta. "I saw those friends of Mrs Leigh's clapping like anything."

"Ah, well," said Mrs Greenways, "Lilac's parents were greatly respected in the parish, and that's the reason of it. She hasn't got no cause to be set up as if it was her singing that pleased 'em." Lilac had indeed very little opportunity of being "set up." After the first glow of pleasure in her success had faded, she began to find more reason to be cast down. Her aunt and cousins were so jealous of the applause she had gained that they lost no occasion of putting her in what they called her proper place, of showing her that she was insignificant, a mere nobody; useless they could not now consider her, but she had to pay dearly for her short triumph at the concert. The air just now seemed full of sharp speeches and bitterness, and very often after a day of unkind buffets she cried herself to sleep, longing for someone to take her part, and sore at the injustice of it all.

"'Tain't as if I'd wanted to sing," she said to herself. "They made me, and now they flout me for it."

But her unexpected appearance in public had another and most surprising result.

About a week after the concert, when the excitement was lessening and the preparations for Bella's wedding were beginning to take its place, Mrs Greenways was sent for to the Rectory—Mrs Leigh wished to speak to her.

"I shouldn't wonder," she said to her husband before she started, "if it was to ask what Bella'd like for a present. What'd you say?"

"I shouldn't wonder if it was nothing of the kind," replied Mr Greenways. "More likely about the rent."

But Mrs Greenways held to her first opinion. It would not be about the rent, for Mrs Leigh never mentioned it to her.

No. It was about the present; and very fitting too, when she called to mind how long her husband had been Mr Leigh's tenant. To be sure he had generally owed some rent, but the Greenways had always held their heads high and been respected in spite of their debts.

On her way to the Rectory, therefore, she carefully considered what would be best to choose for Bella and Charlie. Should it be something ornamental—a gilt clock, or a mirror with a plush frame for the drawing-room? They would both like that, but she knew Mrs Leigh would prefer their asking for something useful; perhaps a set of tea-things would be as good as anything.

These reflections made the distance short, yet an hour later, when, her interview over, Mrs Greenways reappeared at the farm, her face was lengthened and her footstep heavy with fatigue. What could have happened? Something decidedly annoying, for she snapped even at her darling Agnetta when she asked questions.

"Don't bother," she said, "let's have tea. I'm tired out."

During the meal her daughters cast curious glances at her and at each other, for it was a most unusual thing for their mother to bear her troubles quietly. As a rule the more vexed she was the more talkative she became. It must therefore be something out of the common, they concluded; and before long it appeared that it was the presence of Lilac that kept Mrs Greenways silent. She threw angry looks at her, full of discontent, and presently, unable to control herself longer, said sharply:

"When you've finished, Lilac, I want you to run to Dimbleby's for me. I forgot the starch. If you hurry you'll be there and back afore dusk."



CHAPTER TWELVE.

LILAC'S CHOICE.

"A stone that is fit for the wall will not be left in the way."—Old Proverb.

As the door closed on Lilac, the news burst forth from Mrs Greenways in such a torrent that it was difficult at first to follow, but at length she managed to make clear to her astonished hearers all that had passed between herself and Mrs Leigh. It was this: A lady staying at the Rectory had seen Lilac at the concert, and asked whom she was. Whereupon, hearing her history and her present occupation at Orchards Farm, she made the following suggestion. She wanted a second dairymaid, and was greatly pleased with Lilac's appearance and neat dress. Would Mrs Leigh find out whether her friends would like her to take such a situation? She would give her good wages, and raise them if she found her satisfactory. "It's a great opportunity for a child like Lilac," Mrs Leigh had said to Mrs Greenways; "but I really think from what I hear of her that she is quite fit to take such a place."

"Well, as to that," said Mr Greenways slowly when his wife paused for breath, "I suppose she is. If she can manage the dairy alone here, she can do it with someone over her there."

"Now I wonder who could 'a told Mrs Leigh that Lilac made our butter," said Mrs Greenways; "somehow or other that child gets round everyone with her quiet ways."

"Most likely that interfering old Joshua Snell," said Bella, "or Peter maybe, or Ben. They all think no end of Lilac."

"Well, I don't see myself what they find in her," said Mrs Greenways; "though she's a good child enough and useful in her way. I should miss her now I expect; though, of course," with a glance at her husband, "she wouldn't leave us, not so long as we wanted her."

"That's for her to say," said the farmer. "I'm not going to take a chance like that out of her mouth. She's a good little gal and a credit to her mother, and it's only fair and right she should choose for herself. Go or stay, I won't have a word said to her. 'Tain't every child of her age as has an offer like that, and she's deserved it."

"And who taught her all she knows?" said Mrs Greenways wrathfully. "Who gave her a home when she wanted one, and fed and kep' her? And now as she's just beginning to be a bit of use, she's to take herself off at the first chance! I haven't common patience with you, Greenways, when you talk like that. It's all very well for you; and I s'pose you're ready to pay for a dairymaid in her place. But I know this: If Lilac's got a drop of gratitude in her, and a bit of proper feeling, she'll think first of what she owes to her only relations living."

"Well, you ought to 'a told her how useful she was if you wanted her to know it," said Mr Greenways. "You've always gone on the other tack and told her she was no good at all. I shouldn't blame her if she wanted to try if she could please other folks better."

There was so much truth in this, that in spite of Mrs Greenways' anger it sank deeply into her mind. Why had she not made more of Lilac? What should she do, if the child, with the consent of her uncle and encouraged by Mrs Leigh, were to choose to leave the farm? It was not unlikely, for although she had not been actively unkind to Lilac she had never tried to make her happy at the farm; her jealousy had prevented that. And then, the money—that would be a great temptation; and the offer of it seemed to raise Lilac's value enormously. In short, now that someone else wanted her, and was willing to pay for her services, she became twice as important in Mrs Greenways' eyes. One by one the various duties rose before her which Lilac fulfilled, and which would be left undone if she went away. She sat silent for a few minutes in moody thought.

"I didn't say nothing certain to Mrs Leigh," she remarked at length, "but I did mention as how we'd never had any thought of Lilac taking service, no more nor Agnetta or Bella."

"Lor', Ma!" said Bella, "the ideer!"

"All the same," said the farmer, "when we first took Lilac we said we'd keep her till she was old enough for a place. The child's made herself of use, and you don't want to part with her. That's the long and the short of it. But I stand by what I say. She shall settle it as she likes. She shall go to Mrs Leigh and hear about it, and then no one shan't say a word to her, for or against. When's she got to decide?"

"In a week," answered his wife. "But you're doing wrong, Greenways, you hadn't ought to put it on the child's shoulders; it's us as ought to decide for her, us as are in the place of her father and mother. She's too young to know what's for her good."

"I stand by what I say," repeated the farmer, and he slapped the table with his hand. Mrs Greenways knew then that it was useless to oppose him further, and the conversation came to an end.

Now, when the matter was made known to Lilac, it seemed more like a dream than anything real. She had become so used to remain in the background, and go quietly on at her business without notice, that she could not at first believe in the great position offered to her. She was considered worth so much money a year! It was wonderful.

After she had seen Mrs Leigh, and heard that it really was true and no dream, another feeling began to take the place of wonder, and that was perplexity. The choice, they told her, was to remain in her own hands, and no one would interfere with it. What would be best? To go or stay? It was very difficult, almost impossible, to decide. Never in her short life had she yet been obliged to choose in any matter; there had always been a necessity which she had obeyed: "Do this," "Go there." The habit of obedience was strong within her, but it was very hard to be suddenly called to act for herself. And the worst of it was that no one would help her; even Mrs Leigh only said: "I shan't persuade you one way or the other, Lilac, I shall leave it to you and your relations to consider." Uncle Joshua had no counsel either. "You must put one against the other and decide for yourself, my maid," he said; "there'll be ups and downs wherever you go." She studied her aunt's face wistfully, and found no help there. Mrs Greenways kept complete and gloomy silence on the question.

Thrown back upon herself, Lilac's perplexity grew with each day. If she went to sleep with her mind a little settled to one side of the matter, she woke up next morning to see many more advantages on the other. To leave Orchards Farm, and the village, and all the faces she had known since she could remember anything, and go to strangers! That would be dreadful. But then, there was the money to be thought of, and perhaps she might find the strangers kinder than her own relations. "It's like weighing out the butter," she said to herself; "first one side up and then t'other." If only someone would say you must go, or you must stay.

During this week of uncertainty many things at the farm looked pleasanter than they had ever done before, and she was surprised at the interest everyone in the village took in her new prospects. They all had something to say about them, and though this did not help her decision but rather hindered it, she was pleased to find that they cared so much for her.

"And so you're goin' away," said poor Mrs Wishing, fluttering into the farm one day and finding Lilac alone. "Seems as if I was to lose the on'y friend I've got. But I dunno. There was your poor mother, she was took, and now I shan't see you no more. 'Tain't as I see you often, but I know you might drop in anywhen and there's comfort in that. Lor'! I shouldn't be standing here now if you hadn't come in that night—I was pretty nigh gone home that time. Might a been better p'r'aps for me and Dan'l too if I had. But you meant it kind."

"Maybe I shan't go away after all," said Lilac soothingly.

"You're one of the lucky ones," continued Mrs Wishing. "I allers said that. Fust you get taken into a beautiful home like this, and then you get a place as a gal twice your age would jump at. Some gets all the ups and some gets all the downs. But I dunno!"

She went on her way with a weary hitch of the basket on her arm, and a pull at her thin shawl. Then Bella's voice sounded beseechingly on the stairs:

"Oh, do come here a minute, Lilac."

Bella was generally to be found in her bedroom just now, stitching away at various elegancies of costume. She turned to her cousin as she entered, and said with a puzzled frown:

"I'm in ever such a fix with this skirt. I can't drape it like the picture do what I will, it hangs anyhow. And Agnetta can't manage it either."

Agnetta stood by, her face heated with fruitless labour, and her mouth full of pins.

Lilac examined the skirt gravely.

"You haven't got enough stuff in it," she said. "You'll have to do it up some other way."

"Pin it up somehow, then, and see what you can do," said Bella. "I'm sick and tired of it."

Lilac was not quite without experience in such things, for she had often helped her cousins with their dressmaking, and she now succeeded after a few trials in looping up the skirt to Bella's satisfaction.

"That's off my mind, thank goodness!" she exclaimed. "You're a neat-fingered little thing; I don't know what we shall do without you."

It was a small piece of praise, but coming from Bella it sounded great.

Lilac's affairs, her probable departure from the farm and how she would be much missed there, were much talked of in the village just now. The news even reached Lenham, carried by the active legs and eager tongue of Mrs Pinhorn, who, with many significant nods, as of one who could tell more if she chose, gave Mr Benson to understand that he might shortly find a difference in the butter. It was not for her to speak, with Ben working at the farm since a boy, but—So even the great and important Mr Benson was prepared to be interested in Lilac's choice.

She often wondered, as day after day went by so quickly and left her still undecided, what her mother would have advised her to do. But then, if her mother had been alive, all this would not have happened. She tried nevertheless to imagine what she would have said about it, and to remember past words which might be of help to her now. "Stand on your own feet and don't be beholden to anyone." Certainly by taking this situation she would follow that advice, and child though she was, she knew it might be the beginning of greater things. If she filled this place well she might in time get another, and be worth even more money. But then, could she leave the farm? the home which had sheltered her when she had been left alone in the world. Who would take her place? No one could deny now that she would leave a blank which must be filled up. She could hardly bear to think of a stranger standing in her accustomed spot in the dairy, handling the butter, looking out of the little ivy-grown window, taking charge of the poultry. "They'll feed 'em different, maybe," she thought; "and they won't get half the eggs, I know they won't." How hard it would be, too, to leave the faces she had known from childhood, all so familiar, and some of them so dear: not human faces alone, but all sorts of kind and friendly ones, belonging to the dumb animals, as she called them. She would miss the beasts sorely, and they would miss her: the cows she was learning to milk, the great horses who jingled their medals and bowed their heads so gently as she stood on tiptoe to feed them, the clever old donkey who could unfasten any gate and let all the animals out of a field: the pigs, even the sheep, who were silliest of all, knew her well and showed pleasure at her coming. She looked with affection, too, at the bare little attic, out of whose window she had gazed so often with eyes full of tears at the white walls of her old home on the hillside. How hard it had been to leave it, and now it made her almost as sad to think of going away from the farm.

But then—there was the money, and although Mrs Leigh said nothing in favour of her going to this new place, Lilac had a feeling that she really wished it, and would be disappointed if she gave it up. Everyone said it was such a chance!

It was not altogether a fancy on Lilac's part that everyone at the farm looked at her kindly just now, for the idea of losing her made them suddenly conscious that she would be very much missed. Mrs Greenways watched her with anxiety, and there was a new softness in her way of speaking; her old friends, Molly and Ben, were eager in showing their goodwill, and Agnetta, in spite of the approaching excitement of Bella's wedding, found time to enquire many times during the day if Lilac "had made up her mind."

"Of course you meant to go from the first," she said at length. "Well, I don't blame you, but you might 'a said so to an old friend like me."

The only person at the farm who was sincerely indifferent to Lilac's choice was Bella.

"It won't make any matter to me whether you're here or there," she said candidly; "but there's no doubt it'll make a difference to Ma. There's some as would call it demeaning to go out to service, but I don't look at it like that. Of course if it was me or Agnetta it wouldn't be thought of; but I agree with Pa that it's right you should choose for yourself."

So no one helped Lilac, and the days passed and the last one came, while she was still as far as ever from deciding. Escaping from the chatter and noises inside the house she went out towards evening into the garden for a little peace and quietness. She wanted to be alone and think it over for the last time; after that she would go to Mrs Leigh and tell her what she meant to do, and then all the worry would be over. She strolled absently along, with the same tiresome question in her mind, through the untidy bushy garden, past Peter's flower bed, gay with chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies, until she came to the row of beehives, silent, deserted-looking dwellings now with only one or two languid inhabitants to be seen crawling torpidly about the entrances. Lilac sat down on the cherry-tree stump opposite them, and, for a moment leaving the old subject, her mind went back to the spring evening when Peter had cut the bunch of flowers for her, and let the bees crawl over his fingers. She smiled to herself as she remembered how suddenly he had gone away without giving her the nosegay at all. Poor Peter! she understood him better now. As she thought this there was a click of the gate leading into the field, she turned her head, and there was Peter himself coming towards her with his dog Sober at his heels.

During this past week Peter as well as Lilac had been turning things over a great deal in his mind. Not that he was troubled by uncertainty, for he felt sure from the first that she would go away from the farm. And it was best she should. From outward ill-treatment he could have defended her: he was strong in the arm, but with his tongue he was weaker than a child. Many a time he had sat in silence when hard or unkind speeches had been cast at her, but none the less he had felt it sorely. After the concert, when she had sung as pretty as a bird, how they had flouted her. It was a hard thing surely, and it was best she should go away to folks as would value her better. But he felt also that he must tell her he was sorry. That was a trial and a difficulty. How should he frame it? Though he could talk more easily to Lilac than anyone else in the world, speech was still terribly hard, and when he suddenly came upon her this evening his first instinct was to turn and go back. Sober, however, pricked his ears and ran forward when he saw a friend, and this example encouraged Peter.

"As like as not," he said to himself, "I shall say summat quite different the minute I begin, but I'll have a try at it;" so he went on.

There was a touch of frost in the air, and the few remaining leaves, so few that you could count them, were falling every minute or so gently from the trees. A scarlet one from the cherry tree overhead had dropped into Lilac's lap, and lay there, a bright red spot on her white pinafore. As Peter's eye fell on it it occurred to him to say gruffly: "The leaves is nearly all gone."

"Pretty nigh," said Lilac, looking up into the bare branches of the cherry tree. "We'll soon have winter now."

There was silence. Peter took off his hat and rubbed his forehead with his coat sleeve.

"There's lots will be sorry when you go," he burst out suddenly. "The beasts'll miss you above a bit."

Lilac did not answer. She saw that he wanted to say something more, and knew that it was best not to confuse his mind by remarks.

"Not but what," he went on, "you're in the right. Why should you work for nothing here and get no thanks? You're worth your wages, and there you'll get 'em. There's justice in that. Only—the farm'll be different."

"There's only the dairy," said Lilac. "Someone else'll have to do that if I go. And I should miss the beasts too."

She put her hand on Sober's rough head as he sat by her.

"It's a queer thing," said Peter after another pause, "what a lot I get in my head sometimes and yet I can't speak it out. You remember about the brownie, and me saying the farm was pleasanter and that? Well, what I want to say now is, that when you're gone all that'll be gone—mostly. It'll be like winter after summer. Anyone as could use language could say a deal about that, but I can't. I don't want you to stay, but I've had it in my mind to tell you that I shall miss you as well as the beasts—above a bit. That's all."

Sober now seemed to think he must add something to his master's speech, for he raised one paw, placed it on Lilac's knee, and gazed with a sort of solemn entreaty into her face. She knew at once what he wanted, for though he could not "use language" any more than Peter, he was quite able to make his meaning clear. In the course of many years' faithful attention to business he had become rheumatic, and this paw, in particular was swollen and stiff at the joint. Lilac had found that it gave him ease to rub it, and Sober had got into the habit of calling her attention to it in this way at all times and seasons. Now as she took it in her hand and looked into his wise affectionate eyes, it suddenly struck her that here were two people who would really miss her, and want her if she were far away. No one would rub Sober's paw, no one would take much notice of her other dumb friend, Peter. She could not leave them. She placed the dog's foot gently on the ground and stood up.

"I'm not going away," she said, "I'm going to bide. And I shall go straight in and tell Aunt, and then it'll be settled."

Indoors, meanwhile, the same subject had been discussed between different people. In the living room, where tea was ready on the table, Mrs Greenways and her two daughters waited the coming of the farmer, Agnetta eyeing a pot of her favourite strawberry jam rather impatiently, and Bella, tired with her stitching, leaning languidly back in her chair with folded arms.

"Lilac ain't said nothing to either of you, I s'pose?" began Mrs Greenways.

"I know she means to go, though," said Agnetta.

"Well, I must look about for a girl for the dairy, I s'pose," said Mrs Greenways sadly. "I won't give it to Molly again. And a nice set they are, giggling flighty things with nothing but their ribbons and their sweethearts in their heads."

"Lor'! Ma, don't fret," said Bella consolingly; "you got along without Lilac before, and you'll get along without her again."

"I shan't ever replace her," continued her mother in the same dejected voice; "she doesn't care for ribbons, and she's not old enough for sweethearts. I do think it's not acting right of Mrs Leigh to go and entice her away."

"If here isn't Mr Snell coming in alonger Pa," said Agnetta, craning her neck to see out of the window. "He's sure to stay to tea." She immediately drew her chair up to the table and helped herself largely to jam.

"And of all evenings in the week I wish he hadn't chosen this," said Mrs Greenways. "Poking and meddling in other folks' concerns. Now mind this, girls,—don't you let on as if I wanted to keep Lilac, or was sorry she's going. Do you hear?"

It did not at first appear, however, that this warning was necessary, for Joshua said no word of Lilac or her affairs; he seemed fully occupied in drinking a great deal of tea and discussing the events of the neighbourhood with the farmer, and it was not till the end of his meal that he looked round the table enquiringly, and asked the dreaded question.

"And what's Lilac settled to do about going?"

"You know as much about that as we do, Mr Snell," replied Mrs Greenways loftily.

"There's no doubt," continued the cobbler, fixing his eye upon her, "as how Mrs Leigh's friend is going to get a prize in Lilac White. She's only a child, as you once said, ma'am, but I know what her upbringing was: 'As the twig is bent, the tree's inclined'. There's the making of a thorough good servant in her. Well worth her wages she'll be."

"She's been worth more to us already than ever I knew of, or counted on, till lately," put in the farmer. "Just now, I met Benson, and says he: 'You're losing your dairymaid by what I hear, and I can but wish you as good a one.'"

"That's not so easy," said Joshua, shaking his head. "Good workers don't grow on every bush. It's a pity, too, just when your butter was getting back its name."

"I'd half a mind," said the farmer, "to offer the child wages to stop, but then I thought it wouldn't be acting fair. She ought to have the chance of bettering herself in a place like that. If she goes she's bound to rise, and if she stays she won't, for I can't afford to give her much."

"And what's your opinion, ma'am?" asked Joshua politely of Mrs Greenways.

"Oh, it isn't worth hearing, Mr Snell," she replied with a bitter laugh; "its too old-fashioned for these days. I should 'a thought Lilac owed summat to us, but my husband don't seem to take no count of that at all. Not that it matters to me."

As she spoke, with the colour rising in her face and a voice very near tears, the door opened and Lilac came quickly in. The conversation stopped suddenly, all eyes were fixed on her; perhaps never since she had been Queen had her presence caused so much attention: even Agnetta paused in her repast, and looked curiously round to see what she would do or say.

Without giving a glance at anyone else in the room, Lilac walked straight up to where Mrs Greenways sat at the head of the table:

"Aunt," she said rather breathlessly, "I've come to say as I've made up my mind."

Mrs Greenways straightened herself to receive the blow. She knew what was coming, and it was hard to be humiliated in the presence of the cobbler, yet she would put a brave face upon it. With a great effort she managed to say carelessly:

"It don't matter just now, Lilac. Sit down and get your tea."

But Mr Greenways quite spoilt the effect of this speech.

"No, no," he called out. "Let her speak. Let's hear what she's got to say. Here's Mr Snell'd like to hear it too. Speak out, Lilac."

Thus encouraged, Lilac turned a little towards her uncle and Joshua.

"I've made up my mind as I'd rather bide here, please," she said.

The teapot fell from Mrs Greenways' hands with such a crash on the tray that all the cups rattled, the air of indifference which she had struggled to keep up vanished, her whole face softened, and as she looked at the modest little figure standing at her side tears of relief came into her eyes. Uncle Joshua and her old feelings of jealousy and pride were forgotten for the moment as she laid her broad hand kindly on the child's shoulder:

"You're a good gal, Lilac, and you shan't repent your choice," she said; "take my word, you shan't."

"And that's your own will, is it, Lilac?" said her uncle. "And you've thought it well over, and you won't want to be altering it again?"

"No, Uncle," said Lilac. "I'm quite sure now." Her aunt's kind manner made her feel more firmly settled than before.

"It's a harassing thing is a choice," said Mr Greenways. "I know what it is myself with the roots and seeds. Well, I won't deny that I'm glad you're going to stop, but I hope you've done the best for yourself, my maid."

"Lor', Greenways, don't worry the child," interrupted his wife, who had recovered her usual manner. "She knows her own mind, and I'm glad she's shown so much sense. You sit down and get your tea, Lilac, and let's be comfortable and no more about it."

Lilac slipped into the empty place between the cobbler and Agnetta, rather abashed at so much notice. Agnetta pushed the pot of jam towards her.

"I'm glad you're going to stop," she said. "Have some jam."

Joshua had not spoken since Lilac's entrance, but Mrs Greenways, eyeing him nervously, felt sure he was preparing to "preachify." She went on talking very fast and loud in the hope of checking this eloquence, but in vain; Joshua, after a few short coughs, stood upright and looked round the table.

"Friends," he said, "I knew Lilac's mother well, and I call to mind this evening what she often said to me: 'I want my child to grow up self-respecting and independent. I want to teach her to stand alone and not to be a burden on anyone.' And then, poor soul, she died sudden, and the child was left on your hands. And she couldn't but be a burden at first, seeing how young she was and how little she knew. And now look at it! How it's all changed. 'Tain't long ago, and she isn't much bigger to speak of, and yet she's got to be something as you value and don't want to part with. She's made her own place, and she stands firm in it on her own feet, and no one would fill it as well. It's wonderful that is, how small things may help big ones. Look at it!" said Joshua, spreading out the palms of his hands. "You take a little weak child into your house and think she's of no count at all, either to help or to hinder; she's so small and the place is so big you hardly know she's there. And then one day you wake up to find that she's gone quietly on doing her best, and learning to do better, until she's come to be one of the most useful people on the farm. Because for why? It's her mother's toil and trouble finding their fruit; we oughtn't to forget that. When folks are dead and gone it's hard on 'em not to call to mind what we owe 'em. They sowed and we reap. Lilac's come to be what she is because her mother was what she was, and I expect Mary White's proud and pleased enough to see how her child's valued this day. And so I wish the farm luck, and all of you luck, and we'll all be glad to think as we're not going to lose our little bit of White Lilac as is growing up amongst us."

Lilac's eyes had been fixed shyly on her plate. It was like being Queen a second time to have everyone looking at her and talking of her. As Joshua finished there was a sound at the door of gruff assent, and she looked round. It came from Peter, who stood there with all his features stretched into a wide smile of pleasure.

"They're all glad I'm going to bide," she said to herself, "and so am I."