+------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note | |Spelling, punctuation and inconsistencies | |in the original book have been retained. | +------------------------------------------+

[Illustration: Book Cover]

 MY NEW HOME

[Illustration: 'I'd like to know your sisters that are as little as me'snames. '--p. 39. ] _Front. _

[Illustration: Title Page]

 MY NEW HOME

 by Mrs Molesworth

 Illustrated by L Leslie Brooke

 Macmillan and Co London: 1894

CONTENTS

 CHAPTER I PAGE

 WINDY GAP 1

 CHAPTER II

 AT THE FOOT OF THE LADDER 15

 CHAPTER III

 ONE AND SEVEN 28

 CHAPTER IV

 NEW FRIENDS AND A PLAN 43

 CHAPTER V

 A HAPPY DAY 58

 CHAPTER VI

 'WAVING VIEW' 71

 CHAPTER VII

 THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLES 83

 CHAPTER VIII

 TWO LETTERS 96

 CHAPTER IX

 A GREAT CHANGE 111

 CHAPTER X

 NO. 29 CHICHESTER SQUARE 125

 CHAPTER XI

 AN ARRIVAL 139

 CHAPTER XII

 A CATASTROPHE 153

 CHAPTER XIII

 HARRY 168

 CHAPTER XIV

 KEZIA'S COUNSEL 183

 CHAPTER XV

 'HAPPY EVER SINCE' 195

ILLUSTRATIONS

 'I'd like to know your sisters that are as little as me's names. ' _Frontispiece_

 Grandmamma's chair was still waiting to be decorated, so the next hour was spent very happily. 67

 'I do wonder why they are so late'. 82

 A nice-looking oldish man came forward and bowed respectfully to grandmamma. 126

 It was the portrait of a young girl. 139

 Up rushed two or three ... Men, Cousin Cosmo the first. 160

 It was all uphill too. 173

CHAPTER I

WINDY GAP

My name is Helena, and I am fourteen past. I have two other Christiannames; one of them is rather queer. It is 'Naomi. ' I don't mind havingit, as I am never called by it, but I don't sign it often because it issuch an odd name. My third name is not uncommon. It is just 'Charlotte. 'So my whole name is 'Helena Charlotte Naomi Wingfield. '

I have never been called by any short name, like 'Lena, ' or 'Nellie. ' Ithink the reason must be that I am an only child. I have never had anybig brother to shout out 'Nell' all over the house, or dear baby sisterswho couldn't say 'Helena' properly. And what seems still sadder thanhaving no brothers or sisters, I have never had a mother that I couldremember. For mamma died when I was not much more than a year old, andpapa six months before that. 

But my history has not been as sad as you might think from this. I wasvery happy indeed when I was quite a little child. Till I was nine yearsold I really did not know what troubles were, for I lived withgrandmamma, and she made up to me for everything I had not got: we lovedeach other so very dearly. 

I will tell you about our life. 

Grandmamma was not at all the sort of person most children think of whenthey hear of a grandmother in a story. She was not old, with white hairand spectacles and always a shawl on, even in the house, and veryold-fashioned in her ways. She did wear caps, at least I _think_ shealways did, for, of course, she was not _young_. But her hair was verynicely done under them, and they were pretty fluffy things. She madethem herself, and she made a great many other things herself--for metoo. For, you will perhaps wonder more than ever at my saying what ahappy child I was, when I tell you that we were really _very_ poor. 

I cannot tell you exactly how much or how little we had to live upon, and _most_ children would not understand any the better if I did. For ahundred pounds a year even, sounds a great deal to a child, and yet itis very little indeed for one lady by herself to live upon, and ofcourse still less for two people. And I don't think we had much morethan that. Grandmamma told me when I grew old enough to understandbetter, that when I first came to live with her, after both papa andmamma were dead, and she found that there was no money for me--that wasnot poor papa's fault; he had done all that could be done, but the moneywas lost by other people's wrong-doing--well, as I was saying, whengrandmamma found how it was, she thought over about doing something tomake more. She was very clever in many ways; she could speak severallanguages, and she knew a lot about music, though she had given upplaying, and she might have begun a school as far as her clevernesswent. But she had no savings to furnish a large enough house with, andshe did not know of any pupils. She could not bear the thought ofparting with me, otherwise she might perhaps have gone to be some grandsort of housekeeper, which even quite, _quite_ ladies are sometimes, orshe might have joined somebody in having a shop. But after a lot ofthinking, she settled she would rather try to live on what she had, insome quiet, healthy, country place, though I believe she did earn somemoney by doing beautiful embroidery work, for I remember seeing her makelovely things which were never used in our house. This could not havegone on for long, however, as granny's eyes grew weak, and then I thinkshe did no sewing except making our own clothes. 

Now I must tell you about our home. It was quite a strange place tograndmamma when we first came there, but _I_ can never feel as if it hadbeen so. For it was the first place I can remember, as I was only a yearold, or a little more--and children very seldom remember anything beforethey are three--when we settled down at Windy Gap. 

That was the name of our cottage. It is a nice breezy name, isn't it?though it does sound rather cold. And in some ways it _was_ cold, atleast it was windy, and quite suited its name, though at some seasons ofthe year it was very calm and sheltered. Sheltered on two sides italways was, for it stood in a sort of nest a little way up theMiddlemoor Hills, with high ground on the north and on the east, so thatthe only winds really to be feared could never do us much harm. It wasmore a nest than a 'gap, ' for inside, it was so cosy, so very cosy, even in winter. The walls were nice and thick, built of rathergloomy-looking, rough gray stone, and the windows were deep--deep enoughto have window-seats in them, where granny and I used often to sit withour books or work, as the inner part of the rooms, owing to the shape ofthe windows, was rather dark, and the rooms of course were small. 

We had a little drawing-room, which we always sat in, and a stillsmaller dining-room, which was very nice, though in reality it was morea kitchen than a dining-room. It had a neat kitchen range and an oven, and some things had to be cooked there, though there was another littlekitchen across the passage where our servant Kezia did all the messywork--peeling potatoes, and washing up, and all those sorts of things, you know. The dining-room-kitchen was used as little as possible forcooking, and grandmamma was so very, very neat and particular that itwas almost as pretty and cosy as the drawing-room. 

Upstairs there were three bedrooms--a good-sized one for grandmamma, asmaller one beside it for me, and a still smaller one with a rathersloping roof for Kezia. The house is very easy to understand, you see, for it was just three and three, three upstairs rooms over threedownstairs ones. But there was rather a nice little entrance hall, orclosed-in porch, and the passages were pretty wide. So it did not seemat all a poky or stuffy house though it was so small. Indeed, one couldscarcely fancy a 'Windy Gap Cottage' anything but fresh and airy, couldone?

I was never tired of hearing the story of the day that grandmamma firstcame to Middlemead to look for a house. She told it me so often that Iseem to know all about it just as if I had been with her, instead ofbeing a stupid, helpless little baby left behind with my nurse--Keziawas my nurse then--while poor granny had to go travelling all about, house-hunting by herself!

What made her first think of Middlemead she has never been able toremember. She did not know any one there, and she had never been therein her life. She fancies it was that she had read in some book oradvertisement perhaps, that it was so very healthy, and deargrandmamma's one idea was to make me as strong as she could; for I wasrather a delicate child. But for me, indeed, I don't think she wouldhave cared where she lived, or to live at all, except that she was sovery good. 

'As long as any one is left alive, ' she has often said to me, 'it showsthat there is something for them to be or to do in the world, and theymust try to find out what it is. '

But there was not much difficulty for grandmamma to find out what _her_principal use in the world was to be! It was all ready indeed--it waspoor, little, puny, delicate, helpless _me_!

So very likely it was as she thought--just the hearing how splendidlyhealthy the place was--that made her travel down to Middlemead in thoseearly spring days, that first sad year after mamma's death, to look fora nest for her little fledgling. She arrived there in pretty goodspirits; she had written to a house-agent and had got the names of twoor three 'to let' houses, which she at once tramped off from the stationto look at, for she was very anxious not to spend a penny more than shecould help. But, oh dear, how her spirits went down! The houses weredreadful; one was a miserable sort of genteel cottage in a row of othersall exactly the same, with lots of messy-looking children playing aboutin the untidy strips of garden in front. _That_ would certainly not do, for even if the house itself had been the least nice, grandmamma feltsure I would catch measles and scarlet-fever and hooping-cough everytwo or three days! The next one was a still more genteel 'semi-detached'villa, but it was very badly built, the walls were like paper, and itfaced north and east, and had been standing empty, no doubt, for thesereasons, for years. _It_ would not do. Then poor granny plodded back tothe house agent's again. He isn't only a house agent, he has astationer's and bookseller's shop, and his name is Timbs. I know himquite well. He is rather a nice man, and though she was a stranger ofcourse, he seemed sorry for grandmamma's disappointment. 

'There are several very good little houses that I am sure you wouldlike, ' he said to her, 'and one or two of them are very small--but it isthe rent. For though Middlemead is scarcely more than a village it ismuch in repute for its healthiness, and the rents are rising. '

'What are the rents of the smallest of the houses you speak of?'grandmamma asked. 

'Forty pounds is the cheapest, ' Mr. Timbs answered, 'and the situationof that is not so good. Rather low and chilly in winter, and somewhatlonely. '

'I don't mind about the loneliness, ' said grandmamma, 'but a low ordamp situation would never do. '

Mr. Timbs was looking over his lists as she spoke. Her words seemed tostrike him, and he suddenly peered up through his spectacles. 

'You don't mind about loneliness, ' he repeated. 'Then I wonder----' andhe turned over the leaves of his book quickly. 'There _is_ another houseto let, ' he said; 'to tell the truth I had forgotten about it, for ithas never been to let unfurnished before; and it would be considered toolonely for all the year round by most people. '

'Are there no houses near?' asked grandmamma. 'I don't fancy Middlemeadis the sort of place where one need fear burglars, and besides, ' shewent on with a little smile, 'we should not have much of value to steal. The silver plate that I have I shall leave for the most part in London. But in case of sudden illness or any alarm of that kind, I should notlike to be out of reach of everybody. '

'There are two or three small cottages close to the little house I amthinking of, ' said Mr. Timbs, 'and the people in them are veryrespectable. I leave the key with one of them. '

Then he went on to tell grandmamma exactly where it was, how to getthere, and all about it, and with every word, dear granny said herheart grew lighter and lighter. She really began to hope she had founda nest for her poor little homeless bird--that was _me_, youunderstand--especially when Mr. Timbs finished up by saying that therent was only twelve pounds a year, one pound a month. And she _had_made up her mind to give as much as twenty pounds if she could findnothing nice and healthy for less. 

She looked at her watch; yes, there was still time to go to see WindyGap Cottage and yet get back to the station in time for the train shehad fixed to go back by--that is to say, if she took a fly. She hasoften told me how she stood and considered about that fly. Was it worthwhile to go to the expense? Yes, she decided it was, for after all ifshe found nothing to suit us at Middlemead she would have to set off onher travels again to house-hunt somewhere else. It would be penny wiseand pound foolish to save that fly. 

Mr. Timbs seemed pleased when she said she would go at once--I supposeso many people go to house agents asking about houses which they nevertake, that when anybody comes who is quite in earnest they feel like afisherman when he has really hooked a fish. He grew quite eager andexcited and said he would go with the lady himself, if she would allowhim to take a seat beside the driver to save time. And of course grannywas very glad for him to come. 

It was getting towards evening when she saw Windy Gap for the firsttime, and it happened to be a very still evening--the name hardly seemedsuitable, and she said so to Mr. Timbs. He smiled and shook his head andanswered that he only hoped if she did come there to live that she wouldnot find the name _too_ suitable. Still, though there was a good deal ofwind to be _heard_, he went on to explain that the cottage was, as Ihave already said, well sheltered on the cold sides, and also well andstrongly built. 

'None of your "paper-mashy, " one brick thick, run-up-to-tumble-downhouses, ' said Mr. Timbs with satisfaction, which was certainly quitetrue. 

The end of it was, as of course you know already, that grandmamma fixedto take it. She talked it all over with Mr. Timbs, who 'made notes, ' andpromised to write to her about one or two things that could not besettled at once, and then 'with a very thankful heart, ' as she alwayssays when she talks of that day, she drove away again off to thestation. 

The sun was just beginning to think about setting when she walked downthe little steep garden path and a short way over the rough, hillcart-track--for nothing on wheels can come quite close up to the gate ofWindy Gap--and already she could see what a beautiful show there wasgoing to be over there in the west. She stood still for a minute to lookat it. 

'Yes, madam, ' said old Timbs, though she had not spoken, 'yes, that is asight worth adding a five pound note on to the rent of the cottage for, in my opinion. The sunsets here are something wonderful, and there's nohouse better placed for seeing them than Windy Gap. "Sunset View" itmight have been called, I have often thought. '

'I can quite believe what you say, ' grandmamma replied, 'and I am veryglad to have had a glimpse of it on this first visit. '

Many and many a time since then have we sat or stood together there, granny and I, watching the sun's good-night. I think she must have begunto teach me to look at it while I was still almost a baby. For thesewonderful sunsets seem mixed up in my mind with the very first things Ican remember. And still more with the most solemn and beautiful thoughtsI have ever had. I always fancied when I was _very_ tiny that if only wecould have pushed away the long low stretch of hills which preventedour seeing the very last of the dear sun, we should have had an actualpeep into heaven, or at least that we should have seen the golden gatesleading there. And I never watched the sun set without sending a messageby him to papa and mamma. Only in my own mind, of course. I never toldgrandmamma about it for years and years. But I did feel sure he wentthere every night and that the beautiful colours had to do with thatsomehow. 

Grandmamma felt as if the lovely glow in the sky was a sort of good omenfor our life at Windy Gap, and she felt happier on her journey back inthe railway that evening than she had done since papa and mamma died. 

She told Kezia and me all about it--you will be amused at my saying shetold _me_, for of course I was only a baby and couldn't understand. Butshe used to fancy I _did_ understand a little, and she got into the wayof talking to me when we were alone together especially, almost as ifshe was thinking aloud. I cannot remember the time when she didn't talkto me 'sensibly, ' and perhaps that made me a little old for my age. Granny says I used to grow quite grave when she talked seriously, andthat I would laugh and crow with pleasure when she seemed bright andhappy. And this made her try more than anything else to _be_ bright andhappy. 

Dear, dear grandmamma--how very, exceedingly unselfish she was! For Inow see what a really sad life most people would have thought hers. Allher dearest ones gone; her husband, her son and her son's wife--mamma, Imean--whom she had loved nearly, if not quite as much, as if she hadbeen her own daughter; and she left behind when she was getting old, totake care of one tiny little baby girl--and to be so poor, too. I don'tthink even now I quite understand her goodness, but every day I amgetting to see it more and more, even though at one time I was bothungrateful and very silly, as you will hear before you come to the endof this little history. 

And now that I have explained as well as I can about grandmamma andmyself, and how and why we came to live in the funny little gray stonecottage perched up among the Middlemoor Hills, I will go on with what Ican remember myself; for up till now, you see, all I have written hasbeen what was told to me by other people, especially of course bygranny. 

CHAPTER II

AT THE FOOT OF THE LADDER

No, perhaps I was rather hasty in saying I could now go straight onabout what I remember myself. There are still a few things belonging tothe time before I can remember, which I had better explain now, to keepit all in order. 

I have spoken of grandmamma as being alone in the world, and so shewas--as far as having no one _very_ near her--no other children, and notany brothers or sisters of her own. And on my mother's side I had norelations worth counting. Mamma was an only child, and her father hadmarried again after _her_ mother died, and then, some years after, hedied himself, and mamma's half-brothers and sisters had never even seenher, as they were out in India. So none of her relations have anythingto do with my story or with _me_. 

But grandmamma had one nephew whom she had been very fond of when hewas a boy, and whom she had seen a good deal of, as he and papa were atschool together. His name was not the same as ours, for he was the sonof a sister of grandpapa's, not of a brother. It was Vandeleur, Mr. Cosmo Vandeleur. 

He was abroad when our great troubles came--I forget where, for thoughhe was not a soldier, he moved about the world a good deal to all sortsof out-of-the-way places, and very often for months and months together, grandmamma never heard anything about him. And one of the things thatmade her still lonelier and sadder when we first came to Windy Gap wasthat he had never answered her letters, or written to her for a verylong time. 

She thought it was impossible that he had not got her letters, andalmost more impossible that he had not seen poor papa's death in some ofthe newspapers. 

And as it happened he had seen it and he had written to her once, anyway, though she never got the letter. He had troubles of his own thathe did not say very much about, for he had married a good while ago, andthough his wife was very nice, she was very, _very_ delicate. 

Still, his name was familiar to me. I can always remember hearinggrandmamma talk of 'Cosmo, ' and when she told me little anecdotes ofpapa as a boy, his cousin was pretty sure to come into the story. 

And Kezia used to speak of him too--'Master Cosmo, ' she always calledhim. For she had been a young under-servant of grandmamma's long ago, when grandpapa was alive and before the money was lost. 

That is one thing I want to say--that though Kezia was our only servant, she was not at all common or rough. She turned herself into what iscalled 'a maid-of-all-work, ' from being my nurse, just out of love forgranny and me. And she was very good and very kind. Since I have grownolder and have seen more of other children and how they live, I oftenthink how much better off I was than most, even though my home was onlya cottage and we lived so simply, and even poorly, in some ways. Everything was so open and happy about my life. I was not afraid ofanybody or anything. And I have known children who, though their parentswere very rich and they lived very grandly, had really a great deal tobear from cross or unkind nurses or maids, whom they were frightened tocomplain of. For children, unless they are _very_ spoilt, are not soready to complain as big people think. I had nothing to complain of, butif I had had anything, it would have been easy to tell grandmamma allabout it at once; it would never have entered my head not to tell her. She knew everything about me, and I knew everything about her that itwas good for me to know while I was still so young--more, perhaps, thansome people would think a child should know--about our not having muchmoney and needing to be careful, and things like that. But it did not dome any harm. Children don't take _that_ kind of trouble to heart. I wasproud of being treated sensibly, and of feeling that in many little waysI could help her as I could not have done if she had not explained. 

And if ever there was anything she did not tell me about, even thekeeping it back was done in an open sort of way. Granny made nomysteries. She would just say simply--

'I cannot tell you, my dear, ' or 'You could not understand about it atpresent. '

So that I trusted her--'always, ' I was going to say, but, alas, therecame a time when I did not trust her enough, and from that great faultof mine came all the troubles I ever had. 

_Now_ I will go straight on. 

Have you ever looked back and tried to find out what is really the veryfirst thing you can remember? It is rather interesting--now and then theb--no, I don't mean to speak of them till they come properly into mystory--now and then I try to look back like that, and I get a strangefeeling that it is all there, if only I could keep hold of the thread, as it were. But I cannot; it melts into a mist, and the very first thingI _can_ clearly remember stands out the same again. 

This is it. 

I see myself--those looking backs always are like pictures; you seem tobe watching yourself, even while you feel it is yourself--I see myself, a little trot of a girl, in a pale gray merino frock, with a muslinpinafore covering me nearly all over, and a broad sash of Roman colours, with a good deal of pale blue in it (I have the sash still, so it isn'tmuch praise to my memory to know all about _it_), tied round my waist, running fast down the short steep garden path to where granny isstanding at the gate. I go faster and faster, beginning to get a littlefrightened as I feel I can't stop myself. Then granny calls out--

'Take care, take care, my darling, ' and all in a minute I feelsafe--caught in her arms, and held close. It is a lovely feeling. Andthen I hear her say--

'My little girlie must not try to run so fast alone. She might havefallen and hurt herself badly if granny had not been there. '

There is to me a sort of parable, or allegory, in that first thing I canremember, and I think it will seem to go on and fit into all my life, even if I live to be as old as grandmamma is now. It is like feelingthat there are always arms ready to keep us safe, through all thefoolish and even wrong things we do--if only we will trust them and runinto them. I hope the children who _may_ some day read this won't say Iam preaching, or make fun of it. I must tell what I really have felt andthought, or else it would be a pretence of a story altogether. And thisfirst remembrance has always stayed with me. 

Then come the sunsets. I have told you a little about them, already. Imust often have looked at them before I can remember, but one speciallybeautiful has kept in my mind because it was on one of my birthdays. 

I think it must have been my third birthday, though granny is halfinclined to think it was my fourth. _I_ don't, because if it had been myfourth I should remember _some_ things between it and my thirdbirthday, and I don't--nothing at all, between the running into granny'sarms, which she too remembers, and which was before I was three, thereis nothing I can get hold of, till that lovely sunset. 

I was sitting at the window when it began. I was rather tired--I supposeI had been excited by its being my birthday, for dear granny alwayscontrived to give me some extra pleasures on that day--and I remember Ihad a new doll in my lap, whom I had been undressing to be ready to beput to bed with me. I almost think I had fallen asleep for a minute ortwo, for it seems as if all of a sudden I had caught sight of the sky. It must have been particularly beautiful, for I called out--

'Oh, look, look, they're lighting all the beauty candles in heaven. Look, Dollysweet, it's for my birfday. '

Grandmamma was in the room and she heard me. But for a minute or two shedid not say anything, and I went on talking to Dolly and pretending orfancying that Dolly talked back to me. 

Then granny came softly behind me and stood looking out too. I did notknow she was there till I heard her saying some words to herself. Ofcourse I did not understand them, yet the sound of them must have stayedin my ears. Since then I have learnt the verses for myself, and theyalways come back to me when I see anything very beautiful--like thetrees and the flowers in summer, or the stars at night, and above all, lovely sunsets. 

But all I heard then was just--

 'Good beyond compare, If thus Thy meaner works are fair'--

and all I _remembered_ was--

 '... Beyond compare, ... Are fair. '

I said them over and over to myself, and a funny fancy grew out of them, when I got to understand what 'beyond' meant. I took it into my headthat 'compare' was the name of the hills, which, as I have said, camebetween us and the horizon on the west, and prevented our seeing thelast of the sunset. 

And I used to make wonderful fairy stories to myself about the countrybeyond or behind those hills--the country I called 'Compare, ' wheresomething, or everything--for I had lost the words just before, was'fair' in some marvellous way I could not even picture to myself. For Isoon learnt to know that 'fair' meant beautiful--I think I learnt itfirst from some of the old fairy stories grandmamma used to tell me whenwe sat at work. 

That evening she took me up in her arms and kissed me. 

'The sun is going to bed, ' she said to me, 'and so must my littleHelena, even though it is her birthday. '

'And so must Dollysweet, ' I said. I always called that doll'Dollysweet, ' and I ran the words together as if it was one name. 

'Yes, certainly, ' said granny. 

Then she took my hand and I trotted upstairs beside her, carryingDollysweet, of course. And there, up in my little room--I had alreadybegun to sleep alone in my little room, though the door was always leftopen between it and grandmamma's--there, at the ending of my birthdaywas another lovely surprise. For, standing in a chair beside my cot wasa bed for my doll--_so_ pretty and cosy-looking. 

Wasn't it nice of granny? I never knew any one like her for having _new_sort of ideas. It made me go to bed so very, very happily, and that isnot always the case the night of a birthday. I have known children who, even when they are pretty big, cry themselves to sleep because thelong-looked-for day is over. 

It did not matter to me that my dolly's bed had cost nothing--except, indeed, what was far more really precious than money--granny's lovingthought and work. It was made out of a strong cardboard box--the lidfastened to the box, standing up at one end like the head part of aFrench bed. And it was all beautifully covered with pink calico, whichgrandmamma had had 'by her. ' Granny was rather old-fashioned in someways, and fond of keeping a few odds and ends 'by her. ' And over thatagain, white muslin, all fruzzled on, that had once been pinafores ofmine, but had got too worn to use any more in that way. 

There were little blankets, too, worked round with pink wool, and littlesheets, and everything--all made out of nothing but love andcontrivance!

It was so delightful to wake the next morning and see Dollysweet in hernest beside me. She slept there every night for several years, and I amafraid after some time she slept there a good deal in the day also. ForI gave up playing with dolls rather young--playing with _a_ doll, Ishould say. I found it more interesting to have lots of little ones, orof things that did instead of dolls--dressed-up chessmen did very wellat one time--that I could make move about and act and be anything Iwanted them to be, more easily than one or two big dolls. 

Still I always took care of Dollysweet. I never neglected her or let herget dirty and untidy, though in time, of course, her pink-and-whitecomplexion faded into pallid yellow, and her bright hair grew dull, and, worst of all--after that I never could bear to look at her--one of hersky-blue eyes dropped, not out, but _into_ her hollow head. 

Poor old Dollysweet!

The day after my third birthday grandmamma began to teach me to read. _I_ couldn't have remembered that it was that very day, but she has toldme so. I had very short lessons, only a quarter of an hour, I think, butthough she was very kind, she was very strict about my giving myattention while I was at them. She says that is the part that reallymatters with a very little child--the learning to give attention. Notthat it would signify if the actual things learnt up to six or sevencame to be forgotten--so long as a child knows how to learn. 

At first I liked my lessons very much, though I must have been a rathertiresome child to teach. For I would keep finding out likenesses in theletters, which I called 'little black things, ' and I wouldn't try tolearn their names. Grandmamma let me do this for a few days, as shethought it would help me to distinguish them, but when she found thatevery day I invented a new set of likenesses, she told me that wouldn'tdo. 

'You may have one likeness for each, ' she said, 'but only if you reallytry to remember its name too. '

And I knew, by the sound of her voice, that she meant what she said. 

So I set to work to fix which of the 'likes, ' as I called them, I wouldkeep. 

'A' had been already a house with a pointed roof, and a book standingopen on its two sides, and a window with curtains drawn at the top, andthe wood of the sash running across half-way, and a good many otherthings which you couldn't see any likeness to it in, I am sure. But justas I was staring at it again, I saw old Tanner, who lived in one of thecottages below our house, settling his double ladder against a wall. 

I screamed out with pleasure--

'I'll have Tan's ladder, ' I said, and so I did. 'A' was always Tan'sladder after that. And a year or two later, when I heard some one speakof the 'ladder of learning, ' I felt quite sure it had something to dowith the opened-out ladder with the bar across the middle. 

After all, I have had to get grandmamma's help for some of these babymemories. Still, as I _can_ remember the little events I have nowwritten down, I suppose it is all right. 

CHAPTER III

ONE AND SEVEN

I will go on now to the time I was about seven years old. 'Baby' storiesare interesting to people who know the baby, or the person that once wasthe baby, but I scarcely think they are very interesting to people whohave never seen you or never will, or, if they do, would not know it wasyou!

All these years we had gone on quietly living at Windy Gap, without evergoing away. Going away never came into my head, and if dear grandmammasometimes wished for a little change--and, indeed, I am sure she musthave done--she never spoke of it to me. Now and then I used to hearother children, for there were a few families living near us, whoselittle boys and girls I very occasionally played with, speak of going tothe sea-side in the summer, or to stay with uncles and aunts or otherrelations in London in the winter, to see the pantomimes and the shops. But it never struck me that anything of that sort could come in my way, not more than it ever entered my imagination that I could become aprincess or a gipsy or anything equally impossible. 

Happy children are made like that, I think, and a very good thing it isfor them. And I was a very happy child. 

We had our troubles, troubles that even had she wished, grandmamma couldnot have kept from me. And I do not think she did wish it. She knew thatthough the _background_ of a child's life should be contented and happy, it would not be true teaching or true living to let it believe any lifecan be without troubles. 

One trouble was a bad illness I had when I was six--though this wasreally more of a trouble to granny and Kezia than to me. For I did notsuffer much pain. Sometimes the illnesses that frighten children'sfriends the most do not hurt the little people themselves as much asless serious things. 

This illness came from a bad cold, and it _might_ have left me delicatefor always, though happily it didn't. But it made granny anxious, andafter I got better it was a long time before she could feel easy-mindedabout letting me go out without being tremendously wrapped up, andmaking sure which way the wind was, and a lot of things like that, whichare rather teasing. 

I might not have given in as well as I did had it not happened that thewinter which came after my illness was a terribly severe one, and my ownsense--for even between six and seven children _can_ have some commonsense--told me that nothing would be easier than to get a cough again ifI didn't take care. So on the whole I was pretty good. 

But those months of anxiety and the great cold were very trying forgrandmamma. Her hair got quite, _quite_ white during them. 

These severe winters do not come often at Middlemoor; not very often, atleast. We had two of them during the time we lived there, 'year in andyear out, ' as Kezia called it. But between them we had much milder ones, one or two quite wonderfully mild, and others middling--nothing reallyto complain of. Still, a very tiny cottage house standing by itself ispretty cold during the best of winters, even though the walls werethick. And in wet or stormy days one does get tired of very small roomsand few of them. 

But the year that followed that bitter winter brought a pleasant littlechange into my life--the first variety of the kind that had come to me. I made real acquaintance at last with some other children. 

This was how it began. 

I was seven, a little past seven, at the time. 

One morning I had just finished my lessons, which of course took morethan a quarter of an hour now, and was collecting my books together, toput them away, when I heard a knock at the front door. 

I was in the drawing-room--_generally_, especially in winter, I did mylessons in the dining-room. For we never had two fires at once, and forthat reason we sat in the dining-room in the morning if it was cold, though granny was most particular always to have a fire in thedrawing-room in the afternoon. I think now it was quite wonderful howshe managed about things like that, never to fall into irregular oruntidy ways, for as people grow old they find it difficult to be asactive and energetic as is easy for younger ones. It was all for mysake, and every day I feel more and more grateful to her for it. 

Never once in my life do I remember going into the dining-room to dinnerwithout first meeting grandmamma in the drawing-room, when a glancewould show her if my face and hands had been freshly washed and my hairbrushed and my dress tidy, and upstairs again would I be sent in atwinkling if any of these matters were amiss. 

But this morning I had had my lessons in the drawing-room; to beginwith, it was not winter now, but spring, and not a cold spring either;and in the second place, Kezia had been having a baking of pastry andcakes in the dining-room oven, and granny knew my lessons would havefared badly if my attention had been disturbed every time the cakes hadto be seen to. 

I was collecting my books, I said, to carry them into the other room, where there was a little shelf with a curtain in front on purpose forthem, as we only kept our nicest books in the drawing-room, when thisrat-a-tat knock came to the door. 

I was very surprised. It was so seldom any one came to the front door inthe morning, and, indeed, not often in the afternoon either, and thisknock sounded sharp and important somehow. Though I was still quite alittle girl I knew it would vex grandmamma if I tried to peep out to seewho it was--it was one of the things she would have said 'no lady shouldever do'--and I could not bear her to think I ever forgot how even avery small lady should behave. 

The only thing I could do was to look out of the side window, not that Icould see the door from there, but I had a good view of the road whereit passed the short track, too rough to call a road, leading to our ownlittle gate. 

No cart or carriage could come nearer than that point; the tradesmenfrom Middlemoor always stopped there and carried up our meat or bread orwhatever it was--not very heavy basketfuls, I suspect--to the kitchendoor, and I used to be very fond of standing at this window, watchingthe unpacking from the carts. 

There was no cart there to-day, but what _was_ there nearly took mybreath away. 

'Oh, grandmamma, ' I called out, quite forgetting that by this time Keziamust have opened the door; 'oh, grandmamma, do look at the lovelycarriage and ponies. '

Granny did not answer. She had not heard me, for she was in thedining-room, as I might have known. But I had got into the habit ofcalling to her whenever I was pleased or excited, and generally, somehowor other, she managed to hear. And I could not leave the window, I wasso engrossed by what I saw. 

There was a girl in the carriage, to me she seemed a grown-up lady. Shewas sitting still, holding the reins. But I did not see the figure ofanother lady which by this time had got hidden by the house, as shefollowed the little groom whom she had sent on to ask if Mrs. Wingfieldwas at home, meaning at first, to wait till he came back. I heard herafterwards explaining to grandmamma that the boy was rather deaf and shewas afraid he had not heard her distinctly, so she had come herself. 

And while I was still gazing at the carriage and the ponies, thedrawing-room door, already a little ajar, was pushed wide open and Iheard Kezia saying she would tell Mrs. Wingfield at once. 

'Mrs. Nestor; you heard my name?' said some one in a pleasant voice. 

I turned round. 

There stood a tall lady in a long dark green cloak, she had a hat on, not a bonnet, and I just thought of her as another lady, not troublingmyself as to whether she was younger or older than the one in thecarriage, though actually she was her mother. 

I was not shy. It sounds contradictory to say so, but still there istruth in it. I had seen too few people in my life to know anything aboutshyness. And all I ever had had to do with were kind and friendly. And Iremembered 'my manners, ' as old-fashioned folk say. 

I clambered down from the window-seat, and stroked my pinafore, whichhad got ruffled up, and came forward towards the lady, holding out myhand. I had no need to go far, for she had come straight in mydirection. 

'Well, dear?' she said, and again I liked her voice, though I did notexactly think about it, 'and are you Mrs. Wingfield's little girl?'

'My name is Helena Charlotte Naomi Wingfield, ' I said, very gravely anddistinctly, 'and grandmamma is Mrs. Wingfield. '

Mrs. Nestor was smiling still more by this time, but she smiled in anice way that did not at all give me any feeling that she was making funof what I said. 

'And how old are you, my dear?--let me see, you have so many names!which are you called by, or have you any short name?'

I shook my head. 

'No, only "girlie, " and that is just for grandmamma to say. I am alwayscalled "Helena. "'

'It is a very pretty name, ' said my new friend. 'And how old are you, Helena?'

'I am past seven, ' I said. 'My birthday comes in the spring, in March. Have you any little girls, and are any of them seven? I would like toknow some little girls as big as me. '

'I have lots, ' said Mrs. Nestor. 'One of them is in the pony-carriageoutside. I daresay you can see her from the window. '

I think my face must have fallen. 

'Oh, ' I said, disappointedly. 'She's a lady. '

'No, indeed, ' said Mrs. Nestor, now laughing outright; 'if you knew her, or when you know her, as I hope you will soon, I'm afraid you will thinkher much more of a tomboy than a lady. Sharley is only eleven, thoughshe is tall. Her name is Charlotte, like one of yours, but we call herSharley; we spell it with an "S" to prevent people calling her"Charley, " for she is boyish enough already, I am afraid. Then I havethree girls younger--nine, six, and three, and two boys of----'

I was _so_ interested--my eyes were very wide open, and I shouldn'twonder if my mouth was too--that for once in my life I was almost sorryto see grandmamma, who at that moment opened the door and came in. 

'I hope Helena has been a good hostess?' she said, after she had shakenhands with Mrs. Nestor, whom she had met before once or twice. 'We havebeen having a cake baking this morning, and I was just giving somedirections about a special kind of gingerbread we want to try. '

'I should apologise for coming in the morning, ' said Mrs. Nestor, butgrandmamma assured her it was quite right to have chosen the morning. 'Helena and I go out in the afternoon whenever the weather is fineenough, and I should have been sorry to miss you. Now, my little girl, you may run off to Kezia. Say good-bye to Mrs. Nestor. '

I felt very disappointed, but I was accustomed to obey at once. But Mrs. Nestor read the disappointment in my eyes: that was one of the nicethings about her. She was so 'understanding. '

She turned to grandmamma. 

'One of my daughters is in the pony-carriage, ' she said. 'Would youallow Helena to go out to her? She would be pleased to see your garden, I am sure. '

'Certainly, ' said grandmamma. 'Put on your hat and jacket, Helena, andask Miss'--she had caught sight of the girl from the window and saw thatshe was pretty big--'Miss Nestor to walk about with you a little. '

I flew off--too excited to feel at all timid about making friends bymyself. 

'Call her Sharley, ' said Mrs. Nestor, as I left the room. 'She would notknow herself by any other name. '

In a minute or two I was running down the garden-path. When I foundmyself fairly out at the gate, and within a few steps of the girl, Ithink a feeling of shyness _did_ come over me, though I did not myselfunderstand what it was. I hung back a little and began to wonder what Ishould say. I had so seldom spoken to a child belonging to my own rankin life. And I had not often spoken to any of the poorer children about, as there happened to be none in the cottages near us, and grandmamma wasperhaps a little _too_ anxious about me, too afraid of my catching anychildish illness. She says herself that she thinks she was. But ofcourse I am now so strong and big that it makes it rather different. 

I had not much time left in which to grow shy, however. As soon as thegirl saw that I was plainly coming towards her she sprang out of thecarriage. 

'Has mother sent you to fetch me?' she said. 

I looked at her. Now that she was out of the carriage and standing, Icould see that she was not as tall as grandmamma, or as her own mother, and that her frock was a good way off the ground. And her hair washanging down her back. Still she seemed to me almost a grown-up lady. 

I am afraid her first impression of _me_ must have been that I wasextremely stupid. For I went on staring at her for a moment or twobefore I answered. She was indeed opening her lips to repeat thequestion when I at last found my voice. 

'I don't know, ' I said. And if she did not think me stupid before Ispoke, she certainly must have done so when I did. 

'I don't know, ' I repeated, considering over what her question exactlymeant. 'No, I don't think it was fetching you. I was to ask you--wouldyou like to walk round our garden? And p'raps--your mamma was going totell me all your names, but grandmamma told me to run away. I'd like toknow your sisters that are as little as me's names. '

I remember exactly what I said, for Sharley has often told me since howdifficult it was for her not to burst out laughing at the funny way Ispoke. But tomboy though she was in some respects, she had a very tenderheart, and like her mother she was quick at understanding. So sheanswered quite soberly--

'Thank you. I should like very much to walk round your garden--thoughrunning would be even nicer. I'm not very fond of walking if I can run, and you have got such jolly steep paths and banks. '

I eyed the steep paths doubtfully. 

'You hurt yourself a good deal if you run too fast down the paths, ' Isaid. 'The stones are so sharp. '

Sharley laughed. 

'You speak from experience, ' she said. 'That grass bank would be lovelyfor tobogganing. '

'I don't know what that is, ' I replied. 

'We'll show you if you come to see us at home, ' she said. 'But I supposeI'd better not try anything like that to-day. You want to know mysisters' names? They are Anna and Valetta and Baby----'

'Never mind about Baby, ' I interrupted, rather abruptly, I fear. 'Howbig is Anna, and--the other one?'

Sharley stood still and looked me well over. 

'Do you really mean "big"?' she said, 'or "old"? Anna is nine and Val issix; but as for bigness--Anna is nearly as tall as I am, and Val is agood bit bigger than you. '

I felt and looked nearly ready to cry. 

'And I'm past seven, ' I said, 'I wish I wasn't so little. It's likebeing a baby, and I don't care for babies. '

'Never mind, ' replied Sharley consolingly, 'you needn't be at allbabyish because you're little. One of our boys is very little, but he'snot a bit of a baby. I'm sure Val will like to play with you, and sowill Anna--and all of us, for that matter. '

I began to think Sharley a very nice girl. I put my hand in hersconfidingly. 

'I'd like to come, ' I said, 'and I'd like to play that funny name downthe grass-bank here, if you'll show me how. '

'All right, ' she said. 'We'll have to ask leave, I suppose. But youhaven't told me your name yet. The children are sure to ask me. '

I repeated it--or them--solemnly. 

'"Charlotte"--that's my name, ' Sharley remarked. 

'I'm never called it, ' I said. 'I'm always called Helena. '

Sharley looked rather surprised. 

'Fancy!' she said. '_We_ all call each other by short names andnicknames and all kinds of absurd names. Anna is generally Nan, and theboys are Pert and Quick--at least those are the names that have lastedlongest. I daresay it's partly because they are just a little like theirreal names--Percival and Quintin. '

'What a great many of you there are!' I said, but Sharley took my remarkin perfectly good part, even though I went on to add--'It's like thebaker's children--I counted them once, but I couldn't get them right;sometimes they came to nine and sometimes to eleven. '

'Do you mean the baker's on the way to High Middlemoor?' said Sharley. 'Oh yes, it must be them--papa calls them the baker's dozen always. No, we're not as many as that. We are only seven--us four girls, and Pertand Quick, and Jerry, our big brother, who's at school. Dear me, it mustbe dull to be only one!'

Just then we heard the voices of grandmamma and Sharley's mother comingtowards us. And a minute or two later the pony-carriage drove awayagain, Sharley nodding back friendly farewells. 

CHAPTER IV

NEW FRIENDS AND A PLAN

I stood looking after it as long as it was in sight. I felt quitestrange, almost a little dazed, as if I had more than I could manage tothink over in my head. Grandmamma, who was standing behind me, put herhand on my shoulder. 

I looked up at her, and I saw that her face seemed pleased. 

'Is that a nice lady, grandmamma?' I said. 

I do not quite know why I asked about Sharley's mother in that way, forI felt sure she was nice. I think I wanted grandmamma to help me toarrange my ideas a little. 

'Very nice, dear, ' she said. 'Did you not think she spoke very kindly?'

'Yes, I did, grandmamma, ' I replied. I had a rather 'old-fashioned' wayof speaking sometimes, I think. 

'And her little girl--well, she is not a little girl, exactly, isshe?--seems very bright and kind too, ' grandmamma went on. 

'Yes, ' I replied, but then I hesitated. Grandmamma wanted to find outwhat I was thinking. 

'You don't seem quite sure about it?' she said. 

'Yes, grandmamma. She is a very kind girl, but she made me feel funny. She has such a lot of brothers and sisters, and she says it must be sodull to be only one. Grandmamma, is it dull to be only one?'

Grandmamma did not smile at my odd way of asking her what I could havetold myself, better than any one else. A little sad look came over herface. 

'I hope not, dear, ' she answered. 'My little girl does not find her lifedull?'

I shook my head. 

'I love you, grandmamma, and I love Kezia, but I don't know about "dull"and things like that. I think Sharley thinks I'm a very stupid littlegirl, grandmamma. '

And all of a sudden, greatly to dear granny's surprise and still more toher distress, I burst into tears. 

She led me back into the house, and was very kind to me. But she did notsay very much. She only told me that she was sure Sharley did not thinkanything but what was nice and friendly about me, and that I must not bea fanciful little woman. And then she sent me to Kezia, who had kept anodd corner of her pastry for me to make into stars and hearts and othershapes with her cutters, as I was very fond of doing. So that very soonI was quite bright and happy again. 

But in her heart granny was saying that it would be a very good thingfor me to have some companions of my own age, to prevent my gettingfanciful and unchildlike, and, worst of all, too much taken up withmyself. 

A few days after that, grandmamma told me that the three Nestor girlswere coming twice a week to read French with her. I think I have saidalready that grandmamma was very clever, very clever indeed, and thatshe knew several foreign languages. She had been a great deal in othercountries when grandpapa was alive, and she could speak Frenchbeautifully. So I wasn't surprised, and only very pleased when she toldme about Sharley and her sisters. For I was too little to understandwhat any one else would have known in a moment, that dear granny wasgoing to do this to make a little more money. My illness and all thethings she had got for me--even the having more fires--had cost a gooddeal that last winter, and she had asked the vicar of our village to lether know if he heard of any family wanting French or German lessons fortheir children. 

This was the reason of Mrs. Nestor's call, and it was because they weregoing to settle about the French lessons that grandmamma had sent me outof the room. It was not till long afterwards that I understood all aboutit. 

Just now I was very pleased. 

'Oh, how nice!' I said, 'and may I play with them after the lessons aredone, do you think, grandmamma? And will they ask me to go to theirhouse to tea sometimes? Sharley said they would--at least she nearlysaid it. '

'I daresay you will go to their house some day. I think Mrs. Nestor isvery kind, and I am sure she would ask you if she thought it wouldplease you, ' said grandmamma. But then she stopped a little. 'I want youto understand, Helena dear, that these children are coming here reallyto learn French. So you must not think about playing with them just atfirst, that must be as their mother likes. '

Grandmamma did not say what she felt in her own mind--that she would notwish to seem to try to make acquaintance with the Nestors, who were veryrich and important people, through giving lessons to their children. Forshe was proud in a right way--no, I won't call it proud--I thinkdignified is a better word. 

But Mrs. Nestor was too nice herself not to see at once the sort ofperson grandmamma was. She was almost _too_ delicate in her feelings, for she was so afraid of seeming to be in the least condescending orpatronising to us, that she kept back from showing us as much kindnessas she would have liked to do. So it never came about that we grew veryintimate with the family at Moor Court--that was the name of theirhome--I really saw more of the three girls at our own little cottagethan in their own grand house. 

But as I go on with my story you will see that there was a reason for mytelling about them, and about how we came to know them, ratherparticularly. 

The French lessons began the next week. Sharley and her sisters used tocome together, sometimes walking with a maid, sometimes driving over ina little pony-cart--not the beautiful carriage with the two ponies;that was their mother's--but what is called a governess-cart, in whichthey drove a fat old fellow called Bunch, too fat and lazy to be up tomuch mischief. When they drove over they brought a young groom withthem, but their governess very seldom came. I think Mrs. Nestor thoughtit would be pleasanter for granny to give the lessons without a grown-upperson being there, and Sharley said their governess used that time togive the two boys Latin lessons. Mrs. Nestor would have been very gladif grandmamma would have agreed to teach Pert and Quick French too, butgranny did not think she could spare time for it, though a year or twolater when Percival had gone to school she did let Quick join what wecalled the second class. 

I should have explained that though I could not read or write French atall well, I could speak it rather nicely, as grandmamma had taken greatpains to accustom me to do so since I was quite little. 

I think she had a feeling that I might have to be a governess orsomething of the kind when I was grown-up, and that made her veryanxious about my lessons from the beginning of them. And though thingshave turned out quite differently from that, I have always been _very_glad that I was well taught from the first. It is such a comfort to menow that I am really growing big to be able to show grandmamma that I amnot far back for my age compared with other girls. 

Sharley was the first class all by herself, and Nan and Vallie were thesecond. I did not do any lessons with them, but after each class had hadhalf an hour's teaching we had conversation for another half hour, andwhen the conversation time began I was always sent for. Grandmamma hadasked Mrs. Nestor if she would like that, and Mrs. Nestor was verypleased. 

We had great fun at the 'conversation. ' You can scarcely believe whatcomical things the little girls said when they first began to try totalk. Grandmamma sometimes laughed till the tears came into her eyes--Ido love to see her laugh--and I laughed too, partly, I think, becauseshe did, for the funny things they said did not seem quite so funny tome, of course, as to a big person. 

But altogether the French lessons were very nice and brought somevariety into our lives. I think granny and I looked forward to them asmuch as the Nestor children did. 

Grandmamma's birthday happened to come about a fortnight after theybegan. I told Sharley about it one day when she was out in the gardenwith me, while her sisters were at their lesson. We used to do that waysometimes, only we had to promise to speak French all the time, so thatI really had a little to do with teaching them as well as grandmamma, and to tease me, on these occasions Sharley would call me'mademoiselle, ' and make Nan and Vallie do the same. They used in turn, you see, to be with me while Sharley was with granny. 

It was rather difficult to make her understand about grandmamma'sbirthday, I remember, for she could scarcely speak French at all then, and at last she burst out into English, for she got very interestedabout it. 

'I'll tell Mrs. Wingfield we have been talking English, ' she said, 'andI'll tell her it was all my fault. But I must understand what you aresaying. '

'It's about grandmamma's birthday, ' I said. 'I do so want to make a planfor it. '

Sharley's eyes sparkled. She loved making plans, and so did Vallie, whowas very quick and bright about everything, while Nan was rather asleepy little girl, though exceedingly good-natured. I don't think I_ever_ knew her speak crossly. 

'I heard something about "fête, "' said Sharley, 'about fête andgrandmamma. Why do you call her birthday her "fête"?'

'I didn't, ' I replied. '"Fête" doesn't generally mean birthday--it meanssomething else, something about a saint's day. I said I wanted to"fêter" dear granny on her birthday, and I wondered what I could do. Last year I worked a little case in that stiff stuff with holes in, tokeep stamps in, and Kezia made tea-cakes. But I can't think of anythingI can work for her this year, and tea-cakes are only tea-cakes, ' and Isighed. 

'Don't look so unhappy, ' said Sharley, '_we'll_ plan. We're rather shortof plans just now, and we always like to have some on hand for firstthing in the morning--Val and I do at least. Nan never wakes upproperly. Leave it to us, Helena, and the next time we come I'll tellyou what we've thought of. '

I had a good deal of faith in Sharley's cleverness in some things, already, though I can't say that it shone out in speaking French. So Ipromised to wait to see what she and Vallie thought of. 

When we went in we told grandmamma that we had been speaking English. Imade it up into very good French, and Sharley said it, which pleasedgranny. 

'And what was it you were so eager about that you couldn't wait to sayit, or hear it in French?' she asked Sharley. 

We had not expected this, and Sharley got rather red. 

'It's a secret, ' she blurted out. 

Grandmamma looked just a little grave. 

'I am not very fond of secrets, ' she said. 'And Helena has never hadany. '

'Oh yes, I have, grandmamma, ' I said. I did not mean to contradictrudely, and I don't think it sounded like that, though it looks ratherrude written down. 'I had one this time last year--don't youremember?--about your little stamp case. '

Granny's face brightened up. It did not take very quick wits to put twoand two together, and to guess from what I said that the secret had todo with her birthday. And Sharley was too anxious for grandmamma not tobe vexed, to think about her having partly guessed the secret. 

'Ah, well!' said granny, 'I think I can trust you both. '

'Yes, indeed, you may, ' said Sharley. 'There's nothing about mischiefin it, and the only secrets mother's ever been vexed with me about hadto do with mischief. '

'Sharley dressed up a pillow to tumble on Pert's head from the top ofhis door, once, ' said Nan in her slow solemn voice, 'and he screamed andscreamed. '

'It was because he was such a boasty boy, about never being frightened, 'said Sharley, getting rather red. 'But I never did it again. And thissecret is quite, quite a different kind. '

I felt very eager for the next French day, as we called them, to come, to hear what Sharley had thought of. I told Kezia about it, and then Ialmost wished I had not, for she said she did not know that grandmammawould be pleased at my talking about her birthday and 'such like' tostrangers. 

I think Kezia forgot sometimes how very little a girl I still was. I didnot understand what she meant, and all I could say was that the threegirls were not strangers to me. Afterwards I saw what Kezia was thinkingof, she was afraid of the Nestors sending some present to grandmamma, and that, she would not have liked. 

But Mrs. Nestor was too good and sensible for anything of that kind. 

When Sharley and Nan and Vallie came the next time, I ran to meet them, full of anxiety to know if they had made any 'plans. ' They all lookedvery important, but rather to my disappointment the first thing Sharleysaid to me was--

'Don't ask us yet, Helena. We've promised mother not to tell. She'sgoing to come to fetch us to-day, and she's made a lovely plan, butfirst she has to speak about it to your grandmamma. '

'Then it won't be a surprise, ' I began, but Vallie answered before I hadtime to say any more. 

'Oh yes, it will. There's to be a surprise mixed up with it, and we'reto settle that part of it all ourselves--you and us. '

I found it very difficult to keep to speaking French that day, I cantell you. And it seemed as if the hour and a half of lessons spread outto twice as much before Mrs. Nestor at last came. 

We all ran out into the garden while she went in to talk to grandmamma. They were very kind and did not keep us long waiting, and soon we heardgranny calling us from the window. Her face was quite pleased andsmiling. I saw in a moment that she was not going to say I should nothave spoken of her birthday to the little girls. 

'Mrs. Nestor is thinking of a great treat for you--and for me, Helena, 'she said. 'And she and I want you to know about it at once, so that youmay all talk about it together and enjoy it beforehand as well. Somelittle bird, it seems, has flown over to Moor Court and told that nextTuesday week will be your old granny's birthday, and Mrs. Nestor hasinvited us to spend the afternoon of it there. You will like that, willyou not?'

I looked up at grandmamma, feeling quite strange. You will hardlybelieve that I had never in my life paid even a visit of this simplekind. 

'Yes, ' I whispered, feeling myself getting pink all over, as I knew thatMrs. Nestor was looking at me, 'yes, thank you. '

Then dear little Vallie came close up to me, and said in a low voice--

'Now we can settle about the surprise. Come quick, Helena--the surprisewill be the fun. '

And when I found myself alone with the others again, all three of them, even Nan, chattering at once, I soon found my own tongue again, and thestrange, unreal sort of feeling went off. They were very simple unspoiltchildren, though their parents were rich and what I used to call'grand. ' It is quite a mistake to think that the children who live invery large houses and have ponies and lots of servants and everythingthey can want are sure to be spoilt. Very often it is quite theopposite. For, if their parents are good and wise, they are _extra_careful not to spoil them, knowing that the sort of trials that cannotbe kept away from poorer children, and which are a training inthemselves in some ways, are not likely to come to _their_ children. Ieven think now, looking back, that there was really more risk of beingspoilt, for me myself, than for Sharley and her brothers and sisters. 

Being allowed to be selfish is the real beginning and end of beingspoilt, I am quite sure. 

The 'surprise' they had thought of was a very simple one, and one that Iknew grandmamma would like. It was that we should have tea out-of-doors, in an arbour where there was a table and seats all round. And we were todecorate it with flowers, and a wicker arm-chair was to be brought outfor granny, and wreathed with greenery and flowers, to show that she wasqueen of the feast. 

'So it will be a "fête, " after all, Helena, ' said Sharley. 

They were nearly as eager and pleased about it as I was myself, forthey had already learnt to love my grandmamma very dearly. 

'There's only one thing, ' we kept saying to each other every time we metbefore the great day, 'it _mustn't_ rain. Oh, do let us _hope_ it willbe fine, --beautifully fine. '

CHAPTER V

A HAPPY DAY

And it _was_ a fine day! Things after all do not always go wrong in thisworld, though some people are fond of talking as if they did. 

That day, that happy birthday, stands out in my mind so clearly that Ithink I must write a good deal about it, even though to most childrenthere would not seem anything very remarkable to tell. But to me it waslike a peep into fairyland. To begin with, it was the very first time inmy life that I had ever paid a visit of any kind except once or twicewhen I had had tea in rather a dull fashion at the vicarage, where therewere no children and no one who understood much about them. Miss Linden, the vicar's sister, a very old-maid sort of lady, though she meant to bekind, had my tea put out in a corner of the room by myself, while sheand grandmamma had theirs in a regular drawing-room way. They hadmuffins, I remember, and Miss Linden thought muffins not good for littlegirls, and my bread-and-butter was cut thicker than I ever had it at thecottage, and the slice of currant-bread was not nearly as good asKezia's home-made cake--even the plainest kind. 

No, my remembrances of going out to tea at the vicarage were not veryenlivening. 

How different the visit to Moor Court was!

It began--the pleasure of it at least to me--the first thing when Iawoke that morning, and saw without getting out of bed--for my room wasso little that I could not help seeing straight out of the window, and Inever had the blinds drawn down--that it was a perfectly lovely morning. It was the sort of morning that gives almost certain promise of abeautiful day. 

In our country, because of the hills, you see, it isn't always easy totell beforehand what the weather is going to be, unless you really studyit. But even while I was quite a child I had learnt to know the signs ofit very well. I knew about the lights and shadows coming over the hills, the gray look at a certain side, the way the sun set, and lots of thingsof that kind which told me a good deal that a stranger would never havethought of. I knew there were some kinds of bright mornings which werereally less hopeful than the dull and gloomy ones, but there was nothingof that sort to-day, so I curled myself round in bed again with adelightful feeling that there was nothing to be feared from the weather. 

I did not dare to get up till I heard Kezia's knock at the door--forthat was one of grandmamma's rules, and though she had not many rules, those there _were_ had to be obeyed, I can assure you. 

I must have fallen asleep again, for the next thing I remember washearing grandmamma's voice, and there she was, standing beside my bed. 

'Oh, granny!' I called out, 'what a shame for you to be the one to wakeme on _your_ birthday. '

'No, dear, ' said grandmamma, 'it is quite right. Kezia hasn't been yet, it is just about her time. '

I sprang up and ran to the table, where I had put my little present forgrandmamma the night before, for of course I had got a present for herall of my own, besides having planned the treat with the Nestors. 

I remember what my present was that year. It was a little box forholding buttons, which I had bought at the village shop, and it had apicture of the old, old Abbey Church at Middlemoor on its lid. Grandmamma has that button-box still, I saw it in her work-basket onlyyesterday. I was very proud of it, for it was the first year I had savedpennies enough to be able to _buy_ something instead of working apresent for grandmamma. 

She did seem so pleased with it. I remember now the look in her eyes asshe stooped to kiss me. Then she turned and lifted something which I hadnot noticed from a chair standing near. 

'This is my present for my little girl, ' she said, and though I wasinclined to say that it was not fair for her to give me presents on herbirthday, I was so delighted with what she held out for me to see that Ireally could scarcely speak. 

What do you think it was?

A new frock--the prettiest by far I had ever had. The stuff was white, embroidered by grandmamma herself in sky-blue, in such a pretty pattern. She had sat up at night to do it after I was in bed. 

'Oh, grandmamma, ' I said, 'how beautiful it is! Oh, may I--' but then Istopped short--'may I wear it to-day?' was what I was going to say. But, 'oh no, ' I went on, 'it might get dirtied. '

'You are to wear it to-day, dear, ' said grandmamma, 'if that is what youwere going to say, so you needn't spoil your pleasure by being afraid ofits getting dirtied; it will wash perfectly well, for I steeped the silkI worked it in, in salt and water before using it, to make the colourquite fast. I will leave it here on the back of the chair, and when thetime comes for you to get ready I will dress you myself, to be sure thatit is all quite right. '

I kept peeping at my pretty frock all the time I was dressing; the sightof it seemed the one thing wanting to complete my happiness. For thoughSharley and Nan and Vallie were never too grandly dressed, their thingswere always fresh and pretty, and I _had_ been thinking to myself thatnone of my summer frocks were quite as nice or new-looking as theirs. 

And to-day, though only May, was really summer. 

Grandmamma wouldn't let me do very much that morning, as she did notwant me to be tired for the afternoon. 

'Is it a very long walk to Moor Court?' I asked her. 

Grandmamma smiled, a little funnily, I thought afterwards. 

'Yes, ' she said, 'it is between two and three miles. '

'Then we must set off early, ' I said, 'so as not to have to go too fastand be tired when we get there. I don't mind for coming back about beingtired; there'll be nothing to do then but go to bed, it'll all be over!'and I gave a little sigh, 'but I don't want to think about its beingover yet. '

'We must start at half-past two, ' said grandmamma. 'That will be timeenough. '

Long before half-past two, as you can fancy, I was quite ready. My frockfitted perfectly, and even Kezia, who was rather afraid of praising myappearance for fear of making me conceited, said with a smile that I didlook very nice. 

I quite thought so myself, but I really think all my pride was forgrandmamma's frock. 

I settled myself in the window-seat looking towards the road, as I haveexplained. 

'Stay there quietly, ' grandmamma said to me, 'till I call you. '

And again I noticed a sort of little twinkle in her eyes, of whichbefore long I understood the reason. I must have been sitting there aquarter of an hour at least when I thought I heard wheels coming. Itwasn't the usual time for the butcher or baker, or any of thecart-people, as I called them, and wheels of any other kind seldom cameour way. So I looked out with great curiosity to see what it could be. 

To my astonishment, there came trotting along the short bit of levelroad leading to our own steep path the two ponies and the prettypony-carriage that had so delighted me the first time I saw them. 

Sharley was driving, the little groom behind her. But this time my firstfeeling was certainly not one of pleasure. On the contrary I started indismay. 

'Oh dear, ' I thought, 'there's something the matter, and Sharley hascome herself to say we can't go. '

I rushed upstairs, the tears already very near my eyes. 

'Granny, granny, ' I exclaimed, 'the pony-carriage has come and Sharley'sthere! I'm sure she's come to tell us we can't go. '

My voice broke down before I could say anything more. Grandmamma wascoming out of her room quite ready, and even in the middle of my frightI could not help thinking how nice she looked in her pretty dark graydress and black lace cloak, which, though she had had it a great, greatmany years, always seemed to me rich and grand enough for the Queenherself to wear. 

'My dear little girl, ' she said, 'you really must not get into the wayof fancying misfortunes before they come. It is a very bad habit. Whyshouldn't Sharley have come to fetch us? Don't you think it would benicer to drive to Moor Court than to walk all that way along the dustyroad?'

'Oh, granny, ' I cried, and my tears, if they were there, vanished awaylike magic. 'Oh, granny, that would be too lovely. But are you quitesure?'

'Quite, ' said grandmamma, 'I promised to keep it a secret to pleaseSharley, as she is so fond of surprises. Run down now to meet her andtell her we are quite ready. '

How perfectly delightful that drive was! I sat with my back to theponies, on the low seat opposite grandmamma and Sharley. 

'Vallie wanted to come too, ' said Sharley, 'but that seat isn't verycomfortable for two. '

It was very comfortable for one, at least I found it so. I had hardlyever been in a carriage before, and Sharley drove so nice and fast; shewas very proud of being allowed to drive the two ponies. But they wereso good, they seemed, like every one and everything else, determined tomake that day a perfectly happy one. 

When we got to the lodge of Moor Court Sharley began to drive moreslowly, and looked about as if expecting some one. 

'The others said they would come to meet us, ' she explained, 'andsometimes Pert is rather naughty about startling the ponies, even thoughhe can't bear being startled himself. Oh, there they are!'

As she spoke the four figures appeared at a turn in the drive. Nan andVallie in the pretty pink frocks, which no longer made me feeldiscontented with my own, as nothing could be prettier, I was quitefirmly convinced, than grandmamma's beautiful work, which Sharley hadalready admired in her own pleasant and hearty way. 

We two got out of the pony-carriage, leaving grandmamma to be driven upto the house by the groom, the little girls saying that their mother waswaiting for her on the lawn in front. 

I had never seen the boys before. Percival seemed to me quite big, though he was one year younger than Sharley and smaller for his age. Quintin was more like Nan, slow and solemn and rather fat, so hisnickname of Quick certainly didn't suit him very well. But they wereboth very nice and kind to me. I am quite sure Sharley had talked tothem well about it before I came, though it was easy to see that whenPert was not on his best behaviour he was very fond of playing tricks. 

I felt very happy, and not at all strange or frightened as I walkedalong between Sharley and Val, each holding one of my hands andchattering away about all we were going to do, though I had a queer, rather nice feeling as if I must be in a dream, it all seemed so prettyand wonderful. 

And indeed many people, far better able to judge of such things than I, think that Moor Court is one of the loveliest places in England. I didnot see much of the inside of the house that day, though I learnt toknow it well afterwards. It was very old and very large, and everythingabout it seemed to me quite perfect. But on this day we amused ourselvesalmost altogether out of doors. 

[Illustration: Grandmamma's chair was still waiting to be decorated, sothe next hour was spent very happily. --p. 67. ]

The children had already done a good deal to the arbour where we were tohave tea; but grandmamma's chair was still waiting to be decorated, sothe next hour was spent very happily in gathering branches of ivy andother pretty green things to twine about it, with here and there a bunchof flowers, which Mrs. Nestor had told the gardener we were to have. 

Vallie was very anxious to make a wreath for grandmamma, but though Ithought it a very nice idea, I was afraid it would look rather funny, and when Sharley reminded us that wreaths couldn't be worn very wellabove a bonnet, we quite gave it up. 

But we did make the table look very pretty, and at last everything wasready, except the tea itself and the hot cakes, which of course theservants would bring at the very end. 

By the time we had finished it was nearly four o'clock, and we were notto have tea till half-past, so there was time for a nice game ofhide-and-seek among the trees. I don't think I ever ran so fast orlaughed so much in my life. They were all such good-natured children, even if they did have little quarrels they were soon over, and then Ithink they were all especially kind to me. I suppose they were sorry forme in some ways that did not come into my own mind at all. 

Then we all went to the house to be made tidy for tea, and in spite ofwhat grandmamma had said about not minding if my frock was dirtied I wasvery pleased to find that it was perfectly clean. 

Grandmamma and Mrs. Nestor were waiting for us in the drawing-room; andwe all went back to the arbour together, Sharley walking first withgrandmamma, which was quite right, as the plan about tea had been allher own. 

Grandmamma _was_ pleased. I think she liked to see how fond thesechildren had already got to be of her, though perhaps it would have beenas well if Quick had not informed us in the middle of tea that he likedher a great, great deal better than his real grandmamma, whose nose wasvery big and her hair quite black. 

'But she's very kind to us too, ' said Sharley, 'only I don't think shecares much for little boys. '

'Nor for tomboys either, ' said Pert, who did love teasing Sharleywhenever he had a chance. 

'Jerry's her favourite, ' said Nan. 

'And I think he deserves to be, ' said her mother. 

'I wish he was here to-day, I know that, ' said Sharley. 'It's such along time to the holidays, and it won't be so nice this year when theydo come, as most likely a boy's coming with Jerry. '

'Two boys, ' corrected Pert, 'their name's Vandeleur, and they're hisgreatest friends. '

'Vandeleur?' said grandmamma. 'I wonder if----' and then she stopped. 'Ihave relations of that name, ' she said, 'but I don't suppose they belongto the same family. '

'It is not a common name, ' said Mrs. Nestor. 'But these boys are, Ibelieve, orphans. Both their father and mother are dead, are they not, Sharley? Sharley knows the most about them, ' she went on, 'for Gerardand she write long letters to each other always, and she hears all abouthis school friends and everything he is interested in. '

'Yes, ' said Sharley, 'they are orphans. They have an old aunt or somerelation who takes care of them. But I think they are rather lonely. They often spend all their holidays at school--that was why Jerrythought it would be nice to invite them here. I daresay it will be verynice for _them_, but _I_ think it will quite spoil the holidays for_us_. '

'Come, Sharley, ' said her mother, 'you must not be selfish. '

'What are the boys' Christian names?' asked grandmamma. 

'Harry and Lindsay, ' Sharley replied. 

Grandmamma shook her head. 

'No, ' she said, as if thinking aloud, 'I never heard those names in thebranch of the Vandeleurs I am connected with. '

CHAPTER VI

'WAVING VIEW'

I was only eight years old at the time we made the acquaintance of thefamily at Moor Court. It may seem strange and unlikely that I shouldremember so clearly all that happened when we first got to know them, but even though I was so young at the time I _do_ recollect all about itvery well. 

For it was so new to me that it made a great impression. 

Till then I had never had any real companions; as I have said already, Ihad scarcely ever had a meal out of our own house. It was like theopening of a new world to me. 

But I have asked grandmamma about a few things which she remembers moreexactly than I do. Especially about the Vandeleur boys, I mean aboutwhat was said of them. But for things that happened afterwards I daresayI should never have thought of this again, though grandmamma did notforget about it. She told me over quite lately everything that hadpassed at that birthday tea. 

The months, and indeed the years that followed that first happy day atMoor Court seem to me now, on looking back upon them, a good deal mixedup together--till, that is to say, a change, a melancholy one for me, came over my happy friendship with the Nestor children. 

This change, however, did not come for fully three years, and thesethree years were very bright and sunny ones. Sharley and her sisterscontinued all that time to be my grandmamma's pupils--winter and summer, all the year round, except for some weeks of holiday at Christmas, and arather longer time in the autumn, when the Nestors generally went to thesea-side for a change; unless the weather was terribly bad or stormy, twice a week they either walked over with a maid, or the governess-cartdrawn by the fat pony made its appearance at the end of our path. Sometimes the little groom went on into the village if there were anymessages, sometimes if it was cold he drove as far as the farm at thefoot of the hill, where it was arranged that he could 'put up' for anhour or two, sometimes in warm summer days the pony-cart just waitedwhere it was. 

Often, once a fortnight or so at least, in the fine season, I made oneof the party on the little girls' return home. How we all managed tosqueeze into the cart, or how old Bunch managed to take us all homewithout coming to grief on the way, I am sure I can't say. 

I only know we _did_ manage it, and so did he. For he is still alive andwell, and no doubt 'ready to tell the story, ' if he could speak. 

We never seemed to be ill in those days. The Nestor children were nodoubt very strong, and I grew much stronger. Then Middlemoor is such asplendidly healthy place. 

I have some misty recollections of Nan and Vallie having the measles, and a doubt arising as to whether I had not got it too. But if it wasmeasles it did not seem worse than a cold, and we were soon all out andabout again, as merry as ever. 

And grandmamma seemed to grow younger during those years. Her mind wasmore at rest for the time, for the steady payment she received for thegirls' French lessons made all the difference in our little income, between being comfortable, with a small extra in case of need, andbeing only _just_ able to make both ends meet with a great deal oftugging. And grandmamma was happy about taking the money, for it waswell earned; Sharley and the others made such good progress in Frenchand after a little while in German also, even though Nan was by naturerather slow and Vallie dreadfully flighty, and not at all good at givingher attention. 

But she _was_ so sweet! I never saw any one so sweet as Vallie, when shehad been found fault with and was sorry; the tears used to come up intoher big brown eyes very slowly and stay there, making them look likevelvety pansies with dewdrops in them. 

Somehow Sharley always seemed the _most_ my friend, though she was agood deal older. Perhaps it was through having known her the first, andpartly, I daresay, because in _some_ ways I was old for my age. 

The big brother Gerard came home for his holidays three times a year. Hewas a very nice boy, I am sure, but I did not get to know him well, andI had rather a grudge at him. For when he was at Moor Court I seemed tosee so much less of Sharley. It wasn't her fault. She was not achangeable girl at all, but Jerry had always been accustomed to havingher a great deal with him in his holidays, as she took pains to explainto me. So of course if she had given him up for me she _would_ have beenchangeable. 

She did her best, I will say that for her. She told Gerard all about me, and he was very nice to me. But it was in rather a big boy way, which Idid not understand. I thought he was treating me like a baby when _he_only meant to be kind and brotherly. I remember one day being sooffended at his lifting me over a stile, that it was all I could do notto burst into tears!

So it came to be the way among us, without anything being actually saidabout it, that during Jerry's holidays I was mostly with the fourothers--Nan and Vallie and the two younger boys. 

And I daresay it was a good thing for me. For none of them were at allold for their age; they were just hearty, healthy, regular _children_, living in the present and very happy in it. And if I had been altogetherwith the older ones I might have grown more and more 'old-fashioned. 'For Gerard was a very serious and thoughtful boy, and Sharley, though inoutside ways she seemed rather wild and hoydenish, was really veryclever and very wise, to be only the age she was. I never quite took inthat side of her character till I saw her with Jerry--she seemed quitetransformed. 

One thing came to pass, however, which was a great pleasure to the twopeople it chiefly concerned and to Sharley. As for me, I don't think Igave much attention to it, and I am not sure that if it had at allinterfered with my own life I should not have been rather jealous!

This was a close friendship between Gerard Nestor and grandmamma. 

And it is necessary to speak about it because it was the beginning ofthings which brought about great changes. 

Grandmamma loved boys and she was one of those women that are wellfitted to manage them. She used to say that till she got _me_, she hadnever had anything to do with _girls_. For her own children were bothboys--papa was the elder, and the other was a dear boy who died when hewas only sixteen, and whom of course I had never seen, though grandmammaliked me to speak of him as 'Uncle Guy. ' Then, too, she had had somecharge of her nephew, Mr. Cosmo Vandeleur. 

Her friendship with Jerry came about by his reading French and Germanwith her in the holidays. He had never been out of England and he wasanxious to improve his 'foreign languages, ' as he was backward in them, besides having a very bad accent indeed. 

Granny has often said she never had so attentive a pupil, and it was intalking with him--for 'conversation' was a very important part of herteaching--that she got to know so much of Gerard, and he so much of her. 

She used to tell him stories of her own boys, Paul--Paul was papa--andGuy, in French, and he had to answer questions about the stories to showthat he had understood her. And in these stories the name of CosmoVandeleur came to be mentioned. 

The first time or so he heard it I don't think Jerry noticed it. But oneday it struck him just as it had struck grandmamma that first day--thebirthday-tea day--at Moor Court. 

'Vandeleur, ' said Jerry--it was one day when he had come over for hislesson, and as it was raining and I could not go out, I was sitting inthe window making a cloak or something for my doll. 'Vandeleur, ' herepeated. 'I wonder, Mrs. Wingfield, if your nephew is any relation tosome boys at my school. They are great chums of mine--they were to havecome home with me for the summer holidays'--it was the Christmasholidays now, --'but their relations had settled something else for themand wouldn't let them come. I think their relations must be ratherhorrid. '

'I remember Sharley--I think it was Sharley--speaking of them, ' saidgrandmamma. 'They are orphans, are they not?'

'Yes, ' said Gerard. 'They've got guardians--one of them is quite an oldwoman. Her name is Lady Bridget Woodstone. They don't care very much forher. I think she must be very crabbed. '

'I do not think they can be related to my nephew, ' said grandmamma. 'Inever heard of any orphan boys in his family, and I never heard of LadyBridget Woodstone. But Mr. Cosmo Vandeleur is only my nephew, becausehis mother was my husband's sister--so of course he _may_ have relationsI know nothing of. He always seemed to me very near when he was a boy, because he was so often with us. '

She sighed a little as she finished speaking. Thinking of Mr. Vandeleurmade her sad. It did seem so strange that he had never written all theseyears. 

And Jerry was very quick as well as thoughtful. He saw that for somereason the mention of the name made her sad, so he said no more aboutthe Vandeleur boys. Long afterwards he told us that when he went back toschool he did ask Harry and Lindsay Vandeleur if they had any relationcalled Mr. Cosmo Vandeleur, but at that time they told him they did notknow. They were quite under the care of old Lady Bridget, and she wasnot a bit like granny. She was the sort of old lady who treats childrenas if they had no sense at all; she never told the boys anything aboutthemselves or their family, and when they spent the holidays with her, she always had a tutor for them--the strictest she could find, so thatthey almost liked better to stay on at school. 

The three years I have been writing about must have passed quickly tograndmamma. They were so peaceful, and after we got to know the Nestors, much less lonely. And grandmamma says that it is quite wonderful howfast time goes once one begins to grow old. She does not seem to mindit. She is so very good--I cannot help saying this, for my own storywould not be true if I did not keep saying _how_ good she is. But I must take care not to let her see the places where I say it. She loves me as dearly as she can, I know--and others beside me. But still I try not to be selfish and to remember that when thedreadful--dreadful-for-_me_--day comes that she must leave me, it willonly for _her_ be the going where she must often, often have longed tobe--the country 'across the river, ' where her very dearest have beenwatching for her for so long. 

To me those three years seem like one bright summer. Of course we hadwinters in them too, but there is a feeling of sunshine all over them. And, actually speaking, those winters were very mild ones--nothing likethe occasional severe ones, of another of which I shall soon have totell. 

I was so well too--growing so strong--stronger by far than grandmammahad ever hoped to see me. And as I grew strong I seemed to take in thedelightfulness of it, though as a very little girl I had not often_complained_ of feeling weak and tired, for I did not understand thedifference. 

Now I must tell about the change that came to the Nestors--a sad changefor me, for though at first it seemed worse for them, in the end Ireally think it brought more trouble to granny and me than to our dearfriends themselves. 

It was one day in the autumn, early in October I think, that the firstbeginning of the cloud came. Gerard had not long been back at school andwe were just settling down into our regular ways again. 

'The girls are late this morning, ' said grandmamma. 'You see nothing ofthem from your watch-tower, do you, Helena?'

Granny always called the window-seat in our tiny drawing-room my'watch-tower. ' I had very long sight and I had found out that there wasa bit of the road from Moor Court where I could see the pony-cartpassing, like a little dark speck, before it got hidden again among thetrees. After that open bit I could not see it again at all till it wasquite close to our own road, as we called it--I mean the steep bit ofrough cart-track leading to our little garden-gate. 

I was already crouched up in my pet place, when grandmamma called out tome. She was in the dining-room, but the doors were open. 

'No, grandmamma, ' I replied. 'I don't see them at all. And I am surethey haven't passed Waving View in the last quarter-of-an-hour, for Ihave been here all that time. '

'Waving View, ' I must explain, was the name we had given to the shortstretch of road I have just spoken of, because we used to wavehandkerchiefs to each other--I at my watch-tower and Sharley from thepony-cart, at that point. 

Grandmamma came into the drawing-room a moment or two after that andstood behind me, looking out at the window. 

[Illustration: 'I do wonder why they are so late. '--P. 82. ]

'Not that I could see them coming, ' she said, 'till they are up the hilland close to us. But I do wonder why they are so late--half an hourlate, ' and she glanced at the little clock on the mantelpiece. 'I hopethere is nothing the matter. '

I looked at her as she said that, for I felt rather surprised. It wasnever granny's way to expect trouble before it comes. I saw that herface was rather anxious. But just as I was going to speak, to say somelittle word about its not being likely that anything was wrong, I gaveone other glance towards Waving View. This time I was not disappointed. 

'Oh, granny, ' I exclaimed, 'there they are! I am sure it is them--I knowthe way they jog along so well--only, grandmamma, they are not waving?'

And I think the anxious look must have come into my own face, for Iremember saying, almost in a whisper, 'I do hope there is nothing thematter'--granny's very words. 

CHAPTER VII

THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLES

Grandmamma was the one to reassure me. 

'I scarcely think there can be anything wrong, as they are coming, ' shesaid. 'You did not wave to them, either?'

'No, ' I said, 'I _did_ wave, but I got tired of it. And it's always theywho do it first. You see there's no use doing it except at that place. '

'Well, they will be here directly, and then I must give them a littlescolding for being so unpunctual, ' said grandmamma, cheerfully. 

But that little scolding was never given. 

When the governess-cart stopped at our path there were only two figuresin it--no, three, I should say, for there was the groom, and the twoothers were Nan and Vallie--Sharley was not there. 

I ran out to meet them. 

'Is Sharley ill?' I called out before I got to them. 

Nan shook her head. 

'No, ' she was beginning, but Vallie, who was much quicker, took thewords out of her mouth--that was a way of Vallie's, and sometimes itused to make Nan rather vexed. But this morning she did not seem tonotice it; she just shut up her lips again and stood silent with a verygrave expression, while Vallie hurried on--

'Sharley's not ill, but mother kept her at home, and we're late becausewe went first to the telegraph office at Yukes'--Yukes is a _very_ tinyvillage half a mile on the other side of Moor Court, where there is atelegraph office. 'Father's ill, Helena, and I'm afraid he's very ill, for as soon as Dr. Cobbe saw him this morning he said he must telegraphfor another doctor to London. '

'Oh, dear, ' I exclaimed, 'I am so sorry, ' and turning round at the soundof footsteps behind me I saw grandmamma, who had followed me out of thehouse. 'Granny, ' I said, 'there _is_ something the matter. Their fatheris very ill, ' and I repeated what Vallie had just said. 

'I am very grieved to hear it, ' said grandmamma. Afterwards she told meshe had had a sort of presentiment that something was the matter. 'I amso sorry for your mother, ' she went on. 'I wonder if I can be of use toher in any way. '

Then Nan spoke, in her slow but very exact way. 

'Mother said, ' she began, 'would you come to be with her this afternoonlate, when the London doctor comes? She will send the brougham and itwill bring you back again, if you would be so very kind. Mother is soafraid what the London doctor will say, ' and poor Nan looked as if itwas very difficult for her not to cry. 

'Certainly, I will come, ' said grandmamma at once. 'Ask Mrs. Nestor tosend for me as soon as you get home if she would like to have me. Isuppose--' she went on, hesitating a little, 'you don't know what is thematter with your father?'

'It is a sort of a cold that's got very bad, ' said Vallie, 'it hurts himto breathe, and in the night he was nearly choking. '

Granny looked grave at this. She knew that Mr. Nestor had not beenstrong for some time, and he was a very active man, who looked aftereverything on his property himself, and hunted a good deal, and thoughtnothing about taking care of himself. He was a nice kind man, and allhis people were very fond of him. 

But she tried to cheer up the little girls and gave them their lesson asusual. It was much better to do so than to let them feel too unhappy. And I tried to be very kind and bright too--I saw that grandmamma wantedme to be the same way to them that she was. 

But after they were gone she spoke to me pretty openly about her fearsfor Mr. Nestor. 

'Dr. Cobbe would not have sent for a London doctor without good cause, 'she said. 'All will depend on his opinion. It is possible that I mayhave to stay all night, Helena dear. You will not mind if I do?'

I _did_ mind, very much. But I tried to say I wouldn't. Still, I feltpretty miserable when the Moor Court carriage came to fetch grandmamma, and she drove away, leaving me for the first time in my life, or ratherthe first time I could remember, alone with Kezia. 

Kezia was very kind. She offered me to come into the kitchen and makecakes. But I was past eleven now--that is very different from being onlyeight. I did not care much for making cakes--I never have cared aboutcooking as some girls do, though I know it is a very good thing tounderstand about it, and grandmamma says I am to go through a regularcourse of it when I get to be seventeen or eighteen. But I knew Kezia'scakes were much better than any I could make, so I thanked her, but saidno--I would rather read or sew. 

I had my tea all alone in the dining-room. Kezia was always sorespectful about that sort of thing. Though she had been a nurse when Iwas only a tiny baby, she never forgot, as some old servants do, totreat me quite like a young lady, now I was growing older. She broughtin my tea and set it all out just as carefully as when grandmamma wasthere, even more carefully in some ways, for she had made some littlescones that I was very fond of, and she had got out some strawberry jam. 

But I could not help feeling melancholy. I know it is wrong to believein presentiments, or at least to think much about them, though_sometimes_ even very wise people like grandmamma cannot help believingin them a little. But I really do think that there are times in one'slife when a sort of sadness about the future does seem _meant_. 

And I had been so happy for so long. And troubles must come. 

I said that over to myself as I sat alone after tea, and then all of asudden it struck me that I was very selfish. This trouble was far, farworse for the Nestors than for me. Possibly by this time the Londondoctor had had to tell them that their father would never get better, and here was I thinking more, I am afraid, of the dulness of being onenight without dear granny than of the sorrow that was perhaps comingover Sharley and the others of being without their father for always. 

For I scarcely think my 'presentiments' would have troubled me muchexcept for the being alone and missing granny so. 

I made up my mind to be sensible and not fanciful. I got out what Icalled my 'secret work, ' which was at that time a footstool I wasembroidering for grandmamma's next birthday, and I did a good bit of it. That made me feel rather better, and when my bedtime came it was nice tothink I had nothing to do but to go to sleep and stay asleep to maketo-morrow morning come quickly. 

I fell asleep almost at once. But when I woke rather with a start--and Icould not tell what had awakened me--it was still quite, quite dark, certainly not to-morrow morning. 

'Oh, dear!' I thought, 'what a bother! Here I am as wide awake asanything, and I so seldom wake at all. Just this night when I wanted tosleep straight through. '

I lay still. Suddenly I heard some faint sounds. Some one was movingabout downstairs. Could it be Kezia up still? It must be verylate--quite the middle of the night, I fancied. 

The sounds went on--doors shutting softly, then a slight creak on thestairs, as if some one were coming up slowly. I was not exactlyfrightened. I never thought of burglars--I don't think there has been aburglary at Middlemoor within the memory of man--but my heart did beatrather faster than usual and I listened, straining my ears and scarcelydaring to breathe. 

Then at last the steps stopped at my door, and some one began to turnthe handle. I _almost_ screamed. But--in one instant came the dearvoice--

'Is my darling awake?' so gently, it was scarcely above a whisper. 

'Oh, granny, dear, dear granny, is it you?' I said, and every bit of me, heart and ears and everything, seemed to give one throb of delight. Ishall never forget it. It was like the day I ran into her arms down thesteep garden-path. 

'Did I startle you?' she went on. 'Generally you sleep so soundly that Ihoped I would not awake you. '

'I was awake, dear grandmamma, ' I said, 'and oh, I am so glad you havecome home. '

I clung to her as if I would never let her go, and then she told me thenews from Moor Court. The London doctor had spoken gravely, but stillhopefully. With great care, the greatest care, he trusted Mr. Nestorwould quite recover. 

'So I came home to my little girl, ' said grandmamma, 'though I havepromised poor Mrs. Nestor to go to her again to-morrow. '

'I don't mind anything if you are here at night, ' I said, with a sigh ofcomfort. 

And then she kissed me again and I turned round and was asleep in fiveminutes, and when I woke the next time it _was_ morning; the sunshinewas streaming in at the window. 

There were some weeks after that of a good deal of anxiety about Mr. Nestor, though he went on pretty well. Grandmamma went over every two orthree days, just to cheer Mrs. Nestor a little--not that there wasreally anything to do, for they had trained nurses, and everything moneycould get. The girls went on with their lessons as usual, which was ofcourse much better for them. But in those few weeks Sharley almostseemed to grow into a woman. 

I felt rather 'left behind' by her, for I was only eleven, and as soonas the first great anxiety about Mr. Nestor was over I did not thinkvery much more about it. Nor did Nan and Vallie. We were quite satisfiedthat he would soon be well again, and that everything would go on asusual. Only Sharley looked grave. 

At last the blow fell. It was a very bad blow to me, and in oneway--which, however, I did not understand till some time later--evenworse to grandmamma, though she said nothing to hint at such a thing inthe least. 

And it was a blow to the Nestor children, for they loved their home andtheir life dearly, and had no wish for any change. 

This was it. They were all to go abroad almost immediately, for thewhole winter at any rate. The doctors were perfectly certain that it wasnecessary for Mr. Nestor, and he would not hear of going alone, and Mrs. Nestor could not bear the idea of a separation from her children. Besides--they were very rich, there were no difficulties in the way oftheir travelling most comfortably, and having everything they could wantwherever they went to. 

To me it was the greatest trouble I had ever known--and I really dothink the little girls--Sharley too--minded it more on my account thanon any other. 

But it had to be. 

Almost before we had quite taken in that it was really going to be, theywere off--everything packed up, a courier engaged--rooms secured at thebest hotel in the place they were going to--for all these things can bedone in no time when people have lots of money, grandmamma said--andthey were gone! Moor Court shut up and deserted, except for the fewservants left in charge, to keep it clean and in good order. 

I only went there once all that winter, and I never went again. I couldnot bear it. For in among the trees where we played I came upon thetraces of our last paper-chase, and passing the side of the house it waseven worse. For the schoolrooms and play-room were in that wing, andabove them the nurseries, where Vallie used to rub her little noseagainst the panes when she was shut up with one of her bad colds. Somecleaning was going on, for it was like Longfellow's poem exactly--

 'I saw the nursery windows Wide open to the air, But the faces of the children, They were no longer there. '

I just squeezed grandmamma's hand without speaking, and we turned away. 

It _is_ true that troubles do not often come alone. That winter was oneof the very severe ones I have spoken of, that come now and then in thatpart of Middleshire. 

For the Nestors' sake it made us all the more glad that they were safelyaway from weather which, in his delicate state, would very probably havekilled their father. I think this was our very first thought when thesnow began to fall, only two or three weeks after they left, and went onfalling till the roads were almost impassable, and remained lying for Iam afraid to say how long, so intense was the frost that set in. 

I thought it rather good fun just at the beginning, and wished I couldlearn to skate. Grandmamma did not seem to care about my doing so, whichI was rather surprised at, as she had often told me stories of how fondshe was of skating when she was young, and how clever papa and Uncle Guywere at it. 

She said I had no one to teach me, and when I told her that I was sureTom Linden, a nephew of the vicar's who was staying with his uncle andaunt just then, would help me, she found some other objection. Tom was avery stupid, very good-natured boy. I had got to know him a little atthe Nestors. He was slow and heavy and rather fat. I tried to makegranny laugh by saying he would be a good buffer to fall upon. I saw shewas looking grave, and I felt a little cross at her not wanting me toskate, and I persisted about it. 

'Do let me, grandmamma, ' I said. 'I can order a pair of skates atBarridge's. They don't keep the best kind in stock, but I know they canget them. '

'No, my dear, ' said grandmamma at last, very decidedly. 'I am not at allsure that it would be nice for you--it would have been different if theNestors had been here. And besides, there are several things you need tohave bought for you much more than skates. You must have extra warmclothing this winter. '

She did not say right out that she did not know where the money was tocome from for my wants--as for her own, when did the darling ever thinkof _them_?--but she gave a little sigh, and the thought did come into myhead for a moment--was grandmamma troubled about money? But it did notstay there. We had been so comfortable the last few years that I hadreally thought less about being poor than when I was quite little. 

And other things made me forget about it. For a very few days afterthat, most unfortunately, I got ill. 

CHAPTER VIII

TWO LETTERS

It was only a bad cold. Except for having to stay in the house, I wouldnot have minded it very much, for after the first few days, when I wasfeverish and miserable, I did not feel very bad. And like a child, Ithought every day that I should be all right the next. 

I daresay I should have got over it much quicker if the weather had notbeen so severe. But it was really awfully cold. Even my own sense toldme it would be mad to think of going out. So I got fidgety anddiscontented, and made myself look worse than I really was. 

And for the very first time in my life there seemed to come a littlecloud, a little coldness, between dear grandmamma and me. Speaking aboutit since then, _she_ says it was not all my fault, but _I_ think it was. I was selfish and thoughtless. She was dull and low-spirited, and I hadnever seen her like that before. And I did not know all the reasonsthere were for her being so, and I felt a kind of irritation at it. Evenwhen she tried, as she often and often did, to throw it off and cheer meup in some little way by telling me stories, or proposing some new game, or new fancy-work, I would not meet her half-way, but would answerpettishly that I was tired of all those things. And I was vexed atseveral little changes in our way of living. All that winter we sat inthe dining-room, and never had a fire in the drawing-room, and our foodwas plainer than I ever remembered it. Granny used to have specialthings for me--beef-tea and beaten-up eggs and port-wine--but I hatedhaving them all alone and seeing her eating scarcely anything. 

'I don't want these messy things as if I was really ill, ' I said. 'Whydon't we have nice little dinners and teas as we used?'

Grandmamma never answered these questions plainly; she would make somelittle excuse about not feeling hungry in frosty weather, or that thetradespeople did not like sending often. But once or twice I caught herlooking at me when she did not know I saw her, and then there wassomething in her eyes which made me think I was a horridly selfishchild. And yet I did not _mean_ to be. I really did not understand, andit was rather trying to be cooped up for so long, in a room scarcelybigger than a cupboard, after my free open life of the last three yearsor so. 

Dr. Cobbe came once or twice at the beginning of my cold and lookedrather grave. Then he did not come again for two or three weeks--I thinkhe had told grandmamma to let him know if I got worse. 

And one day when I had really made myself feverish by my fidgetygrumbling, and then being sorry and crying, which brought on a fit ofcoughing, grandmamma got so unhappy that she tucked me up on the sofa bythe fire, and went off herself, though it was late in the afternoon, tofetch him herself. She would not let Kezia go because she wanted tospeak to him alone; I did not know it at the time, but I remember wakingup and hearing voices near me, and there were the doctor and grandmamma. She was in her indoors dress just as usual, for me not to guess she hadbeen out. 

I sat up, feeling much the better for my sleep. Dr. Cobbe laughed andjoked--that was his way--he listened to my breathing and pommelled meand told me I was a little humbug. Then he went off into Kezia'skitchen, where there _had_ to be a tiny fire, with grandmamma, and a fewminutes later I heard him saying good-bye. 

Grandmamma came back to me looking happier than for some time past. Thedoctor, she has told me since, really did assure her that there wasnothing serious the matter with me, that I was a growing child and mustbe well fed and kept cheerful, as I was inclined to be nervous and wasnot exactly robust. 

And the relief to grandmamma was great. That evening she was more likeher old self than she had been for long, even though I daresay she wasawake half the night thinking over the doctor's advice, and wonderingwhat more she _could_ do to get enough money to give me all I needed. 

For some of her money-matters had gone wrong. That I did not know tilllong afterwards. It was just about the time of Mr. Nestor's illness, andit was not till the Moor Court family had left that she found out theworst of it--that for two or three years _at least_ we should be thirtyor forty pounds a year poorer than we had been. 

It _was_ hard on her--coming at the very same time as the extra moneyfor the lessons left off! And the severe winter and my cold all added toit. It even made it more difficult for her to hear of other pupils, orto get any orders for her beautiful fancy-work. No visitors would cometo Middlemoor _this_ winter, though when it was mild they sometimes did. 

Still, from the day of Dr. Cobbe's visit things improved a little--forthe time at least. And in the end it was a good thing that grandmammawas not tempted to try her eyes with any embroidery again, as she reallymight have made herself blind. It had been such a blessing that she didnot need to do it during the years she gave lessons to Sharley and hersisters. 

I went on getting better pretty steadily, especially once I was allowedto go out a little, though, as it was a very cold spring, it was onlyfor some time _very_ little, just an hour or so in the best part of theday. And grandmamma followed Dr. Cobbe's advice, though I never shallunderstand how she managed to do so. She was so determined to becheerful that when I look back upon it now it almost makes me cry. I hadall the nourishing things to eat that it was possible to get, and howthoughtless and ungrateful I was! My appetite was not very good, and Iremember actually grumbling at having to take beef-tea, and beaten-upeggs, and things like that at odd times. I scarcely like to say it, butin my heart I do not believe grandmamma had enough to eat that winter. 

About Easter--or rather at the time for the big school Easter holidays, which does not always match real Easter--we had a pleasant surprise. Atleast it was a pleasant surprise for grandmamma--I don't know that Icared about it particularly, and I certainly little thought what wouldcome of it!

One afternoon Gerard Nestor walked in. 

Granny's face quite lighted up, and for a moment or two I felt veryexcited. 

'Have you all come home?' I exclaimed. 'I haven't had a letter fromSharley for ever so long--perhaps--perhaps she meant to surprise me, ' Ihad been going to say, but something in Jerry's face stopped me. Helooked rather grave; not that he was ever anything but quiet. 

'No, ' he said, 'I only wish they _were_ all back, or likely to come. I'mafraid there's no chance of it. The doctors out there won't hear of itthis year at all. Just when father was hoping to arrange for coming backsoon, they found out something or other unsatisfactory about him, andnow it is settled that he must stay out of England another whole year atleast. They are speaking of Algeria or Egypt for next winter. '

My face fell. I was on the point of crying. Gerard looked verysympathising. 

'I did not myself mind it so much till I came down here, ' he said. 'Butit is so lonely and dull at Moor Court. I hope you will let me come herea great deal, Mrs. Wingfield. I mean to work hard at my foreignlanguages these holidays--it will give me something to do. You see itwasn't worth while my going out to Hyères for only three weeks, and Ihoped even they might be coming back. So I asked to come down here. Ididn't think it could be so dull. '

'You are all alone at home?' said grandmamma. 'Yes, it must be verylonely. I shall be delighted to read with you as much as you like. I amnot very busy. '

'Thank you, ' said Gerard. 'Well, I only hope you won't have too much ofme. May I stay to tea to-day?'

'Certainly, ' said grandmamma. But I noticed--I don't think Gerarddid--that her face had grown rather anxious-looking as he spoke. 'Ifyou like, ' she went on, 'we can glance over your books, some of them arestill here, and settle on a little work at once. '

'All right, ' said he. But then he added, rather abruptly, 'You are notlooking well, Mrs. Wingfield? I think you have got thinner. And Helenalooks rather white, though she has not grown much. '

I felt vexed at his saying I had not grown much. 

'It's no wonder I am white, ' I said in a surly tone. 'I have been mewedup in the house almost ever since Sharley and all of them went away. '

And then grandmamma explained about my having been ill. 

'I'm very sorry, ' said Jerry, 'but you look worse than Helena, Mrs. Wingfield. '

I felt crosser and crosser. I fancied he meant to reproach me withgrandmamma's looking ill, even though it made me uneasy too. I glancedat her--a faint pink flush had come over her face at his words. 

'_I_ don't think granny looks ill at all, ' I said. 

'No, indeed, I am very well, ' she said, with a smile. 

Gerard said no more, but I know he thought me a selfish spoilt child. And from that moment he set himself to watch grandmamma and to find outif anything was really the matter. 

He _did_ find out, and that pretty quickly, I fancy, that we were muchpoorer. But it was very difficult for him to do anything to helpgrandmamma. She was so dignified, and in some ways reserved. She got aletter from Mrs. Nestor a few days later, thanking her for reading withJerry again, and saying that of course the lessons must be arrangedabout as before. And it vexed her a very little. (She has told me aboutit since. ) Perhaps she was feeling unusually sensitive and depressedjust then. But however that may have been, she wrote a letter to Mrs. Nestor, which made her really _afraid_ of offering to pay. It was not asif there was time for a good many lessons, granny wrote--would not Mrs. Nestor let her render this very small service as a friend?

And Jerry did not know what he _could_ do. It was not the season forgame, except rabbits--and he did send rabbits two or three times--and Iknow now that he scarcely dared to stay to tea, or _not_ to stay, for ifhe refused granny seemed hurt. 

On the whole, nice as he was, it was almost a relief when he went awayback to school. 

Still things were not so bad as in winter. I was really all rightagain, and a little money come in to grandmamma about May or June thatshe had not dared to hope for. We got on pretty well that summer. 

None of the Nestors came to Moor Court at all. Gerard joined them forthe long holidays in Switzerland. Mrs. Nestor wrote now and then togranny, and Sharley to me, but of course there was not the least hint ofwhat Gerard had told them. I think they believed and hoped he hadexaggerated it--he was the sort of boy to fancy things worse than theywere if he cared about people, I think. 

And so it got on to be the early autumn again. I think it was about themiddle of September when the first beginning of the great change in ourlives came. 

It was cold already, and the weather prophets were talking of anothersevere winter. Grandmamma watched the signs of it anxiously. She keptcomparing it with the same time last year till I got quite tired of thesubject. 

'Really, grandmamma, ' I said one morning, 'what does it matter? If it isvery cold we must have big fires and keep ourselves warm. And one thingI know--I am not going to be shut up again like last winter. I am goingto get skates and have some fun as soon as ever the frost comes. '

I said it half jokingly, but still I was ready to be cross too. I hadnot improved in some ways since I was ill. I was less thoughtful forgrandmamma and quite annoyed if she did not do exactly what I wanted, orif she seemed interested in anything but me. In short, I was veryspoilt. 

She did not answer me about the skates, for at that moment Kezia broughtin the letters. It was not by any means every morning that we got any, and it was always rather an excitement when we saw the postman turningup our path. 

That morning there were two letters. One was for me from Sharley. I knewat once it was from her by the foreign stamp and the thin paperenvelope, even before I looked at the writing. I was so pleased that Irushed off with it to my favourite window-seat, without noticinggrandmamma, who had quietly taken her own letter from the little trayKezia handed it to her on and was examining it in a half-puzzled way. Iremembered afterwards catching a glimpse of the expression on her face, but at the moment I gave no thought to it. 

There was nothing _very_ particular in Sharley's letter. It was veryaffectionate--full of longings to be coming home again, even though sheallowed that their present life was very bright and interesting. I wasjust laughing at a description of Pert and Quick going to market ontheir own account, and how they bargained with the old peasant women, when a slight sound--_was_ it a sound or only a sort of feeling in theair?--made me look up from the open sheet before me, and glance over atgrandmamma. 

For a moment I felt quite frightened. She was leaning back in her chair, looking very white, and I could almost have thought she was fainting, except that her lips were moving as if she were speaking softly toherself. 

I flew across the room to her. 

'Granny, ' I said, '_dear_ granny, what is it? Are you ill--is anythingthe matter?'

Just at first, I think, I forgot about the letter lying on her lap--butbefore she spoke she touched it with her fingers. 

'I am only a little startled, dear child, ' she said, 'startled and----'I could not catch the other word she said, she spoke it so softly, but Ithink it was 'thankful. ' 'No, there is nothing wrong, but you willunderstand my feeling rather upset when I tell you that this letter isfrom Cosmo--you know whom I mean, Helena, Cosmo Vandeleur, my nephew, who has not written to me all these years. '

At once I was full of interest, not unmixed--and I think it wasnatural--with some indignation. 

'So he is alive and well, I suppose?' I said, rather bitterly. 'Well, granny, I hope you will not trouble about him any more. He must be ahorrid man, after all your kindness to him when he was a boy, never tohave written or seemed to care if you were alive or dead. '

'No, dear, ' said grandmamma, whose colour was returning, though hervoice still sounded weak and tremulous--'no, dear. You must not think ofhim in that way. Careless he has certainly been, but he has not lost hisaffection for me. I will explain it all to you soon, but I must think itover first. I feel still so upset, I can scarcely take it in. '

She stopped, and her breath seemed to come in gasps. I was not a stupidchild, and I had plenty of common sense. 

'Granny, dear, ' I said, 'don't try to talk any more just now. I willcall Kezia, and she must give you some water, or tea, or something. AndI won't call Mr. Vandeleur horrid if it vexes you. '

Kezia knew how to take care of grandmamma, though it was very, veryseldom she was ever faint or nervous or anything of that kind. 

And something told me that the best _I_ could do was to leave deargranny alone for a little with the faithful servant who had shared herjoys and sorrows for so long. 

So I took my own letter--Sharley's letter I mean, and ran upstairs tofetch my hat and jacket. 

'I'm going out for a little, grandmamma, ' I said, putting my head inagain for half a second at the drawing-room door as I passed. 'It isn'tcold this morning, and I've got a long letter from Sharley to read overand over again. '

'Take care of yourself, darling, ' said granny, and as I shut the door Iheard her say to Kezia, 'dear child--she has such tact andthoughtfulness for her age. It is for her I am so thankful, Kezia. '

I was pleased to be praised. I have always loved praise--too much, I amafraid. But my conscience told me I had _not_ been thoughtful forgrandmamma lately, not as thoughtful as I might have been certainly. This feeling troubled me on one side, and on the other I was dying withcuriosity to know what it was granny was thankful about. The mere factof a letter having come from that 'horrid, selfish, ungrateful man, ' asI still called him to myself, though I would not speak of him so tograndmamma, could not be anything to be so thankful about--at least notto be thankful for _me_. What could it be? What had he written to say?

I am afraid that Sharley's letter scarcely had justice done to it thesecond time I read it through--between every line would come up thethought of what grandmamma had said, and the wondering what she couldmean. And besides that, the uncomfortable feeling that I was not as goodas she thought me--that I did not deserve all the love and anxiety shelavished on me. 

CHAPTER IX

A GREAT CHANGE

Perhaps here it will be best for me to tell straight off what thecontents of Mr. Vandeleur's letter were. Not, I mean, to go into all asto when and how grandmamma told me about it, with 'she said's' and 'Isaid's. ' Besides, it would not be quite correct to tell it that way, foras a matter of fact I did not understand everything _then_ as I do nowthat I am several years older, and it would be difficult not to mix upwhat I have since come to know with the ideas I then had--ideas whichwere in some ways mistaken and childish. 

First of all, how do you think Cousin Cosmo, as I was told to call him, had come to write again after all those years of silence? What had putit into his head?

The explanation is rather curious. It all came from Gerard Nestor'sbeing at Moor Court that Easter, and feeling so sorry for grandmammaand so sure that she was in trouble. 

I have told, as we knew afterwards, that he had written to his people, but that grandmamma's way of answering made them think, and hope, thathe had fancied more than was really the matter, and besides it wasdifficult for the Nestors, who were not _relations_, to do anything tohelp grandmamma, unless she had in some way given them her confidence. At that time they were hoping to come home the following spring, andthen, probably, Mrs. Nestor would have found out more. 

But when Gerard first went back to school his head was full of it. Hehad not been _told_ anything, it was only his own suspicions, so therewas no harm in his speaking of it, as he did, though quite privately, tohis great friend, Harry Vandeleur. 

And Harry gave him some confidences in return. Lady Bridget Woodstone, the old lady who was guardian to him and his brother, had latelydied--the boys had spent their last holidays at school, but a newguardian had now appeared on the scene. This was a cousin of theirswhom, till then, they had never heard of, and this cousin was no otherthan grandmamma's nephew, Mr. Cosmo Vandeleur. 

Gerard quite started when he heard the name, which he remembered quitewell. Harry said that Mr. Cosmo Vandeleur was grave and quiet, he andLindsay felt rather afraid of him, but they would know better what sortof person he was when they had spent the holidays with him. 

'We are to go to his house, or at least to a house he has got in Devon, near the sea-side, next August, ' he told Gerard, and he promised that hewould ask his guardian if he had any relation called Mrs. Wingfield, andif he found it was the same, he would tell him what Gerard had said, andhow all these years she had been hoping to hear from him. For granny hadtold Gerard almost as much as she had told me of how strange it was that'Cosmo' never wrote. 

Well now you--by 'you' of course I mean whoever reads this story, ifever any one does--you begin to see how it came about. Harry Vandeleur_did_ tell his guardian about us, or about grandmamma, and found outthat she _was_ his aunt. Mr. Vandeleur was very much startled, Harrysaid, to hear about how very differently she was living now, and hewrote down the address and told Harry he would make further enquiries. 

That was all Harry knew, for Mr. Vandeleur was very reserved, and Harryand Lindsay did not feel as if they knew him any better after theholidays than before. Mrs. Vandeleur was very ill, though they thoughtshe would have liked to be kind; they were always being told not to makea noise, and so they stayed out-of-doors as much as they could. It wasrather dull (_very_ dull, I should think), and they hoped they would notspend their next holidays there; they would almost rather stay atschool. 

It was August or September when Mr. Vandeleur heard about grandmamma. Hedid not at once write to her; he made enquiries of the lawyer who hadfor many years managed, grandpapa's and papa's affairs, and he found itwas only too true, that granny was _very_ badly off. But even then hedid not write immediately, for Mrs. Vandeleur got worse and for a littlewhile they were afraid she was going to die. 

He told granny this in his letter, but went on to say that Mrs. Vandeleur was better, and the doctors hoped she might be moved home totheir house in London after the new year. In the meantime he was ingreat difficulty what to do, he had to be in London a good deal, and itwas a pity to shut up the house, as they had made it all very nice, andthey had good servants. And even when Mrs. Vandeleur was much bettershe must not be troubled about housekeeping or anything for a long time, and besides this, there was a new responsibility upon him, which hewould tell granny about afterwards. He meant the care of the two boys, but he did not speak of them then. 

Some part of this, grandmamma told me that very evening; she also toldme how sorry her nephew was about his long silence, though, as I think Isaid before, he _had_ written and got no answer, --a letter which she hadnever received. 

Here I find I must change my plan a little after all, and go intoconversation again. For as I am writing there comes back to me one partof our talk that evening so clearly, that I think I can remember almostevery word. 

We had got as far as grandmamma telling me most of what I have nowwritten down, but still I did not see why the letter had so upset her orwhy she had whispered something to herself about being 'thankful. '

'Well, ' I said, 'I am glad he has written if it pleases you, grandmamma. But I don't think I want ever to see him. '

'You must not be prejudiced, Helena dear, ' she answered. 'I think itvery likely you will see him, and before very long. I have not yet toldyou what he proposes. He wants us to go to--to pay him a long visit inLondon. He says I should be a very great help to him and Agnes--Agnes ishis wife--as I could take charge of things for her. '

'Of course you would be a great help, ' I said. 'But I think it is rathercool of him to expect you to give up your own home and go off there justto be of use to them. '

Grandmamma sighed. She did not want to tell me too much of herincreasing anxiety about money, and yet without doing so it wasdifficult for her to make me understand how really kind Mr. Vandeleur'sproposal was, and how it had not come a day too soon. 

'There are more reasons than that for my accepting his invitation, ' shesaid. 'It will be of advantage to us in many ways not to spend thecoming winter here, but in a warm, large house. If we had weather likelast year I should dread it very much. London is on the whole veryhealthy in winter, in spite of the fogs. And you are growing old enoughto take in new ideas, Helena, and to benefit by seeing something more oflife. '

I felt very strange, almost giddy, with the thought of such a change. 

'Do you really mean, grandmamma, ' I said, 'that--that you are thinkingof going there _soon_?'

'Very soon, ' she answered, 'almost at once. It may get cold and wintryhere any day, and besides that, my nephew is very anxious to settle hisown plans as quickly as possible. '

I said nothing for a minute or two. In my heart I was not at all sorryat the prospect of a winter in London, even though I naturally shrankfrom leaving dear old Windy Gap, the only home I had ever known. But thesort of spoilt way I had got into kept me from expressing the pleasure Ifelt--that one side of me felt, anyway. 

'I don't believe he cares about us, ' I said at last rather grumpily. 'Iam sure he is a very selfish man. '

Grandmamma looked distressed, but she was wise, too. She saw I wasreally inclined to be 'naughty' about it. 

'Helena, my dearest child, ' she said, and though she spoke most kindly Iheard by her voice that she would be firm, 'you must not yield toprejudice, and you must trust me. This invitation is the very best thingthat could have come to us at present, and I am deeply grateful for it. It is rather startling, I know, but there should be a good deal ofpleasure for you in our new prospects. And I am sure you will see thisin a day or two. Now go to bed, my darling. To-morrow we shall have agreat deal to talk over, and you must keep well and strong so as to beable to help me. '

She kissed me tenderly, and I whispered 'Good-night, dear grandmamma, 'gently and affectionately. 

But as soon as I got upstairs and was alone in my own little room, Iburst into tears. I daresay it was only natural. Still, I see now thatmy feelings were not altogether what they should have been. There was agreat deal of selfishness and spoiltness mixed up with them. 

 * * * * *

After that evening I have rather a confused remembrance of the next twoor three weeks. Things seemed to hurry on in a bewildering way, and ofcourse it was all the more bewildering to me, as I had never known anychange or uprooting of the kind in my life. 

Grandmamma was exceedingly busy. She had to write very often to Mr. Vandeleur, and he replied in a most business-like way, generally, Ithink, by return. It was no longer a great event for the postman to beseen turning up our path, and as well as letters he sometimes nowbrought parcels. 

For grandmamma was determined that we should both look nice when wefirst went to London to live in her nephew's big house, where there wereso many servants. 

'We must do him credit, ' she said to me, with a smile. I understood whatshe meant, and I had a feeling of pride about it, too, and I was verypleased to have some new dresses and hats and other things. But with methere was no good feeling to my cousin mixed up in all this. I now knowthat there was reason for grandmamma's wish to gratify him; he behavedmost generously and thoughtfully about everything, sending her more thansufficient money for all we needed, and doing it in such a niceway--just as a son who had grown rich might take pleasure in helping amother to whom he owed more than mere money could ever repay. 

But though grandmamma read out to me bits of his letters in which he wasalways repeating how grateful he was to her for coming to his aid in hisdifficulties, she did not tell me the whole particulars of herarrangements with him. He would not have liked it, and I was really tooyoung to have been told all these money-matters. 

I did notice that there was never any mention of me in what she read tome. And now I know that Mr. Vandeleur did _not_ particularly rejoice atthe prospect of my living with them too. He had proposed that I shouldbe sent to some very good school, for he knew nothing of children, especially of little girls. I think he believed they were even moretiresome and mischievous and bothering in every way than boys. 

Grandmamma would not listen for an instant to this proposal. Her firstand greatest duty in life was her granddaughter, 'Paul's little girl, 'and she would do _anything_ rather than be separated from me, especiallyas I was delicate and required care. In reality I was not nearly asdelicate as she thought. But I daresay it did not add to my cousin'swish to have me in his house to hear that I was considered so. 

Among the other things that grandmamma had to arrange about was what todo with Windy Gap. In her heart I believe she thought it very unlikelythat it would ever be our home again, but she did not say anything ofthis kind to me. She went off one day to Mr. Timbs to ask him to try tolet it as it was, with our furniture in. He promised to do his best, butdid not think it likely it would let in the winter. 

'And by the spring we shall be coming back again, ' I said, when grannytold me this. I had not gone with her to Mr. Timbs; she had made somelittle excuse for not taking me. 

To this she did not reply, and I thought no more about it, but I wasglad to hear that Kezia was to stay on in the cottage to keep it allaired and in nice order. And I said to her secretly that if granny and Iwere not happy in Chichester Square--that was the name of the gloomy, rather old-fashioned square, filled with handsome gloomy houses, whereMr. Vandeleur lived--it was nice to feel that we had only to drive tothe station and get into the train and be 'home' again in four or fivehours. 

Kezia smiled, though I think in her heart she was much more inclined tocry, and said she hoped to hear of our being very happy indeed inLondon, though of course she would look forward to seeing us again. 

I shall never forget the day we left our dear little cottage. It hadbegun to be wintry, a sprinkling of snow was on the ground and the airwas quite frosty, though the morning was bright. I did feel sostrange--sorrowful yet excited, and as if I really did not know who Iwas. And though the tears were running down poor Kezia's face when shebade us good-bye at the window of the railway carriage, I could not havecried if I had wished. We had a three miles' drive to the station. Itwas only the third or fourth time in my life I had ever been there, andI had never travelled for longer than half an hour or so, when grannyhad taken me, and once or twice Sharley and the others, to one of theneighbouring towns famed for their beautiful cathedrals. 

We travelled second class. I thought it very comfortable, and it wasvery nice to have foot-warmers, which I had never seen before. Myspirits rose steadily and even grandmamma's face had a pinky colour, which made her look quite young. 

'I should like to travel like this for a week without stopping, ' I said. 

Granny smiled. 

'I don't think you would, ' she said. 'You will feel you have had quiteenough of it by the time we get to London. '

And after an hour or two, especially when the short winter afternoongrew misty and dull, so that I could scarcely distinguish the landscapeas we flew past, I began to agree with her. 

'It will be quite dark when we get to Chichester Square, ' saidgrandmamma. 'You must wait for your first real sight of London tillto-morrow. I hope the weather will not be foggy. '

'Will there be flys at the station?' I asked, 'or did you write to orderone?'

Grandmamma smiled. 

'No, dear, that would not be necessary. There are always lots offour-wheelers and hansoms. But Mr. Vandeleur is sending a footman tomeet us and he will find us a cab. '

'Hasn't he got a carriage then?' said I. 

Grandmamma shook her head. 

'Not in London. Their carriages and horses are in the country still forMrs. Vandeleur. They will not be sent back to London till she comes. '

'I hope that won't be for a good long while, ' I said to myself, ratherunfeelingly, for I might have remembered that as soon as my cousin'swife was well enough she was to return. So her staying away long wouldmean her not getting well. 

Their being away--for Mr. Vandeleur was not in London himself justthen--was the part that pleased me the most of the whole plan. I thoughtit would be great fun to be alone in London with grandmamma, and I hadbeen making lists of the things I wanted her to do and the places weshould go to see. It never struck me that she could have any one oranything to think of but me myself!

CHAPTER X

NO. 29 CHICHESTER SQUARE

It was quite dark when we arrived at Paddington Station, and long beforethen, as grandmamma had prophesied, I had had much more than enough ofthe railway journey at first so pleasant. 

I was tired and sleepy. It all seemed very, very strange and confusingto me--the huge railway station, the dimly burning gas-lamps, thebustle, the lots of people. For, as I have to keep reminding you, thereis scarcely ever nowadays a child who leads so quiet and unchangeful alife as mine had been. I felt in a dream. If I had been less tired in mybody I daresay my mind and fancy would have been amused and excited byit all. As it was, I just clung to grandmamma stupidly, wondering howshe kept her head, wondering still more, when I heard her suddenlytalking to some one--who turned out to be Mr. Vandeleur's footman--howin the world she or he, or both of them, had managed to find each otherout in the crowd!

I did not speak. After a while I remember finding myself, and granny ofcourse, safe in a four-wheeler, which seemed narrow and stuffy comparedto the Middlemoor flys, and jolted along with a terrible rattle andnoise, so that I could scarcely distinguish the words grandmamma saidwhen once or twice she spoke to me. I daresay a good deal of the noisewas outside the cab, and some of it perhaps inside my own head, for itdid not altogether stop even when _we_ did--that is to say when we drewup at 29 Chichester Square. 

The house was very large--the hall looked to me almost as large as thehall at Moor Court. It was not really so, but I could scarcely judge ofanything correctly that night. I was so very tired. 

[Illustration: A nice-looking oldish man came forward and bowedrespectfully to grandmamma. --P. 126. ]

A nice-looking oldish man came forward and bowed respectfully tograndmamma. He was the butler. He handed us over, so to say, to anice-looking oldish woman, who was the head housemaid, and she took usat once upstairs to our rooms, the butler asking grandmamma to leave theluggage and the cab-paying to him--he would see that it was all right. She thanked him nicely, but rather 'grandly'--not at all as if shewas not accustomed to lots of servants and attention, which I waspleased at. It was a good thing for me that I had been so much with theNestors; it prevented my seeming awkward or shy with so many servantsabout, which otherwise I might have been. Grandmamma of course _had_been used to being rich, but _I_ never had. 

There came a disappointment the very first thing. Hales, the housemaid, threw open the door of a large, rather gloomy-looking bedroom, where afire was burning and candles already lighted. 

'Your room, ma'am, ' she said. 'Missie's----' she hesitated. 'MissWingfield's, ' said granny. 'Miss Wingfield's, ' Hales repeated, 'is onthe next floor but one. '

Grandmamma looked uneasy. 

'Is it far from this room?' she said. 

'Oh no, ma'am, just the staircase--it is over this. Mr. Vandeleurthought it was the best. It was Mrs. Vandeleur's when she was a littlegirl. ' For the house in Chichester Square had been left to Cousin Agnesby her parents a few years ago; that was why it seemed ratherold-fashioned. 'All the rooms on this floor besides this one, ' Haleswent on, 'are Mrs. Vandeleur's; and master's study, and the next floorare spare rooms, except to the back, and we thought it was fresher andpleasanter to the front for the young lady. '

Grandmamma looked pleased at the kind way Hales spoke, but still shehesitated. I gave her a little tug. 

'I don't mind, ' I said, for I was not at all a frightened child aboutsleeping alone and things like that. She smiled back at me. 'That'sright, ' she said, and I felt rewarded. 

My room was a nice one when I got there, but it did seem a tremendousway up, and it looked rather bare and felt rather chilly, even thoughthere was a fire burning, which, however, had not been lighted verylong. The housemaid went towards it and gave it a poke, murmuringsomething about 'Belinda being so careless. ' Belinda, as I soon foundout, was the second housemaid, and it was she who was to wait upon meand take care of my room. 

'You must ring for anything you want, miss, ' said Hales, 'and if Belindaisn't attentive perhaps you will mention it. '

And so saying she left me. I felt rather lonely, even though grandmammawas in the same house. There was a deserted feeling about the room as ifit had not been used for a very long time, and my two boxes looked verysmall indeed. I felt no interest in unpacking my things, even though Ihad brought my books and some of my little ornaments. 

'They will look nothing in this great bare place, ' I thought. 'I won'ttake them out, and then I shall have the feeling that we are not goingto be here for long. '

A queer sort of home-sickness for Windy Gap and for my life there cameover me. 

'I do wish we had not come here; I'm sure I'm going to hate it. I thinkgrandmamma might have come up with me to see my room, ' and I stood therebeside the flickering little fire, feeling far from happy or evenamiable. 

Suddenly, the sound of a gong startled me. I had not even begun to takeoff my hat and jacket. I did so now in a hurry, and then turned to washmy hands and face, somewhat cheered to find a can of nice hot waterstanding ready. Then I smoothed my hair with a little pocket-comb I had, as I dared not wait to take out any of my things. But I am afraid I didnot look as neat as usual or as I might have done if I hadn't wasted mytime. 

I hurried downstairs; a door stood open, and looking in, I was surethat it was the dining-room, and grandmamma there waiting for me. Atable, which to me seemed very large, though it was really anordinary-sized round one, was nicely arranged for tea. How glad I wasthat it was not dinner!

'Come, dear, ' said grandmamma, 'you must be very hungry. '

'I couldn't change my dress, grandmamma, ' I said, not quite sure if shewould not be displeased with me. 

'Of course not, ' she replied, cheerfully, 'I never expected it thisfirst evening. '

My spirits rose when I had had a nice cup of tea and something toeat--it is funny how our bodies rule our minds sometimes--and I began totalk more in my usual way, especially as, to my great relief, theservants had by this time left the room. 

'Shall we have tea like this every evening, grandmamma?' I asked; 'it isso much nicer than dinner. '

Grandmamma hesitated. 

'Yes, ' she said, 'while we are alone I think it will be the best plan, as you are too young for late dinner. When your cousins come home, ofcourse things will be regularly arranged. '

'That means, ' I thought to myself, 'that I shall have all my mealsalone, I suppose, ' and again an unreasonably cross feeling came over me. 

Grandmamma noticed it, I think, but she said nothing, and very soonafter we had finished tea she proposed that I should go to bed. She tookme upstairs herself to my room, and waited till I was in bed; then shekissed me as lovingly and tenderly as ever, but, all the same, no soonerhad she left me alone than I buried my face in the pillow and burst intotears. I had an under feeling that grandmamma was not quite pleased withme. I know now that she was only anxious, and perhaps a littledisappointed, at my not seeming brighter. For, after all, everything shehad done and was doing was for my sake, and I should have trusted herand known this by instinct, instead of allowing myself from the veryfirst beginning of our coming to London to think I was a sort of martyr. 

'I can see how it's going to be, ' I thought, 'as soon as ever Mr. AndMrs. Vandeleur come back I shall be nowhere at all and nobody at all inthis horrid, gloomy London. Cousin Agnes will be grandmamma's firstthought, and I shall be expected to spend most of my life up in my roomby myself. It is too bad, it isn't my fault that I am an orphan with noother home of my own. I would rather have stayed at Windy Gap, howeverpoor we were, than feel as I know I am going to do. '

But in the middle of all these miserable ideas I fell asleep, and sleptvery soundly--I don't think I dreamt at all--till the next morning. 

When I opened my eyes I thought it was still the night. There seemed nolight, but by degrees, as I got accustomed to the darkness, I made outthe shapes of the two windows. Then a clock outside struck seven, andgradually everything came back to me--the journey and our arrival andthe unhappy thoughts amidst which I had fallen asleep. 

Somehow, even though as yet there was nothing to cheer me--for what canbe gloomier than to watch the cold dawn of a winter's morning creepingover the gray sky of London?--somehow, things seemed less dismalalready. The fact was I had had a very good night, and was feelingrested and refreshed, so much so that I soon began to fidget and to wishthat some one would come with my hot water and say it was time to getup. 

This did not happen till half-past seven, when a knock at the door wasfollowed by the appearance of Belinda--at least I guessed it wasBelinda, for I had not seen her before. She was a pleasant enoughlooking girl, but with rather a pert manner, and she spoke to me as if Iwere about six. 

'You'd better get up at once, miss, as breakfast's to be so early, andI'm to help you to dress if you need me. '

'No, thank you, ' I said with great dignity, 'I don't want any help. Butwhere's my bath?'

'I've had no orders about a bath, ' she replied, 'but, to be sure, youcan't go to the bathroom, as it's next master's dressing-room. You'llhave to speak to Hales about it, ' and she went away murmuring somethingindistinctly as to new ways and new rules. 

In a few minutes, however, she came back again, lumbering a bath afterher and looking rather cross. 

'How different she is from Kezia, ' I thought to myself. 'I would nothave minded anything as much if she had come with us. '

Still, I was sensible enough to know that it was no use making the worstof things, and I think I must have looked rather pleasanter and morecheerful than the evening before, when I tapped at grandmamma's door andwent downstairs to breakfast holding her hand. 

_She_ had much more to think of and trouble about than I, and if I hadnot been so selfish I was quite sensible enough to have understood this. A great many things required rearranging and overlooking in thehousehold, for, though the servants were good on the whole, it was longsince they had had a mistress's eye over them, and without that, eventhe best servants are pretty sure to get into careless ways. Andgrandmamma was so very conscientious that she felt even more anxiousabout all these things for Mr. And Mrs. Vandeleur's sake, than if it hadbeen her own house and her own servants. Besides, though she was soclever and experienced, it was a good many years since she had had alarge house to look after, as our little home at Middlemoor had been sovery, very simple. Yes, I see now it must have been very hard upon her, for, instead of doing all I could to help her, I was quite taken up withmy own part of it, and ready to grumble at and exaggerate every littledifficulty or disagreeableness. 

I think grandmamma tried for some time not to see the sort of humour Iwas in, and how selfish and spoilt I had become. She excused me toherself by saying I was tired, and that such a complete change of lifewas trying for a child, and by kind little reasons of that sort. 

'I shall be rather busy this morning, ' she said to me that first day atbreakfast, 'but if it keeps fine we can go out a little in theafternoon, and let you have your first peep of London. Let me see, whatcan you do with yourself this morning? You have your things to unpackstill, and I daresay you would like to put out your ornaments and booksin your own room. '

'I don't mean to put them out, ' I said, 'it's not worth while. I willkeep my books in one of the boxes and just get one out when I want it, and as for the ornaments, they wouldn't look anything in that big, bareroom. '

But as I said this I caught sight of grandmamma's face, and I feltashamed of being so grumbling when I was really feeling more cheerfuland interested in everything than the night before. So I changed my tonea little. 

'I will unpack all my things, ' I said, 'and see how they look, anyway. Perhaps I'd better hang up my new frocks, I wouldn't like them to getcrushed. '

'I should think Belinda would have unpacked your clothes by this time, 'said grandmamma, 'but no doubt you'll find something to do. But, by thebye, they may not have lighted a fire in your room, don't stay upstairslong if you feel chilly, but bring your work down to the library. ' Iwent upstairs. In the full daylight, though it was a dull morning, Iliked my room even less than the night before. There was nothing in itbright or fresh, though I daresay it had looked much nicer, yearsbefore, when Cousin Agnes was a little girl, for the cretonne curtainsmust once have been very pretty, with bunches of pink roses, which now, however, were faded, as well as the carpet on the floor, and the paperon the walls, to an over-all dinginess such as you never see in acountry room even when everything in it is old. 

I sat down on a chair and looked about me disconsolately. Belinda hadunpacked my clothes and arranged them after her fashion. My otherpossessions were still untouched, but I did not feel as if I cared to doanything with them. 

'I shall never be at home here, ' I said to myself, 'but I suppose I mustjust try to bear it for the time, for grandmamma's sake. '

Silly child that I was, as if grandmamma ever thought of herself, or herown likes and dislikes, before what she considered right and good forme. But the idea of being something of a martyr pleased me. I got outmy work, not my fancy-work--I was in a mood for doing disagreeablethings--but some plain sewing that I had not touched for some time, andtook it downstairs to the library. I heard voices as I opened the door, grandmamma was sitting at the writing-table speaking to the cook, whostood beside her, a rather fat, pleasant-looking woman, who made alittle curtsey when she saw me. But grandmamma looked up, for her, rather sharply--

'Why, have you finished upstairs already, Helena?' she said. 'You hadbetter go into the dining-room for a few minutes, I am busy just now. '

I went away immediately, but I was very much offended, it just seemedthe beginning of what I was fancying to myself. The dining-room door wasajar, and I caught sight of the footman looking over some spoons andforks. 

'I won't go in there, ' I said to myself, and upstairs I mounted again. 

On the first landing, where grandmamma's room was, there were severalother doors. All was perfectly quiet--there seemed no servants about, soI thought I would amuse myself by a little exploring. The first room Ipeeped into was large--larger than grandmamma's, but all the furniturewas covered up. The only thing that interested me was a picture inpastelles hanging up over the mantelpiece. It caught my attention atonce, and I stood looking up at it for some moments. 

CHAPTER XI

AN ARRIVAL

It was the portrait of a young girl, --a very sweet face with soft, half-timid looking eyes. 

[Illustration: It was the portrait of a young girl. --P. 139. ]

'I wonder who it is, ' I thought to myself, 'I wonder if it is Mrs. Vandeleur. If it is, she must be nice. I almost think I should like hervery much. '

A door in this room led into a dressing-room, which next caught myattention. Here, too, the only thing that struck me was a portrait. Thistime, a photograph only, of a boy. Such a nice, open face! For a momentor two I thought it must be Cousin Cosmo, but looking more closely I sawwritten in one corner the name 'Paul' and the date 'July 1865. ' I caughtmy breath, as I said to myself--

'It must be papa! I wonder if granny knows--she has none of him as youngas that, I am sure. Oh, dear, how I do wish he was alive!'

But it was with a softened feeling towards both of my unknown cousinsthat I stepped out on to the landing again. 

It did seem as if Mr. Vandeleur must have been very fond of my fatherfor him to have kept this photograph all these years, hanging up wherehe must see it every time he came into his room. 

Unluckily, just as I was thinking this, Belinda made her appearancethrough a door leading on to the backstairs. 

'What are you doing here, miss?' she said. 'I don't think Hales would bebest pleased to find you wandering about through these rooms. '

'I don't know what you mean, ' I said, frightened, yet indignant too. 'Iwas only looking at the pictures. In grandmamma's house at home I gointo any room I like. '

She gave a little laugh. 

'Oh, but you see, miss, you are not at your own home now, ' she said, 'that makes all the difference, ' and she passed on, closing the door Ihad left open, as if to say, 'you can't go in there again!'

I made my way up to my own room, all the doleful feelings coming back. 

'Really, ' I said, as I curled myself up at the foot of the bed, 'thereseems no place for me in the world, it's "move on--move on, " like thepoor boy in the play grandmamma once told me about. '

And I sat there in the cold, nursing my bitter and discontentedthoughts, as if I had nothing to be grateful or thankful for in life. 

Grandmamma did not come up to look for me, as in my secret heart I thinkI hoped she would. She was very, very busy, busier than I could haveunderstood if she had told me about it, for though he did not at allmean to put too much upon her, Mr. Vandeleur had such faith in her goodsense and judgment, that he had left everything to be settled by herwhen we came. 

I do not know if I fell asleep; I think I must have dozed a little, forthe next thing I remember is rousing up, and feeling myself stiff andcramped, and not long after that the gong sounded again. I got down frommy bed and looked at myself in the glass; my face seemed very pinchedand miserable. I made my hair neat and washed my hands, for I would nothave dared to go downstairs untidy to the dining-room. But I was not atall sorry when grandmamma looked at me anxiously, exclaiming--

'My dear child, how white you are! Where have you been, and what haveyou been doing with yourself?'

'I've been up in my own room, ' I said, and just then grandmamma saidnothing more, but when we were alone again she spoke to me seriouslyabout the foolishness of risking making myself ill for no reason. 

'There _is_ reason, ' I said crossly, 'at least there's no reason why Ishouldn't be ill; nobody cares how I am. '

For all answer grandmamma drew me to her and kissed me. 

'My poor, silly, little Helena, ' she said. 

I was touched and ashamed, but irritated also; grandmamma understood mebetter than I understood myself. 

'We are going out now, ' she said, 'put on your things as quickly as youcan. I have several shops to go to, and the afternoons close in veryearly in London just now. '

That walk with grandmamma--at least it was only partly a walk, for shetook a hansom to the first shop she had to go to, --and I had never beenin a hansom before, so you can fancy how I enjoyed it--yes, that firstafternoon in London stands out very happily. Once I had grandmamma quiteto myself everything seemed to come right, and I could almost haveskipped along the street in my pleasure and excitement. The shops werealready beginning to look gay in anticipation of Christmas, tome--country child that I was, they were bewilderingly magnificent. Grandmamma was careful not to let me get too tired, we drove home againin another hansom, carrying some of our purchases with us. These weremostly things for the house, and a few for ourselves, and shopping wasso new to me, that I took the greatest interest even in ordering brushesfor the housemaid, or choosing a new afternoon tea-service for CousinAgnes. 

That evening, too, passed much better than the morning. Grandmamma spoketo me about how things were likely to be and what I myself should try todo. 

'I cannot fix anything about lessons for you, ' she said, 'till afterCosmo and Agnes return, for I do not know how much time I shall havefree for you. But you are well on for your age, and I don't think a fewweeks without regular lessons will do you any harm, especially here inLondon, where there is so much new and interesting. But I think you hadbetter make a plan for yourself--I will help you with it--for doingsomething every morning while I am busy. '

'But I may be with you in the afternoons, mayn't I?' I said. 

'Of course, at least generally, ' said grandmamma, 'whenever the weatheris fine enough I will take you out. It would never do to shut you upwhen you have been so accustomed to the open air. Some days, perhaps, wemay go out in the mornings. All I want you to understand now, is thatplans cannot possibly be settled all at once. You must be patient andcheerful, and if there are things that you don't like just now, in alittle while they will probably disappear. '

I felt pleased at grandmamma talking to me more in her old consultingway, and for the time it seemed as if I could do as she wished withoutdifficulty. 

And for some days and even weeks things went on pretty well. I used toget cross now and then when grandmamma could not be with me as much as Iwanted, but so far, there was no _person_ to come between her and me, itwas only her having so much to do; and whenever we were together she wasso sweet and understanding in every way, that it made up for the lonelyhours I sometimes had to spend. 

But in myself I am afraid there was not really any improvement, it wasonly on the surface. There was still the selfishness underneath, thereadiness to take offence and be jealous of anything that seemed to putme out of my place as first with grandmamma. All the unhappy feelingswere there, smouldering, ready to burst out into fire the momentanything stirred them up. 

Christmas came and went. It was very unlike any of the Christmases I hadever known, and of course it could not but seem rather lonely. Grandmamma still had some old friends in London, but she had not triedto see them, as she had been so busy, and not knowing as yet when CousinAgnes would be returning. It seemed a sort of waiting time altogether. Now and then grandmamma would allude cheerfully to Cousin Cosmo and hiswife coming home, hoping that it would be soon, as every letter broughtbetter accounts of Mrs. Vandeleur's health. I certainly did not share inthese hopes, I would rather have gone on living for ever as we were ifonly I could have had grandmamma to myself. 

I think it was about the 8th of January that there came one morning aletter which made grandmamma look very grave, and when she had finishedreading it she sat for a moment or two without speaking. Then she said, as if thinking aloud--

'Dear me, this is very disappointing. '

'Is anything the matter?' I asked. 'Can't you tell me what it is, grandmamma?'

'Oh yes, dear, ' she said, 'it is only what I have been looking forwardto so much--but it has come in such a different way. Your cousins arereturning almost immediately, but only, I am sorry to say, because poorAgnes is so ill that the London doctor says she must be near him. Theyare bringing her up in an invalid carriage the first mild day, so I musthave everything ready for them. It will probably be many weeks beforeshe can leave her room, ' and poor grandmamma sighed. 

This news was far from welcome to me, but I am afraid what I cared forhad only to do with myself. I didn't feel very sorry for poor CousinAgnes. Partly, perhaps, because I was too young to understand howseriously ill she was, but chiefly, I am afraid, because I immediatelybegan to think how much of grandmamma's time would be taken up by her, and how dull it would be for me in consequence. And when grandmammaturned to me and said--

'I'm sure I shall find you a help and comfort, Helena, ' it almoststartled me. 

I murmured something about wishing there was anything I could do, and Idid feel ashamed. 

'I'm afraid there will not be much for you actually to do, ' saidgrandmamma, 'and I don't think you need warning to be very quiet in ahouse with an invalid. You are never noisy, ' and she smiled a little;'but you must try to be bright and not to mind if for a little while youhave to be left a good deal to yourself. I must speak to Hales aboutgoing out with you sometimes, for you must have a walk every day. '

And within a week of receiving this bad news there came one morning atelegram to say that Mr. And Mrs. Vandeleur would be arriving thatafternoon. 

'Oh, dear, dear, ' I thought to myself when I heard it. 'I wish Iwere--oh, anywhere except here!'

I spent the hours till luncheon--which was of course my dinner--asusual, doing some lessons and needlework. Hitherto, grandmamma hadcorrected my lessons in the evening. 

'I don't believe she'll have time to look over my exercises now, ' Ithought to myself, 'but I suppose I must go on doing them all thesame. '

I have forgotten to say that I did my lessons at a side table in thedining-room, where there was always a large fire burning. It did notseem worth while to have another room given up to me while grandmammaand I were alone in the house. 

I did not see grandmamma till luncheon, and then she told me that shewas obliged to go out immediately to some distance, as Mrs. Vandeleur'sinvalid couch or table, I forget which, was not the kind ordered. 

'But mayn't I come with you?' I asked. 

Grandmamma shook her head. No, she was in a great hurry, and the placeshe was going to was in the city, it would do me no good, and it was adamp, foggy day. I might go into the Square garden for a little if Iwould promise to come in at once if it rained. 

There was nothing very inviting in this prospect. I liked the Squaregardens well enough to walk up and down in with grandmamma, but alonewas a very different matter. Still, it was better than staying in allthe afternoon. And I spent an hour or more in pacing along the pathsenjoying my self-pity to the full. 

There were a few other children playing together; how I envied them!

'If I had even a little dog, ' I said to myself, 'it would be something. But of course there's no chance of that--he would disturb Cousin Agnes. '

I went back to the house an hour or so before the expected arrival. Grandmamma had already returned. She was in her own room, I peeped in onmy way upstairs. 

'What do you want me to do, grandmamma?' I said. 

She glanced at me. 

'Change your frock, dear, and come down to the library with your work. Of course Cosmo will want to see you, once Cousin Agnes is settled inher room. Dear me, I do hope she will have stood the journey prettywell!'

I came downstairs again with mixed feelings. I should rather haveenjoyed making a martyr of myself by staying up in my own room. But, onthe other hand, I had a good deal of curiosity on the subject of myunknown cousins. 

'I wonder if Cousin Agnes will be able to walk, ' I thought to myself, 'or if they will carry her in. I should like to see what an invalidcarriage is like!'

I think I pictured to myself a sort of palanquin, and eager to be on thespot at the moment of the arrival I changed my frock very quickly andhastened downstairs with my knitting in my hand--a model of propriety. 

'Do I look nice, grandmamma?' I asked. 'It is the first time I have hadthis frock on, you know. '

For besides the new clothes grandmamma had ordered from Windy Gap, shehad got me some very nice ones since we came to London. And this new oneI thought the prettiest of all. It was brown velveteen with a fallingcollar of lace, with which I was especially pleased, for though myclothes had been always very neatly made, they had been very plain, thelast two or three years more especially. So I stood there pleasantlyexpecting grandmamma's approval. But she scarcely glanced at me, I doubtif she heard what I said, for she was busy writing a note aboutsomething or other which had been forgotten, and almost as I spoke thefootman came into the room to take it. 

'What were you saying, my dear?' she said quickly. 'Oh yes, verynice---- Be sure, William, that this is sent at once. '

I crossed the room and sat down in the farthest corner, my heartswelling. It was not _all_ spoilt temper, I was really terribly afraidthat grandmamma was beginning to care less for me. But before there hadbeen time for her to notice my disappointment, there came the sound ofwheels stopping at the door, and then the bell rang loudly. Grandmammastarted up. If I had been less taken up with myself, I could easily haveentered into her feelings. It was the first time for more than twelveyears that she had seen her nephew, and think of all that had happenedto her since then! But none of these thoughts came into my mind justthen, it was quite filled with myself and my own troubles, and but formy curiosity I think I would have hidden myself behind thewindow-curtains. 

Grandmamma went out into the hall and I followed her. The door wasalready opened, as the servants had been on the look-out. 

The first thing I saw was a tall, slight figure coming very slowly upthe steps on the arm of a dark, grave-looking man. Behind them came amaid laden with shawls and cushions. They came quietly into the hall, grandmamma moving forward a little to meet them, though withoutspeaking. 

A smile came over Cousin Agnes's pale face as she caught sight of her, but Mr. Vandeleur looked up almost sharply. 

'Wait till we get her into the library, ' he said. 

Evidently coming up those few steps had almost been too much for hiswife, for I saw her face grow still paler. I was watching with suchinterest that I quite forgot that where I stood I was partially blockingup the doorway. Without noticing who I was, so completely absorbed washe with Cousin Agnes, Mr. Vandeleur stretched out his hand and half putme aside. 

'Take care, ' he said quickly, and before there was time formore--'Helena, do get out of the way, ' said grandmamma. 

That was the last straw for me. I did get out of the way. I turned andrushed across the hall, and upstairs to my own room without a word. 

CHAPTER XII

A CATASTROPHE

No one came up to look for me; I don't know that I expected it, butstill I was disappointed and made a fresh grievance of this neglect, asI considered it. The truth was, nobody was thinking of me at all, forCousin Agnes had fainted when she got into the library and everybody wasengrossed in attending to her. 

Afternoon tea time came and passed, and still I was alone. It was quitedark when at last Belinda came up to draw down the blinds, and wasstartled by finding me in my usual place when much upset--curled up atthe foot of the bed. 

'Whatever are you doing here, miss?' she said, sharply. 'There's yourtea been waiting in the dining-room for ever so long. '

The fact was, she had been told to call me but had forgotten it. 

'I don't want any, ' I said, shortly. 

'Nonsense, miss, ' said the girl, 'you can't go without eating. And whenthere's any one ill in the house you must just make the best of things. '

'Mrs. Vandeleur didn't seem so very ill, ' I said, 'she was able towalk. '

'Ah, but she's been worse since then--they had to fetch the doctor, andnow she's in bed and better, and your grandmamma's sitting beside her. '

I did feel sorry for Cousin Agnes when I heard this, though the sorefeeling still remained that I wasn't wanted, and was of no use to anyone. I was almost glad to escape seeing grandmamma, so I went downstairsquietly to the dining-room and had my tea, for I was very hungry. Justas I had finished, and was crossing the hall to go upstairs again, atall figure came out of the library. I knew in a moment who it was, butCousin Cosmo stared at me as if he couldn't imagine what child it couldbe, apparently at home in his house. 

'Who--what?' he began, but then corrected himself. 'Oh, to be sure, ' headded, holding out his hand, 'you're Helena of course. I wasn't sure ifyou were at school or not. '

'At school, ' I repeated, 'grandmamma would never send me to school. '

He smiled a little, or meant to do so, but I thought him very grim andforbidding. 

'I don't wonder at those boys not liking him for their guardian, ' I saidto myself as I looked up at him. 

'Ah, well, ' he replied, 'so long as you remember to be a very quietlittle girl, especially when you pass the first landing, I daresay itwill be all right. '

I didn't condescend to answer, but walked off with my most dignifiedair, which no doubt was lost upon my cousin, who, I fancy, had almostforgotten my existence before he had closed the hall door behind him, for he was just going out. 

I did not see grandmamma that evening, and I did not know that she sawme, for when she at last was free to come up to my room, I was in bedand fast asleep, and she was careful not to wake me. She told me thisthe next morning, and also that Belinda had said I had had my tea andsupper comfortably. But--partly from pride, and partly from bettermotives--I did not tell her that I had cried myself to sleep. 

I need not go into the daily history of the next few weeks, indeed Idon't wish to do so. They were the most miserable time of my whole life. Now that all is happy I don't want to dwell upon them. Dear grandmammasays, whenever we do speak about that time, that she really does notthink it was _all_ my fault, and that comforts me. It was certainly nother fault, nor anybody's in one way, except of course mine. Thingshappened in a trying way, as they must do in life sometimes, and I don'tthink it was wrong of me to feel unhappy. We _have_ to be unhappysometimes; but it was wrong of me not to bear it patiently, and to letmyself grow bitter, and worst of all, to do what I did--what I am nowgoing to tell about. 

Those dreary weeks went on till it was nearly Easter, which came veryearly that year. After my cousins' return home the weather got very badand added to the gloom of everything. 

It was not so very cold, but it was _so_ dull! Fog more or less, everyday, and if not fog, sleety rain, which generally began by trying to besnow, and for my part I wished it had been--it would have made thestreets look clean for a few hours. 

There were lots of days on which I couldn't go out at all, and when Idid go out, with Belinda as my companion, I did not enjoy it. She was asilly, selfish girl, though rather good-natured once she felt I was insome way dependent on her, but her ideas of amusing talk were not thesame as mine. The only shop-windows she cared to look at were milliners'and drapers', and she couldn't understand my longing to read the namesof the tempting volumes in the booksellers, and feeling so pleased if Isaw any of my old friends among them. 

Indoors, my life was really principally spent in my own room, where, however, I always had a good big fire, which was a comfort. There weremany days on which I scarcely saw grandmamma, a few on which I actuallydid not see her at all. For all this time Cousin Agnes was reallyterribly ill--much worse than I knew--and Mr. Vandeleur was nearly outof his mind with grief and anxiety, and self-reproach for having broughther up to London, which he had done rather against the advice of herdoctor in the country, who, he now thought, understood her better thanthe great doctor in London. And grandmamma, I believe, had nearly asmuch to do in comforting him and keeping him from growing quite morbid, as in taking care of Cousin Agnes. All the improvement in her healthwhich they had been so pleased at during the first part of the winterhad gone, and I now know that for a great part of those weeks there wasvery little hope of her living. I saw Cousin Cosmo sometimes atbreakfast but never at any other hour of the day, unless I happened topass him on the staircase, which I avoided as much as possible, you maybe sure, for if he did speak to me it was as if I were about three yearsold, and he was sure to say something about being very quiet. I don'tthink I could have been expected to like him, but I'm afraid I almosthated him then. It would have been better--that is one of the thingsgrandmamma now says--to have told me more of their great anxiety, and itcertainly would have been better to send me to school, to someday-school even, for the time. 

As it was, day by day I grew more miserable, for you see I had nothingto look forward to, no actual reason for hoping that my life would everbe happier again, for, not knowing but that poor Cousin Agnes might dieany day, grandmamma did not like to speak of the future at all. 

I never saw her--Cousin Agnes I mean--never except once, but I have notcome to that yet. At last, things came to a crisis with me. One day, onemorning, Belinda told me that I must not stay in my room as it was to bewhat she called 'turned out, ' by which she meant that it was to undergoan extra thorough cleaning. She had forgotten to tell me this the nightbefore, so that when I came up from breakfast, which I had had alone, intending to settle down comfortably with my books before the fire, Ifound there was no fire and everything in confusion. 

'What am I to do?' I said. 

'You must go down to the dining-room and do your lessons there, ' saidBelinda. 'There will be no one to disturb you, once the breakfast thingsare taken away. '

'Has Mr. Vandeleur had his breakfast?' I asked. 

'I don't know, ' said Belinda, shortly, for she had been told not to tellme that Cousin Agnes had been so ill in the night that the great doctorhad been sent for, and they were now having a consultation about her inthe library. 

'I'll help you to get your things together, ' she went on, 'and you mustgo downstairs as quietly as possible. '

We collected my books. It made me melancholy to see them, there weresuch piles of exercises grandmamma had never had time to look over!Belinda heaped them all on to the top of my atlas, the glass ink-bottleamong them. 

'Are they quite steady?' I said. 'Hadn't I better come up again and onlytake half now?'

'Oh, dear, no, ' said Belinda, 'they are right enough if you walkcarefully, ' for in her heart she knew that she should have helped me tocarry them down, herself. 

But I had got used to her careless ways, and I didn't seem to mindanything much now, so I set off with my burden. It was all right till Igot to the first floor--the floor where grandmamma's and Cousin Agnes'srooms were. Then, as ill luck would have it--just from taking extracare, I suppose--somehow or other I lost my footing and down I went, aregular good bumping roll from top to bottom of one flight of stairs, books, and slate, and glass ink-bottle all clattering after me! I'mquite sure that in all my life before or since I never made such anoise!

[Illustration: Up rushed two or three ... Men, Cousin Cosmo thefirst. --P. 160. ]

I hurt myself a good deal, though not seriously; but before I had timeto do more than sit up and feel my arms and legs to be sure that none ofthem were broken, the library door below was thrown open, and up rushedtwo or three--at first sight I thought them still more--men! CousinCosmo the first. 

'In heaven's name, ' he exclaimed, though even then he did not speakloudly, 'what is the matter? This is really inexcusable!'

He meant, I think, that there should have been some one looking afterme! But I took the harsh word to myself. 

'I--I've fallen downstairs, ' I said, which of course was easy to beseen. There was a dark pool on the step beside me, and in spite of hisirritation Cousin Cosmo was alarmed. 

'Have you cut yourself?' he said, 'are you bleeding?' and he took outhis handkerchief, hardly knowing why, but as he stooped towards me ittouched the stain. 

'Ink!' he said, in a tone of disgust. 'Really, even a child might havemore sense!'

Then the older of the two men who were with him came forward. He had avery grave but kind face. 

'It is very unfortunate, ' he said, 'I hope the noise has not startledMrs. Vandeleur. You must really, ' he went on, turning to Cousin Cosmo, but then stopping--'I must have a word or two with you about this beforeI go. In the meantime we had better pick up this little person. '

I got up of myself, though something in the doctor's face prevented myfeeling vexed at his words, as I might otherwise have been. But just asI was stooping to pick up my books and to hide the giddy, shaky feelingwhich came over me, a voice from the landing above made me start. It wasgrandmamma herself; she hastened down the flight of stairs, lookingextremely upset. 

'Helena!' she exclaimed, and I think her face cleared a little when shesaw me standing there, 'you have not hurt yourself then? But what in theworld were you doing to make such a terrific clatter? I never knew herdo such a thing before, ' she went on. 

'Did Agnes hear it?' said Cousin Cosmo, sharply. 

'I'm afraid it did startle her, ' grandmamma replied, 'but fortunatelyshe thought it was something in the basement. I must go back to her atonce, ' and without another word to me she turned upstairs again. 

I can't tell what I felt like; even now I hate to remember it. My owngrandmamma to speak to me in that voice and not to care whether I washurt or not! I think some servant was called to wipe up the ink, and Imade my way, stiff and bruised and giddy, to the dining-room--I had noteven the refuge of my own room to cry in at peace--while Cousin Cosmoand the doctors went back to the library. And not long after, I heardthe front door close and a carriage drive away. 

I thought my cup was full, but it was not, as you shall hear. I didn'ttry to do any lessons. My head was aching and I didn't feel as if itmattered what I did or didn't do. 

'If only my room was ready, ' I thought, half stupidly, 'I wouldn't mindso much. '

I think I must have cried a good deal almost without knowing it, forafter a while, when the footman came into the room, I started up with aconscious feeling of not wanting to be seen, and turned towards thewindow, where I stood pretending to look out. Not that there wasanything to be seen; the fog was getting so thick that I could scarcelydistinguish the railings a few feet off. 

The footman left the room again, but I felt sure he was coming back, soI crept behind the shelter of the heavy curtains and curled myself up onthe floor, drawing them round me. And then, how soon I can't tell, Ifell asleep. It has always been my way to do so when I've been veryunhappy, and the unhappier I am the more heavily I sleep, though not ina nice refreshing way. 

I awoke with a start, not knowing where I was. I could not have beenasleep more than an hour, but to me it seemed like a whole night, and asI was beginning to collect my thoughts I heard voices talking in theroom behind me. It must have been these voices which had awakened me. 

The first I heard was Mr. Vandeleur's. 

'I am very sorry about it, ' he was saying, 'but I see no help for it. Iwould not for worlds distress you if I could avoid doing so, for all myold debts to you, my dear aunt, are doubled now by your devotion toAgnes. She will in great measure owe her life to you, I feel. '

'You exaggerate it, ' said grandmamma, 'though I do believe I am acomfort to her. But never mind about that just now--the present questionis Helena. '

'Yes, ' he replied, 'I can't tell you how strongly I feel that it wouldbe for the child's good too, though I can quite understand it would bedifficult for you to see it in that light. '

'No, ' said grandmamma, 'I have been thinking about it myself, for ofcourse I have not been feeling satisfied about her. Perhaps in the pastI have thought of her too exclusively, and it is very difficult for achild not to be spoilt by this. And now on the other hand----'

'It is too much for you yourself, ' interrupted my cousin, 'she should bequite off your mind. I have the greatest confidence in Dr. Pierce'sjudgment in such matters. He would recommend no school hastily. If youwill come into the library I will give you the addresses of the two hementioned. No doubt you will prefer to write for particulars yourself;though when it is settled I daresay I could manage to take her there. For even with these fresh hopes they have given us, now this crisis ispassed, I doubt your being able to leave Agnes for more than an hour ortwo at a time. '

'I should not think of doing so, ' said grandmamma, decidedly. 'Yes--ifyou will give me the addresses I will write. '

To me her voice sounded cold and hard; _now_ I know of course that itwas only the force she was putting upon herself to crush down her ownfeelings about parting with me. 

It was not till they had left the room that I began to understand what adishonourable thing I had been doing in listening to this conversation, and for a moment there came over me the impulse to rush after them andtell what I had heard. But only for a moment; the dull heavy feeling, which had been hanging over me for so long of not being cared for, ofhaving no place of my own and being in everybody's way, seemed suddenlyto have increased to an actual certainty. Hitherto, it now seemed to me, I had only been playing with the idea, and now as a sort of punishmenthad come upon me the reality of the cruel truth--grandmamma did _not_care for me any longer. She had got back the nephew who had been like ason to her, and he and his wife had stolen away from me all her love. Then came the mortification of remembering that I was living in CousinCosmo's house--a most unwelcome guest. 

'He never has liked me, ' I thought to myself; 'even at the verybeginning, grandmamma never gave me any kind messages from him. Andthose poor boys Gerard told me of couldn't care for him--he must behorrid. '

Then a new thought struck me. 'I _have_ a home still, ' I thought; 'WindyGap is ours, I could live there with Kezia and trouble nobody and hardlycost anything. I won't stay here to be sent to school; I don't think Iam bound to bear it. '

I crept out of my corner. 

'Surely my room will be ready by now, ' I thought, and walking veryslowly still, for falling asleep in the cold had made me even stiffer, I made my way upstairs. 

Yes, my room was ready, and there was a good fire. There was a littlecomfort in that: I sat down on the floor in front of it and began tothink out my plans. 

CHAPTER XIII

HARRY

In spite of all that was on my mind I slept soundly, waking the nextmorning a little after my usual hour. Very quickly, so much was itimpressed on my brain, I suppose, I recollected the determination withwhich I had gone to bed the night before. 

I hurried to the window and drew up the blind, for I had made onecondition with myself--I would not attempt to carry out my plan if thefog was still there! But it had gone. Whether I was glad or sorry Ireally can't say. I dressed quickly, thinking or planning all the time. When I got downstairs to the dining-room it was empty, but on the tablewere the traces of some one having breakfasted there. 

Just then the footman came in--

'I was to tell you, miss, ' he said, 'that Mrs. Wingfield won't be downto breakfast; it's to be taken upstairs to her. '

'And Mr. Vandeleur has had his, I suppose?' I said. 

'Yes, miss, ' he replied, clearing the table of some of the plates anddishes. 

I went on with my breakfast, eating as much as I could, for being whatis called an 'old-fashioned' child, I thought to myself it might be sometime before I got a regular meal again. Then I went upstairs, where, thanks to Belinda's turn-out of the day before, my room was already inorder and the fire lighted. I locked the door and set to work. 

About an hour later, having listened till everything seemed quiet aboutthe house, I made my way cautiously and carefully downstairs, carryingmy own travelling-bag stuffed as full as it would hold and a brown paperparcel. When I got to the first bedroom floor, where grandmamma's roomwas, a sudden strange feeling came over me. I felt as if I _must_ seeher, even if she didn't see me. Her door was ajar. 

'Very likely, ' I thought, 'she will be writing in there. '

For, lately, I knew she had been there almost entirely, when notactually in Cousin Agnes's room, so as to be near her. 

'I will peep in, ' I said to myself. 

I put down what I was carrying and crept round the door noiselessly. Atfirst I thought there was no one in the room, then to my surprise I sawthat the position of the bed had been changed. It now stood with itsback to the window, but the light of a brightly burning fire fellclearly upon it. There was some one in bed! Could it be grandmamma? Ifso, she must be really ill, it was so unlike her ever to stay in bed. Istepped forward a little--no, the pale face with the pretty bright hairshowing against the pillows was not grandmamma, it was some one muchyounger, and with a sort of awe I said to myself it must be CousinAgnes. 

So it was, she had been moved into grandmamma's room a day or two beforefor a little change. 

It could not have been the sound I made, for I really made none, thatroused her; it must just have been the _feeling_ that some one hadentered the room. For all at once she opened her eyes, such very sweetblue eyes they were, and looked at me, at first in a half-startled way, but then with a little smile. 

'I thought I was dreaming, ' she whispered. 'I have had such a nicesleep. Is that you, little Helena? I'm so glad to see you; I wanted youto come before, often. '

I stood there trembling. 

What would grandmamma or Mr. Vandeleur think if they came in and foundme there? But yet Cousin Agnes was so very sweet, her voice so gentleand almost loving, that I felt I could not run out of the room withoutanswering her. 

'Thank you, ' I said, 'I do hope you are better. '

'I am going to be better very soon, I feel almost sure, ' she said, buther voice was already growing weaker. 'Are you going out, dear?' shewent on. 'Good-bye, I hope you will have a nice walk. Come again to seeme soon. '

'Thank you, ' I whispered again, something in her voice almost making thetears come into my eyes, and I crept off as quietly as possible, with acurious feeling that if I delayed I should not go at all. 

By this time you will have guessed what my plan was. I think I will notgo into all the particulars of how I made my way to Paddington in ahansom, which I picked up just outside the square, and how I managed totake my ticket, a third class one this time, for though I had broughtall my money--a few shillings of my own and a sovereign which CousinCosmo had sent me for a Christmas box--I saw that care would be neededto make it take me to my journey's end. Nor, how at last, late in theafternoon, I found myself on the platform at Middlemoor Station. 

I was very tired, now that the first excitement had gone off. 

'How glad I shall be to get to Windy Gap, ' I thought, 'and to be withKezia. '

I opened my purse and looked at my money. There were three shillings andsome coppers, not enough for a fly, which I knew cost five shillings. 

'I can't walk all the way, ' I said to myself. 'It's getting so latetoo, ' for I had had to wait more than an hour at Paddington for a train. 

Then a bright idea struck me. There was an omnibus that went rather morethan half-way, if only I could get it I should be able to manage. I wentout of the station and there, to my delight, it stood; by good luck Ihad come by a train which it always met. There were two other passengersin it already, but of course there was plenty of room for me and my bagand my parcel, so I settled myself in a corner, not sorry to see that mycompanions were perfect strangers to me. It was now about seven inthe evening, the sky was fast darkening. Off we jogged, going at apretty good pace at first, but soon falling back to a very slow one asthe road began to mount. I fancy I dozed a little, for the next thing Iremember was the stopping of the omnibus at the little roadside inn, which was the end of its journey. 

I got out and paid my fare, and then set off on what was really theworst part of the whole, for I was now very tired and my luggage, smallas it was, seemed to weigh like lead. I might have looked out for a boyto carry it for me, but that idea didn't enter my head, and I was veryanxious not to be noticed by any one who might have known me. 

[Illustration: It was all uphill too. --P. 173. ]

I seemed to have no feeling now except the longing to be 'at home' andwith Kezia. I almost forgot why I had come and all about my unhappinessin London; but, oh dear! how that mile stretched itself out! It was alluphill too; every now and then I was forced to stop for a minute and toput down my packages on the ground so as to rest my aching arms, so myprogress was very slow. It was quite dark when at last I found myselfstumbling up the bit of steep path which lay between the end of the roadwhere Sharley's pony-cart used to wait and our own little garden-gate. If I hadn't known my way so well I could scarcely have found it, but atlast my goal was reached. I stood at the door for a moment or twowithout knocking, to recover my breath, and indeed my wits, a little. Itall seemed so strange, I felt as if I were dreaming. But soon the freshsweet air, which was almost like native air to me, made me feel morelike myself--made me realise that here I was again at dear old WindyGap. More than that, I would not let my mind dwell upon, except to thinkover what should be my first words to Kezia. 

I knocked at last, and then for the first time I noticed that there wasa light in the drawing-room shining through the blinds. 

'Dear me, ' I thought, 'how strange, ' and then a terror came overme--supposing the house was let to strangers! I had quite forgotten thatthis was possible. 

But before I had time to think of what I could in that case do, the doorwas opened. 

'Kezia, ' I gasped, but looking up, my new fears took shape. 

It was not Kezia who stood there, it was a boy; a boy about two or threeyears older than I, not as tall as Gerard Nestor, though strong andsturdy looking, and with--even at that moment I thought so tomyself--the very nicest face I had ever seen. He was sunburnt and ruddy, with short dark hair and bright kind-looking eyes, which when he smiledseemed to smile too. I daresay I did not see all that just then, but itis difficult now to separate my earliest remembrance of him from what Inoticed afterwards, and there never was, there never has been, anythingto contradict or confuse the first feeling, or instinct, that he was asgood and true as he looked, my dear old Harry!

Just now, of course, his face had a very surprised expression. 

'Kezia?' he repeated. 'I am sorry she is not in just now. '

It was an immense relief to gather from his words that she was not away. 

'Will she be in soon?' I said, eagerly; 'I didn't know there was any oneelse in the house. May I--do you mind--if I come in and wait till Keziareturns?'

'Certainly, ' said the boy, and as he spoke he stooped to pick up the bagand parcel which his quick eyes had caught sight of. 'My brother and Iare staying here, ' he said, as he crossed the little hall to thedrawing-room door. 'We are alone here except for Kezia; we came here afortnight ago from school, it was broken up because of illness. '

I think he went on speaking out of a sort of friendly wish to set me atmy ease, and I listened half stupidly, I don't think I quite took inwhat he said. A younger boy was sitting in my own old corner, by thewindow, and a little table with a lamp on it was drawn up beside him. 

'Lindsay, ' said my guide, and the younger boy, who was evidently verywell drilled by his brother, started up at once. 'This--this younglady, ' for by this time he had found out I was a lady in spite of mybrown paper parcel, 'has come to see Kezia. Put some coal on the fire, it's getting very low. '

Lindsay obeyed, eyeing me as he did so. He was smaller and slighter thanhis brother, with fair hair and a rather girlish face. 

'Won't you sit down?' said Harry, pushing a chair forward to me. 

I was dreadfully tired and very glad to sit down, and now my brain beganto work a little more quickly. The name 'Lindsay' had started somerecollection. 

'Are you--' I began, 'is your name Vandeleur; are you the boys at schoolwith Gerard Nestor?'

'Yes, ' said Harry, opening his eyes very wide, 'and--would you mindtelling me who you are?' he added bluntly. 

'I'm Helena Wingfield, ' I said. 'This is my home. I have come backalone, all the way from London, because----' and I stopped short. 

'Because?' repeated Harry, looking at me with his kind, though searchingeyes. Something in his manner made me feel that I must answer him. Hewas only a boy, not nearly as 'grown-up' in manners or appearance asGerard Nestor; there was something even a little rough about him, butstill he seemed at once to take the upper hand with me; I felt that Imust respect him. 

'Because--' I faltered, feeling it very difficult to keep fromcrying--'because I was so miserable in London in your--in Cousin Cosmo'shouse. He is my cousin, you know, ' I went on, 'though his name isdifferent. '

'I know, ' said Harry, quietly, 'he's our cousin too, and our guardian. But you're better off than we are--you've got your grandmother. I knowall about you, you see. But how on earth did she let you come away likethis alone? Or is she--no, she can't be with you, surely?'

'No, ' I replied, 'I'm alone, I thought I told you so; and grandmammadoesn't know I've come away, of course she wouldn't have let me. Nobodydoes know. '

Harry's face grew very grave indeed, and Lindsay raised himself fromstooping over the fire, and stood staring at me as if I was somethingvery extraordinary. 

'Your grandmother doesn't know?' repeated Harry, 'nobody knows? Howcould you come away like that? Why, your grandmother will be nearly outof her mind about you!'

'No, she won't, ' I replied, 'she doesn't care for me now, it's all quitedifferent from what it used to be. Nobody cares for me, they'll only bevery glad to be rid of the trouble of me. '

The tears had got up into my eyes by this time, and as I spoke theybegan slowly to drop on to my cheeks. Harry saw them, I knew, but Ididn't feel as if I cared, though I think I wanted him to be sorry forme, his kind face looked as if he would be. So I was rather surprisedwhen, instead of saying something sympathising and gentle, he answeredrather abruptly--

'Helena, I don't mean to be rude, for of course it's no business ofmine, but I think you must know that you are talking nonsense. I don'tmean about Mr. Vandeleur, or any one but your grandmother; but as forsaying that she has left off caring for you, that's all--perfectlyimpossible. _I_ know enough for that; you've been with her all yourlife, and she's been most awfully good to you----'

'I know she has, ' I interrupted, 'that makes it all the worse to bear. '

'We'll talk about that afterwards, ' said Harry, 'it's your grandmotheryou should think of now--what do you mean to do?'

I stared at him, not quite understanding. 

'I meant to stay here, ' I said, 'with Kezia. If I can't--if you count ityour house and won't let me stay, I must go somewhere else. But youcan't stop my staying here till I've seen Kezia. '

Harry gave an impatient exclamation. 

'Can't you understand, ' he said, 'that I meant what are you going to doabout letting your grandmother know where you are?'

'I hadn't thought about it, ' I said; 'perhaps they won't find out tillto-morrow morning. '

And then in my indignation I went on to tell him about the lonely life Ihad had lately, ending up with an account of my fall down the stairsand what I had overheard about being sent away to school. 

'Poor Helena, ' said Lindsay. 

Harry, too, was sorry for me, I know, but just then he did not say much. 

'All the same, ' he replied, after listening to me, 'it wouldn't be rightto risk your grandmother's being frightened, any longer. I'll send atelegram at once. '

The village post and telegraph office was only a quarter of a mile fromour house. Harry turned to leave the room as he spoke. 

'Lindsay, you'll look after Helena till I come back, ' he said. 'Idaresay Kezia won't be in for an hour or so. '

I stopped him. 

'You mustn't send a telegram without telling me what you are going tosay, ' I said. 

He looked at me. 

'I shall just put--"Helena is here, safe and well, "' he replied, and tothis I could not make any reasonable objection. 

'I may be safe, but I don't think I am well, ' I said grumblingly when hehad gone. 'I'm starving, to begin with. I've had nothing to eat all dayexcept two buns I bought at Paddington Station, and my head's achingdreadfully. '

'Oh, dear, ' said Lindsay, who was a soft-hearted little fellow, and mostready to sympathise, especially in those troubles which he bestunderstood, 'you must be awfully hungry. We had our tea some time ago, but Kezia always gives us supper. Come into the kitchen and let's seewhat we can find--or no, you're too tired--you stay here and I'll foragefor you. '

He went off, returning in a few minutes with a jug of milk and a bigslice of one of Kezia's own gingerbread cakes. I thought nothing hadever tasted so good, and my headache seemed to get better after eatingit and drinking the milk. 

I was just finishing when Harry came in again. 

'That's right, ' he said, 'I forgot that you must be hungry. '

Then we all three sat and looked at each other without speaking. 

'Lindsay, ' said Harry at last, 'you'd better finish that exercise youwere doing when Helena came in, ' and Lindsay obediently went back to thetable. 

I wanted Harry to speak to me. After all I had told him I thought heshould have been sorry for me, and should have allowed that I had righton my side, instead of letting me sit there in silence. At last I couldbear it no longer. 

'I don't think, ' I said, 'that you should treat me as if I were toonaughty to speak to. I know quite well that you are not at all fond ofMr. Vandeleur yourself, and that should make you sorry for me. '

'I suppose you're thinking of what Gerard Nestor said, ' Harry replied. 'It's true I know very little of Mr. Vandeleur, though I daresay he hasmeant to be kind to us. But what I can't make out is how you could treatyour grandmother so. Lindsay and I have never had any one like whatshe's been to you. '

His words startled me. 

'If I had thought, ' I began, 'that she would really care--or befrightened about me--perhaps I--' but I had no time to say more, therecame a knock at the front door and Lindsay started up. 

'It's Kezia, ' he said, 'she locks the back-door when she goes out in theevening and we let her in. She's been to church, ' so off he flew, eagerto be the one to give her the news of my unexpected arrival. 

But I did not rush out to meet her, as I would have done at first. Harry's words had begun to make me a little less sure than I had been asto how even Kezia would look upon my conduct. 

CHAPTER XIV

KEZIA'S COUNSEL

The sound of low voices--Lindsay's and Kezia's, followed by anexclamation, Kezia's of course--reached Harry and me as we stood therein silence looking at each other. 

Then the door was pushed open and in hurried my old friend. 

'Miss Helena!' she said breathlessly. 'Miss Helena, I could scarcebelieve Master Lindsay! Dear, dear, how frightened your grandmother willbe!'

I could see that it went against her kindly feelings to receive me byblame at the very first, and yet her words showed plainly enough whatshe was thinking. 

'Grandmamma will not be frightened, ' I said, rather coldly. 'Harry hassent her a telegram, and besides--I don't think she would have beenfrightened any way. It's all quite different now, Kezia, you don'tunderstand. She's got other people to care for instead of me. '

Kezia took no notice of this. 

'Dear, dear!' she said again. 'To think of you coming here alone! I'msure when Master Lindsay met me at the door saying: "Guess who's here, Kezia, " I never could have--' but here I interrupted her. 

'If that's all you've got to say to me I really don't care to hear it, 'I said, 'but it's a queer sort of welcome. I can't go away to-night, Isuppose, but I will the very first thing to-morrow morning. I daresaythey'll take me in at the vicarage, but really--' I broke offagain--'considering that this is my own home, and--and--that I had noone else to go to in all the world except you, Kezia, I do think--' buthere my voice failed, I burst into tears. 

Kezia put her arms round me very kindly. 

'Poor dear, ' she said, 'whatever mistakes you've made, you must be tiredto death. Come with me into the dining-room, Miss Helena, there's abetter fire there, and I'll get you a cup of tea or something, and thenyou must go to bed. Your own room's quite ready, just as you left it. Master Lindsay has the little chair-bed in Mr. Harry's room--yourgrandmamma's room, I mean. '

She led me into the dining-room, talking as she went, in thismatter-of-fact way, to help me to recover myself. 

Harry and Lindsay remained behind. 

'I have had--some--milk, and a piece of--gingerbread, ' I said, betweenmy sobs, as Kezia established me in front of the fire in the other room. 'I don't think I could eat anything else, but I'd like some tea verymuch. '

I shivered in spite of the beautiful big fire close to me. 

'You shall have it at once, ' said Kezia, hurrying off, 'though itmustn't be strong, and I'll make you a bit of toast, too. '

Then I overheard a little bustle in the kitchen, and by the sounds, Imade out that Harry or Lindsay, or both of them perhaps, were helpingKezia in her preparations. 

'What nice boys they are, ' I thought to myself, and a feeling of shamebegan to come over me that I should have first got to know them whenacting in a way that they, Harry at least, so evidently thought wrongand foolish. 

But now that, in spite of her disapproval, I felt myself safe in Kezia'scare, the restraint I had put upon myself gave way more and more. I satthere crying quietly, and when the little tray with tea and a temptingpiece of hot toast (which Harry's red face showed he had had to do with)made its appearance I ate and drank obediently, almost without speaking. 

Half an hour later I was in bed in my own little room, Kezia tucking mein as she had done so very, very often in my life. 

'Now go to sleep, dearie, ' she said, 'and think of nothing tillto-morrow morning, except that when things come to the worst they beginto get better. '

And sleep I did, soundly and long. Harry and Lindsay had had theirbreakfast two hours before at least, when I woke, and other things hadhappened. A telegram had come in reply to Harry's, thanking him for it, announcing Mr. Vandeleur's arrival that very afternoon, and desiringHarry to meet him at Middlemoor Station. 

They did not tell me of this; perhaps they were afraid it would havemade me run off again somewhere else. But when my old nurse brought upmy breakfast we had a long, long talk together. I told her all that Ihad told Harry the night before, and of course in some ways it waseasier for her to understand than it had been for him. I could not havehad a better counsellor. She just put aside all I said aboutgrandmamma's not caring for me any longer as simple nonsense; she didn'tattempt to explain all the causes of my having been left so much tomyself. She didn't pretend to understand it altogether. 

'Your grandmamma will put it all right to you, herself, when she seeswell to do so, ' she said. 'She has just made one mistake, Miss Helena, it seems to me--she has credited you with more sense than perhaps shouldbe expected of a child. '

I didn't like this, and I felt my cheeks grow red. 

'More sense, ' repeated Kezia, 'and she has trusted you too much. Itshould have pleased you to be looked on like that, and if you'd been alittle older it would have done so. The idea that you could think shehad left off caring for you would have seemed to her simply impossible. She has trusted you too much, and you, Miss Helena, have not trusted herat all. '

'But you're forgetting, Kezia, what I heard myself, with my own ears, about sending me away to school, and how little she seemed to care. '

Kezia smiled, rather sadly. 

'My dearie, ' she said, 'I have not served Mrs. Wingfield all the years Ihave, not to know her better than that. I daresay you'll never know, unless you live to be a mother and grandmother yourself, what thethought of parting with you was costing her, at the very time she spokeso quietly. '

'But when I fell downstairs, ' I persisted, 'she seemed so vexed with me, and then--oh! for days and days before that, I had hardly seen her. '

Kezia looked pained. 

'Yes, my dear, it must have been hard for you, but harder for yourgrandmamma. There are times in life when all does seem to be going thewrong way. And very likely being so very troubled and anxious herself, about you as well as about other things, made your grandmamma appearless kind than usual. '

Kezia stopped and hesitated a little. 

'I think as things are, ' she said, 'I can't be doing wrong in tellingyou a little more than you know. I am sure my dear lady will forgive meif I make a mistake in doing so, seeing she has not told you moreherself, no doubt for the best of reasons. '

She stopped again. I felt rather frightened. 

'What do you mean, Kezia?' I said. 

'It is about Mrs. Vandeleur. Do you know, my dear Miss Helena, that ithas just been touch and go these last days, if she was to live or die?'

'Oh, Kezia!' I exclaimed; 'no, I didn't know it was as bad as that, ' andthe tears--unselfish, unbitter tears this time--rushed into my eyes as Iremembered the sweet white face that I had seen in grandmamma's room, and the gentle voice that had tried to say something kind and loving tome. 'Oh, Kezia, I wish I had known. Do you think it will have hurt her, my peeping into the room yesterday?' for I had told my old nurse_everything_. 

She shook her head. 

'No, my dear, I don't think so. She is going to get really better now, they feel sure--as sure as it is ever _right_ to feel about such things, I mean. Only yesterday morning I had a letter from your grandmamma, saying so. She meant to tell you soon, all about the great anxiety therehad been--once it was over--she had been afraid of grieving and alarmingyou. So, dear Miss Helena, if you had just been patient a _little_longer----'

My tears were dropping fast now, but still I was not quite softened. 

'All the same, Kezia, ' I said, 'they meant to send me to school. '

'Well, my dear, if they had, it might have been really for yourhappiness. You would have been sent nowhere that was not as good andnice a school as could be. And, of course, though Mrs. Vandeleur hasturned the corner in a wonderful way, she will be delicate forlong--perhaps never quite strong, and the life is lonely for you. '

'I wouldn't mind, ' I said, for the sight of sweet Cousin Agnes had mademe feel as if I would do anything for her. 'I wouldn't mind, ifgrandmamma trusted me, and if I could feel she loved me as much as sheused. I would do my lessons alone, or go to a day-school or anything, ifonly I felt happy again with grandmamma. '

'My dearie, there is no need for you to feel anything else. '

'Oh yes--there is _now_, even if there wasn't before, ' I said, miserably. 'Think of what I have done. Even if grandmamma forgave me forcoming away here, Cousin Cosmo would not--he is _so_ stern, Kezia. Hereally is--you know Harry and Lindsay thought so--Gerard Nestor told us, and though Harry won't speak against him, I can see he doesn't care forhim. '

'Perhaps they have not got to know each other, ' suggested Kezia. 'MasterHarry is a dear boy; but so was Mr. Cosmo long ago--I can't believe hiswhole nature has changed. '

Then another thought struck me. 

'Kezia, ' I said, 'I think grandmamma might have told me about the boysbeing here. She used to tell me far littler things than that. And in asort of a way I think I had a right to know. Windy Gap is my home. '

'It was all settled in a hurry, ' said Kezia. 'The school broke upsuddenly through some cases of fever, and poor Mr. Vandeleur was muchput about to know where to send the young gentlemen. He couldn't havethem in London, with Mrs. Vandeleur so ill, and your grandmamma was veryglad to have the cottage free, and me here to do for them. No doubt shewould have told you about it. I'm glad for your sake they are here. They'll be nice company for you. '

Her words brought home to me the actual state of things. 

'Do you think grandmamma will let me stay here a little?' I said. 'I'mafraid she will not--and even if _she_ would, Cousin Cosmo will be soangry, _he_'ll prevent it. I am quite sure they will send me toschool. '

'But what was the use of you coming here then, Miss Helena, ' said Kezia, sensibly, 'if you knew you would be sent to school after all?'

'Oh, ' I said, 'I didn't think very much about anything except gettingaway. I--I thought grandmamma would just be glad to be rid of thetrouble of me, and that they'd leave me here till Mrs. Vandeleur wasbetter and grandmamma could come home again. '

Kezia did not answer at once. Then she said--

'Do you dislike London so very much, then, Miss Helena?'

'Oh no, ' I replied. 'I was very happy alone with grandmamma, except foralways thinking they were coming, and fancying she didn't--that she wasbeginning not to care for me. But--I _am_ sorry now, Kezia, for nothaving trusted her. '

'That's right, my dear; and you'll show it by giving in cheerfully towhatever your dear grandmamma thinks best for you?'

I was still crying--but quite quietly. 

'I'll--I'll try, ' I whispered. 

When I was dressed I went downstairs, not sorry to feel I should findthe boys there. And in spite of the fears as to the future that werehanging over me I managed to spend a happy day with them. They dideverything they could to cheer me up, and the more I saw of Harry themore I began to realise how very, very much brighter a life mine hadbeen than his--how ungrateful I had been and how selfish. It was worsefor him than for Lindsay, who was quite a child, and who looked to Harryfor everything. And yet Harry made no complaints--he only said once ortwice, when we were talking about grandmamma, that he did wish she was_their_ grandmother, too. 

'Wasn't that old lady you lived with before like a grandmother?' Iasked. 

Harry shook his head. 

'We scarcely ever saw her, ' he said. 'She was very old and ill, and evenwhen we did go to her for the holidays we only saw her to saygood-morning and good-night. On the whole we were glad to stay on atschool. '

Poor fellows--they had indeed been orphans. 

We wandered about the little garden, and all my old haunts. But for myterrible anxiety, I should have enjoyed it thoroughly. 

'Harry, ' I said, when we had had our dinner--a very nice dinner, by thebye. I began to think grandmamma must have got rich, for there was afeeling of prosperity about the cottage--fires in several rooms, andeverything so comfortable. 'Harry, what do you think I should do? ShouldI write to grandmamma and tell her--that I am very sorry, and that--thatI'll be good about going to school, if she fixes to send me?'

The tears came back again, but still I said it firmly. 

'I think, ' said Harry, 'you had better wait till to-morrow. '

He did not tell me of Mr. Vandeleur's telegram--for he had been desirednot to do so. I should have been still more uneasy and nervous if I hadknown my formidable cousin was actually on his way to Middlemoor!

CHAPTER XV

'HAPPY EVER SINCE'

Later in the afternoon--about three o'clock or so--Harry looked at hiswatch and started up. We were sitting in the drawing-room talkingquietly--Harry had been asking me about my lessons and finding out howfar on I was, for I was a little tired still, and we had been runningabout a good deal in the morning. 

'Oh, ' I said, in a disappointed tone, 'where are you going? If you wouldwait a little while, I could come out with you again, I am sure. ' For Ifelt as if I did not want to lose any of the time we were together, andof course I did not know how soon grandmamma might not send some one totake me away to school. 

And never since Sharley and the others had gone away had I had thepleasure of companions of my own age. There was something about Harrywhich reminded me of Sharley, though he was a boy--something so strongand straightforward and _big_, no other word seems to say it so well. 

Harry looked at me with a little smile. Dear Harry, I know now that hewas feeling even more anxious about me than I was for myself, and thatbrave as he was, it took all his courage to do as he had determined--Imean to plead my cause with his stern guardian. For Mr. Vandeleur wasalmost as much a stranger to him as to me. 

'I'm afraid I must, ' he said, 'I have to go to Middlemoor, but I shallnot be away more than an hour and a half. Lindsay--you'll look afterHelena, and Helena will look after you and prevent you getting intomischief while I'm away. '

For though Lindsay was a very good little boy, and not wild or rough, hewas rather unlucky. I never saw any one like him for tumbling andbumping himself and tearing his clothes. 

After Harry had gone, Lindsay got out their stamp album and we amusedourselves with it very well for more than an hour, as there were a goodmany new stamps to put into their proper places. Then Kezia came in--

'Miss Helena, ' she said, 'would you and Master Lindsay mind going intothe other room? I want to tidy this one up a little, I was so longtalking with you this morning that I dusted it rather hurriedly. '

We had made a litter, certainly, with the gum-pot and scraps of paper, and cold water for loosening the stamps, but we soon cleared it up. 

'Isn't it nearly tea-time?' I said. 

'Yes, you shall have it as soon as Master Harry comes in, ' said Kezia, 'it is all laid in the dining-room. '

'Oh, well, ' said Lindsay, 'we won't do any more stamps this afternoon;come along then, Helena, we'll tell each other stories for a change. '

'You may tell me stories, ' I said--'and I'll try to listen, ' I added tomyself, 'though I don't feel as if I could, ' for as the day went on Ifelt myself growing more and more frightened and uneasy. 'I wish Harrywould come in, ' I said aloud, 'I think I should write to grandmammato-day. '

'He won't be long, ' said Lindsay, 'Harry always keeps to his time, ' andthen he began his stories. I'm afraid I don't remember what they were. There were a great many 'you see's' and 'and so's, ' but at another timeI daresay I would have found them interesting. 

He was just in the middle of one, about a trick some of the boys hadplayed an undermaster at their school, when I heard the front door openquietly and steps cross the hall. The steps were of more than oneperson, though no one was speaking. 

'Stop, Lindsay, ' I said, and I sat bolt up in my chair and listened. 

Whoever it was had gone into the drawing-room. Then some one came outagain and crossed to the kitchen. 

'Can it be Harry?' I said. 

'There's some one with him if it is, ' said Lindsay. 

I felt myself growing white, and Lindsay grew red with sympathy. He _is_a very feeling boy. But we both sat quite still. Then the door openedgently, and some one looked in, but it wasn't Harry, it was Kezia. 

'Miss Helena, my love, ' she said, 'there's some one in the drawing-roomwho wants to see you. '

'Who is it?' I asked, breathlessly, but my old nurse shook her head. 

'You'll see, ' she said. 

My heart began to beat with the hope--a silly, wild hope it was, for ofcourse I might have known she could not yet have left Cousin Agnes--thatit might be grandmamma. And, luckily perhaps, for without it I shouldnot have had courage to enter the drawing-room, this idea lasted till Ihad opened the door, and it was too late to run away. 

How I did wish I could do so you will easily understand, when I tell youthat the tall figure standing looking out of the window, which turned asI came in, was that of my stern Cousin Cosmo himself!

I must have got very white, I think, though it seemed to me as if allthe blood in my body had rushed up into my head and was buzzing awaythere like lots and lots of bees, but I only remember saying 'Oh!' in asort of agony of fear and shame. And the next thing I recollect wasfinding myself on a chair and Cousin Cosmo beside me on another, and, wonderful to say, he was holding my hand, which had grown dreadfullycold, in one of his. His grasp felt firm and protecting. I shut my eyesjust for a moment and fancied to myself that it seemed as if papa werethere. 

'But it can't last, ' I thought, 'he's going to be awfully angry with mein a minute. '

I did not speak. I sat there like a miserable little criminal, onlyjudges don't generally hold prisoners' hands when they are going tosentence them to something very dreadful, do they? I might have thoughtof that, but I didn't. I just squeezed myself together to bear whateverwas coming. 

This was what came. 

I heard a sort of sigh or a deep breath, and then a voice, which italmost seemed to me I had never heard before, said, very, very gently--

'My poor little girl--poor little Helena. Have I been such an ogre toyou?'

I could _scarcely_ believe my ears--to think that it was Cousin Cosmospeaking to me in that way! I looked up into his face; I had reallynever seen it very well before. And now I found out that the dark, deep-set eyes were soft and not stern--what I had taken for hardness andseverity had, after all, been mostly sadness and anxiety, I think. 

'Cousin Cosmo, ' I said, 'are you going to forgive me, then? Andgrandmamma, too? _I am_ sorry for running away, but I didn't understandproperly. I will go to school whenever you like, and not grumble. '

My tears were dropping fast, but still I felt strangely soothed. 

'Tell me more about it all, ' said Mr. Vandeleur. 'I want to understandfrom yourself all about the fancies and mistakes there have been in yourhead. '

'Would you first tell me, ' I said, 'how Cousin Agnes is? It was a gooddeal about her I didn't understand?'

'Much, much better, ' he replied, 'thank God. She is going to be almostwell again, I hope. '

And then, before I knew what I was about, I found myself in the middleof it all--telling him everything--the whole story of my unhappiness, more fully even than I had told it to Harry and Kezia, for though he didnot say much, the few words he put in now and then showed me howwonderfully he understood. (Cousin Cosmo _is_ a very clever man. )

And when at last I left off speaking, _he_ began and talked to me for along time. I could never tell if I tried, _how_ he talked--so kindly, and nicely, and rightly--putting things in the right way, I mean, notmaking out it was _all_ my fault, which made me far sorrier than if hehad laid the whole of the blame on me. 

I always do feel like that when people, especially big people, aregenerous in that sort of way. One thing Cousin Cosmo said at the endwhich I must tell. 

'We have a good deal to thank Harry for, ' it was, 'both you and I, Helena. But for his manly, sensible way of judging the whole, we mightnever have got to understand each other, as I trust we now always shall. And more good has come out of it, too. I have never known Harry for what_he_ is, before to-day. '

'I am so very glad, ' I said. 

'Now, ' said Mr. Vandeleur, looking at his watch, 'it is past fiveo'clock. I shall spend the night at the hotel at Middlemoor, but Ishould like to stay with you three here, as late as possible. Do youthink your good Kezia can give me something to eat?'

'Of course she can, ' I said, all my hospitable feelings awakened--for Ican never feel but that Windy Gap is my particular home--'Shall I go andask her? Our tea must be ready now in the dining-room. '

'That will do capitally, ' said Cousin Cosmo. 'I'll have a cup of tea nowwith you three, in the first place, and then as long as the daylightlasts you must show me the lions of Windy Gap, Helena. It _is_ a quaintlittle place, ' he added, looking round, 'and I am sure it must have agreat charm of its own, but I am afraid my aunt and you must have foundit very cold and exposed in bad weather?'

'Sometimes, ' I said; 'the last winter here was pretty bad. '

'Yes, ' he answered, 'it is not a place for the middle of winter, ' butthat was all he said. 

I was turning to leave the room when another thought struck me. 

'Cousin Cosmo, ' I asked timidly, 'will grandmamma want me to go toschool very soon?'

He smiled, rather a funny smile. 

'Put it out of your mind till I go back to London, and talk thingsover, ' he replied. 'I want all of us to be as happy as possible thisevening. Send Harry in here for a moment. '

I met Harry outside in the hall. 

'Is it all right?' he said, anxiously. 

'Oh, Harry, ' I said, 'I can scarcely believe he's the same! He's been soawfully kind. '

That evening _was_ a very happy one. Cousin Cosmo was interested abouteverything at Windy Gap, and after supper he talked to Harry and me ofall sorts of things, and promised to send us down some books, whichpleased me, as it did seem as if he must mean me to stay where I wasfor a few days at any rate. 

Still, I did not feel, of course, quite at rest till I had written along, long letter to grandmamma and heard from her in return. I need notrepeat all she said about what had passed--it just made me feel morethan ever ashamed of having doubted her and of having been so selfish. 

But what she said at the end of her letter about the plans she andCousin Cosmo had been making was almost too delightful. I could scarcelyhelp jumping with joy when I read it. 

'Harry, ' I called out, 'I'm not to go to school at all, just fancy! I'mto stay here with you and Lindsay till you go back to school--till a fewdays before, I mean, and we're to travel to London together and be allat Chichester Square. Cousin Agnes and grandmamma are going away to thesea-side now immediately, but they'll be back before we come. CousinAgnes is so much better!'

Harry did not look quite as pleased as I was--about the London part ofit. 

'I'm awfully glad you're going to stay here, ' he answered; 'and I dowant to see your grandmother. I suppose it'll be all right, ' he wenton, 'and that they won't find Lindsay and me a nuisance in London. '

I was almost vexed with him. 

'Harry, ' I said, 'don't _you_ begin to be fanciful. You don't _know_ howCousin Cosmo spoke of you the other day. '

And after all it did come all right. My story finishes up like afairy-tale--'They lived happy ever after!'

Well no, not quite that, for it is not yet four years since all thishappened, and four years would be a very short 'ever after. '

But I may certainly say we have lived most happily ever since that timetill now. 

Cousin Agnes is much, much better. She never will be quite strong--nevera very strong person, I mean. But she is _so_ sweet, our boys and Ioften think we should scarcely like her to be any different in any wayfrom what she is, though of course not really ill or suffering. 

And 'our boys'--yes, that is what they are--dear brothers to me, justlike real ones, and just like grandsons to dear, dear grandmamma. Theycome to Chichester Square regularly for their holidays--it is their'new home, ' as it is mine. But we have another home--and it is not muchof the holidays except the Christmas ones that we--grandmamma and wethree--spend in London. 

For Windy Gap is still ours--and Kezia lives there and is always readyto have us--and Cousin Cosmo has built on two or three more rooms, andour summers there are just _perfect_!

The Nestors came back to Moor Court long ago, and I see almost as muchof them as in the old days, as they now come to their London house everyyear for some months, and we go to several classes together, though Ihave a daily governess as well. 

Next year Sharley is to 'come out. ' Just fancy! I am sure every one willthink her very pretty. But not many can know as well as I do that herface only tells a very small part of her beauty. She is so very, verygood. 

I daresay you will wonder how Cousin Cosmo--grave, stern CousinCosmo--likes it all. His quiet solemn house the home of three adoptedchildren, who are certainly not solemn, and not always 'quiet' by anymeans. 

I can only tell you that he said to grandmamma not very long ago, andshe told me, and I told Harry--that he had 'never been so happy since hewas a boy himself, ' all but a son to her and a brother to 'Paul'--thatwas my father, you know. 

THE END