A Pair of Clogs, and other stories, by Amy Walton. 

________________________________________________________________________In the first of the stories a young girl-child is stolen by the gypsies. Yet they decide to give the child up, and they leave it in an out-houseowned by a young clergyman. The latter isn't very pleased at this, buthis wife certainly is, and they bring the child up. 

After a few years, and in a particularly tense moment, the true motheris found. An agreement is reached, whereby the child is shared. 

As with Amy Walton short stories, there is not only a well-told tale butalso a moral. 

________________________________________________________________________A PAIR OF CLOGS, AND OTHER STORIES, BY AMY WALTON. 

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 1. 

HER FIRST HOME. 

"My! What a pretty pair of clogs baby's gotten!"

The street was narrow and very steep, and paved with round stones; oneach side of it were slate-coloured houses, some high, some low; and inthe middle of it stood baby, her curly yellow head bare, and her bluecotton frock lifted high with both fat hands. She could not speak, butshe wanted to show that on her feet were tiny new clogs with brightbrass tips. 

She stopped in front of all her acquaintances, men, women, children, andeven dogs. Each of them, except the last, made much the same remark, and she then toddled cheerfully on, until nearly everyone in the villageof Haworth knew of this wonderful new thing. 

The baby's mother lived in Haworth, but all day long she had to work inthe town of Keighley down below in the valley, for she was afactory-girl. From the hillside you could see the thick veil of smoke, never lifted, which hung over the tall chimneys and grey houses; thepeople there very seldom saw the sky clear and blue, but up at Haworththe wind blew freshly off the wide moor just above, and there wasnothing to keep away the sunshine. This was the reason that MaggieMenzies still lived there, after she had taken to working in thefactory; it was a long walk to and from Keighley, but it was healthierfor the "li'le lass" to sleep in the fresh air. Everything in Maggie'slife turned upon that one small object; the "li'le lass" was her onetreasure, her one golden bit of happiness, the reason why she cared tosee the sun shine, or to eat, or drink, or rest, or to be alive at all. Except for the child she was alone in the world, for her husband hadbeen killed in an accident two years ago, when the baby was only a monthold. Since then she had been Maggie's one thought and care; no one whohas not at some time in their lives spent all their affection on asingle thing or person can at all understand what she felt, or howstrong her love was. It made all her troubles and hardships easy merelyto think of the child; just to call to mind the dimples, and yellowhair, and fat hands, was enough to make her deaf to the whirr and rattleof the restless machinery, and the harsh tones of the overseer. Whenshe began her work in the morning she said to herself, "I shall see herin the evening;" and when it was unusually tiresome during the day, andthings went very wrong, she could be patient and even cheerful when sheremembered "it's fur _her_. " The factory-girls with boisterousgood-nature had tried to make her sociable when she first came; theyinvited her to stroll with them by the river in the summer evenings, tostand and gossip with them at the street corners, to join in theirparties of pleasure on Sundays. But they soon found it was of no use;Maggie's one idea, when work was over, was to throw her little checkedshawl over her head, and turn her steps quickly towards a certain housein a narrow alley near the factory, for there, under the care of aneighbour, she left her child during the day. 

It would have been much better, everyone told her, to leave her up atHaworth instead of bringing her into the smoky town; Maggie knew it, buther answer was always the same to this advice:

"I couldn't bring myself to it, " she said. "I niver could git throughthe work if I didn't know she was near me. "

So winter and summer, through the damp cold or the burning heat, shemight be seen coming quickly down the steep hill from Haworth everymorning clack, clack, in her wooden shoes, with her child in her arms. In the evening her pace was slower, for she was tired, and the road washard to climb, and the child, generally asleep, weighed heavily. Forthe baby was getting beyond a baby now; she was nearly two years old. How pretty she was, how clever, what dear little knowing ways she had, what tiny feet and hands! How yellow her hair was, how white her skin!She was unlike any child in Haworth; she was matchless!

And indeed, quite apart from her mother's fond admiration, the baby wasa beautiful child, delicately formed, and very different from theblunt-featured children of those parts; she was petted by everyone inthe village, and had in consequence such proud, imperious little waysthat she was a sort of small queen there; the biggest and roughest manamong them was her humble subject, and ready to do her bidding when shewished to be tossed in the air or to ride pickaback. She could say veryfew words yet, but nothing could exceed her brightness andintelligence--a wonderful baby indeed!

She had been christened Betty; but the name was almost forgotten in allsorts of loving nicknames, and lately the people of Haworth had givenher a new one, which she got in the following manner:--

Nearly at the bottom of the steep village street there was a cobbler'sstall which Maggie passed every day in her journeys to and fromKeighley. It was open to the road, and in it hung rows and rows ofclogs of all sizes--some of them big enough to fit a man, and some forchildren, quite tiny. They all had wooden soles, and toes slightlyturned-up tipped with gleaming brass, and a brass buckle on the instep;nearly all the people in Haworth and all the factory-girls in Keighleywore such shoes, but they were always called "clogs. " Inside the stallsat an old man with twinkling blue eyes, and a stumpy turned-up nose: hesat and cobbled and mended, and made new clogs out of the old ones whichlay in great heaps all round him. Over his stall was the name "T Monk, "but in the village he was always known as Tommie; and though he was asilent and somewhat surly character, Tommie's opinion and advice wereoften asked, and much valued when given. Maggie regarded him withadmiration and respect. When she passed with her child in her arms healways looked up and nodded, though he seldom gave any other answer toher "Good-day, Master Monk. " Tommie never wasted his words: "Littlewords mak' bonnie do's, " he was accustomed to say. 

But one evening the sun happened to shine on the row of brass-tippedclogs, and made them glisten brightly just as Maggie went by. It caughtthe baby's attention, and she held out her arms to them and gave alittle coo of pleasure. 

"T'little lass is wantin' clogs, I reckon, " said Tommie with a grimsmile. 

Maggie held out the baby's tiny foot with a laugh of pride. 

"Here's a foot for a pair of clogs, Master Monk, " she said; "t'wouldn'twaste much leather to fashion 'em. "

Tommie said nothing more, but a week afterwards he beckoned to Maggiewith an important air as she went by. 

"You come here, " he said briefly. 

Maggie went into the stall, and he reached down from a nail a pair oftiny, neatly finished clogs. They had jaunty brass-bound toes, and arow of brass nails all round where the leather joined the wooden sole, and on the instep there gleamed a pair of smart brass clasps with apattern chased on them. 

"Fur her, " said Tommie as he gave them to Maggie. As he did so the babystretched out her hands to the bright clasps. 

"See!" exclaimed the delighted Maggie; "she likes 'em ever so. Oh, Master Monk, how good of yo'!"

"Them clasps _is_ oncommon, " said Tommie, regarding his workthoughtfully, his blue eyes twinkling with satisfaction, "I cam' at 'emby chance like. "

Maggie had now taken off her baby's shoe, and fitted the clog on to thesoft little foot. 

"Ain't they bonnie?" she said. 

The baby leaned forward and, seizing one toe in each hand, rockedherself gently to and fro. 

Tommie looked on approvingly. 

"Yo'll find 'em wear well, " he said; "they're the best o' leather andthe best o' workmanship. "

After six months more were gone the baby began to walk, and you mighthear a sharp little clatter on the pavement, like the sound of somesmall iron-shod animal. Tommie heard it one morning just as it wasMaggie's usual time to pass, and looked out of his stall. There wasMaggie coming down the road with a proud smile on her face, and the babywas there too. But not in her mother's arms. No, she was erect on herown small feet, tottering along in the new wooden clogs. 

"My word!" exclaimed Tommie, his nose wrinkling with gratification;"we'll have to call her Little Clogs noo. "

It was in this way that Maggie's child became known in the village as"Little Clogs. " Not that it was any distinction to wear clogs inHaworth, everyone had them; but the baby's feet were so tiny, and shewas so eager to show her new possession, that the clogs were as muchnoticed as though never before seen. When she stopped in front of someacquaintance, lifted her frock with both hands, and gazed seriouslyfirst at her own feet and then up in her friend's face, it was onlypossible to exclaim in surprise and admiration:

"Eh! To be sure. What pretty, pretty clogs baby's gotten!"

It was the middle of summer. Baby was just two years old and a month, and the clogs were still glossy and new, when one morning Maggie tookthe child with her down to Keighley as usual. It was stiflingly hotthere, after the cool breeze which blew off the moor on the hillside;the air was thick with smoke and dust, and, as Maggie turned into thealley where she was to leave her child, she felt how close and stuffy itwas. 

"'Tain't good for her here, " she thought, with a sigh. "I reckon I mustmak' up my mind to leave her up yonder this hot weather. "

But the baby did not seem to mind it. Maggie left her settled in theopen doorway talking cheerfully to one of her little clogs which she hadpulled off. This she filled with sand and emptied, over and over again, chuckling with satisfaction as a stray sunbeam touched the brass claspsand turned them into gold. In the distance she could hear the noise ofthe town, and presently amongst them there came a new sound--the beatingof a drum. Baby liked music. She threw down the clog, lifted onefinger, and said "Pitty!" turning her head to look into the room. Butno one was there, for the woman of the house had gone into the backkitchen. The noise continued, and seemed to draw baby towards it: shegot up on her feet, and staggered a little way down the alley, totteringa good deal, for one foot had the stout little clog on it, and the othernothing but a crumpled red sock. By degrees, however, after more thanone tumble, she got down to the end of the alley, and stood facing thebustling street. 

It was such a big, noisy world, with such a lot of people and horses andcarts in it, that she was frightened now, put out her arms, and screwedup her face piteously, and cried, "Mammy, mammy!"

Just then a woman passed with a tambourine in her hand and a brightcoloured handkerchief over her head. She shook the tambourine andsmiled kindly at baby, showing very white teeth. 

"Mammy, mammy!" said baby again, and began to sob. 

"Don't cry, then, deary, and I'll take you to mammy, " said the woman. She looked quickly up the alley, no one in sight. No one in the crowdedstreet noticed her. She stooped, raised the child in her arms, wrappeda shawl round her, and walked swiftly away. And that evening, whenMaggie came to fetch her little lass, she was not there; the only traceof her was one small clog, half full of sand, on the door-step!

The woman with the tambourine hurried along, keeping the child's headcovered with her shawl, at her heels a dirty-white poodle followedclosely. The street was bustling and crowded, for it was past twelveo'clock, and the workpeople were streaming out of the factories to go totheir dinners. If Maggie had passed the woman, she would surely havefelt that the bundle in her arms was her own little lass, even if shehad not seen one small clogged foot escaping from under the shawl. Babywas quiet now, except for a short gasping sob now and then, for shethought she was being taken to mammy. 

On and on went the woman through the town, past the railway-station, andat last reached a lonely country road; by that time, lulled by therapid, even movement and the darkness, baby had forgotten her troubles, and was fast asleep. She slept almost without stirring for a wholehour, and then, feeling the light on her eyes, she blinked her longlashes, rubbed them with her fists, and stretched out her fat legs. 

Next she looked up into mammy's face, as she thought, expecting thesmile which always waited for her there; but it was not mammy's face, oranything like it. They were sharp black eyes which were looking down ather, and instead of the familiar checked shawl, there was a brightyellow handkerchief over the woman's head, and dangling ornaments in herears. Baby turned up her lip in disgust, and looked round for someoneshe knew, but everything was strange to her. The woman, in whose lapshe was lying, sat in a small donkey-cart, with two brown children andsome bundles tightly packed in round her; a dark man walked by the sideof it, and a dirty-white poodle ran at his heels. Discovering thisstate of things baby lost no time, but burst at once into loud wailingsobs and cries of "Mammy, mammy; me want mammy. "

She cried so long and so bitterly that the woman, who had tried at firstto soothe her by coaxing and petting, lost patience, and shook herroughly. 

"Be still, little torment, " she said, "or I'll throw you into the pond. "

They were the first angry words baby had ever heard, and the experiencewas so new and surprising that she checked her sobs, staring up at thewoman with frightened tear-filled eyes. She soon began to cry again, but it was with much less violence, only a little distressed whimperwhich no one noticed. This went on all day, and by the evening, havingrefused to touch food, she fell into an exhausted slumber, broken byplaintive moans. It was now dark, and being some miles from Keighley, the tramps thought it safe to stop for the night; they turned off themain road, therefore, tethered the donkey in a grassy lane, and creptinto an old disused barn for shelter. The two children, boys of eightor nine years old, curled themselves up in a corner, with Mossoo, thepoodle, tucked in between them, and all three covered with an oldhorse-cloth. The gypsy and his wife sat talking in the entrance over asmall fire of dry wood they had lighted. 

"You've bin a fool, Seraminta, " said the man, looking down at the babyas she lay flushed with sleep on the woman's lap, her cheeks still wetwith tears. "The child'll git us into trouble. That's no common child. Anyone 'ud know it agen, and then where are we? In quod, sure as myname's Perrin. "

"You're the fool, " replied the woman, looking at the man scornfully. "Think I'm goin' to take her about with a lily-white skin like that? Alittle walnut-juice'll make her as brown as Bennie yonder, so as her ownmother wouldn't know her. "

"Well, what good is she to us anyhow?" continued the man sulkily. "Onlyanother mouth ter feed. 'Tain't wuth the risk. "

"You hav'n't the sperrit of a chicken, " replied the woman. "One 'udthink you was born yesterday, not to know that anyone'll give a copperto a pretty little kid like her. Once we git away down south, an' shegives over fretting, I mean her to go round with the tambourine afterthe dog dances in the towns. She'll more than earn her keep soon. "

The man muttered and growled to himself for a short time, and said somevery ugly words, but presently, stretched on the ground near the fire, he settled himself to sleep. The short summer night passed quicklyaway, and nothing disturbed the sleepers; the owls and bats flitted inand out of the barn, as was their custom, and, surprised to find it nolonger empty, flapped suddenly up among the rafters, and looked down atthe strangers by the dim light of the moon; at the two children huddledin the corner, with Mossoo's tangled head between them; at the dark formof Perrin, near the ashes of the fire; and at the fair child inSeraminta's arms, sleeping quietly at last. Before the cock in thefarmyard near had answered a shrill friend in the distance more thantwice, the whole party, except the baby, was awake, the donkeyharnessed, and the journey continued. 

Day after day passed in the same manner, and baby still cried for"Mammy, " but every day less and less, for the tramps were kind to her intheir rough way, and fortunately her memory was short, and soon ceasedto recall Maggie's loving care and caresses. So before she had led hernew life a week, she had found things to smile at again; sometimesflowers which the freckled Bennie picked for her in the hedges, sometimes the gay rattle of the tambourine, sometimes a ride on thedonkey's back; the poodle also, from having been an object of fear, hadnow become a friend. 

Mossoo was a dog who had known trouble. He well remembered the dayswhen he had had to learn to dance, and what it was to shrink from blows, and to howl with pain and fear under punishment. Times were not so badfor him now, because his education was over, but still he had to workhard for his living. In every town they passed he must stiffen his longthin back, raise himself on his small feet, and dance gravely to thesound of the tambourine; if this happened at the end of a long day'stramp, it was both difficult and painful, but he seldom failed, for heknew the consequences--no supper and a beating. 

Accordingly, until a certain sign was given, he kept one pink-rimmed eyeon his mistress's face, and revolved slowly round and round, withdrooping paws and an elegant curtsying movement, the centre of anadmiring ring. Sometimes, when the performance was over, and he carriedround a small tin plate for coppers, the spectators would drop off oneby one, and give him nothing; sometimes he got a good deal, and took itto his mistress with joyful wags of his ragged tasselled tail. Now, Mossoo had noticed the addition of baby to the accustomed party, andalso her passionate sobs and cries. She was in trouble, as he had oftenbeen, and one day this trouble was even deeper than usual. They hadstopped to rest in a little wayside copse, and after the donkey wasunharnessed the man and the two boys had started off on a foragingexpedition, or, in other words, to see what they could beg or steal fromthe farmyards and houses near. Mossoo was left behind. Crouched on theground, with his nose between his paws, he kept a watchful eye onSeraminta, who was busying herself with the child. She was going tomake her "so as her own mother wouldn't know her. " And first with apiece of rag she smeared over her pretty white skin with some dark juiceout of a bottle; next she took off the little frock and underclotheswhich Maggie had always kept so neatly, and put on her a frock andpetticoat of stiff striped stuff. Then she proceeded to remove the onelittle clog, but this baby resented. She had been quiet till now, andallowed her things to be changed without resistance, but this lastindignity was too much. She fought, and kicked, and cried, and pushedat the woman with her tiny hands. Poor baby! They were far too smalland weak to be of any use. In no time the friendly little clog, withits glistening clasp and bright toe, was gone, and in its place therewas an ugly broken-out boot which had once belonged to Bennie. Her workdone, Seraminta put the child on the ground and gave her a hard crust toplay with. Baby immediately threw it from her with all her strength, cast herself flat on her face, and shrieked with anger and distress. She was heartbroken to have the clog taken from her, and cried asviolently for it as she had done for mammy. 

"You've got a fine temper of yer own, my young queen, " said Seraminta, looking down at the small sobbing form. She did not attempt to quiether, but turning away proceeded to arrange some bundles in the cartwhich stood at a short distance. 

Mossoo was not so indifferent; he had watched the whole affair, and ifhe did not understand why the baby cried, at least he knew she was introuble. True he had not seen a stick used, but here was the sameresult. He went and sat down near her, and wagged his tail to show hesympathised, but as she was lying on her face she did not even know hewas there, and the sobs continued. Finding this, Mossoo sat for sometime with his tongue hanging out, uncertain how to proceed, butpresently noticing a little bit of bare fat neck he gave it a gentlelick. Baby turned her head; there were two bright eyes with pink rimsclose to her, and a ragged fringe of dirty-white hair, and a red tonguelolling out; she was so startled at this that she screamed louder thanever, and hid her face again. Unsuccessful, but full of zeal andcompassion, the poodle next bethought himself of finding her a stick ora stone to throw for him; Bennie was never tired of playing this gamewith him, and perhaps the baby might like it too. He ran sniffing aboutwith his nose to the ground, and presently caught sight of somethingthat glistened, lying in the grass near the cart. It was the littleclog. Quite unconscious of making a lucky hit, he took it in his mouth, carried it to her, and placed it with gentle care close to her ear. This time Mossoo had done the right thing, for when she saw what he hadbrought, a watery little smile gleamed through baby's tears, her sobsceased, she sat up and seized the clog triumphantly. Waving it about inher small uncertain hands, she hit the friendly poodle smartly on thenose with it as he stood near; then leaning forward, grasped hisdrooping moustache and pulled it, which hurt him still more; but he didnot cease to wag his tail with pleasure at his success. 

From that day "Mossy, " as she called the dog, was added to the number ofbaby's friends--the other two were Bennie and the little clog. To thislast she confided, in language of her own, much that no one elseunderstood, and Seraminta did not again attempt to take it from her. She was thankful that the child had something to soothe her in thestormy fits of crying which came when she was offended or thwarted inher will. At such times she would kick and struggle until her littlestrength was exhausted, and at last drop off to sleep with the clogcuddled up to her breast. Seraminta began to feel doubtful as to theadvantages of her theft, and Perrin, the gypsy man, swore at his wifeand reproached her in the strongest language for having brought thechild away. 

"I tell you what, my gal, " he said one day, "the proper place for thatchild's the house, an' that's where she'll go soon as I git a chance. She've the sperrit of a duchess an' as 'orty in her ways as a queen. She'll never be no good to us in our line o' bizness, an' I'm not agoin'to keep her. "

They wrangled and quarrelled over the subject continually, forSeraminta, partly from obstinacy, and partly because the child was sohandsome, wished to keep her, and teach her to perform with the poodlein the streets. But all the while she had an inward feeling that Perrinwould outwit her, and get his own way. And this turned out to be thecase. 

Travelling slowly but steadily along, sometimes stopping a day or so ina large town, where Seraminta played the tambourine in the streets, andMossoo danced, they had now left the north far behind them. They werebound for certain races near London, and long before they arrived therePerrin had determined to get rid of the child whom he daily dislikedmore; he would leave her in the workhouse, and the burden would be offhis hands. Baby's lucky star, however, was shining, and a better homewas waiting for her. 

One evening after a long dusty journey they came to a tiny village in apleasant valley; Perrin had made up his mind to reach the town, twomiles further on, before they stopped for the night, but by this timethe whole party was so tired and jaded that he saw it would beimpossible to push on. The donkey-cart came slowly down the hill pastthe vicarage, and the vicar's wife cutting roses in her garden stoppedher work to look at it. At Seraminta seated in the cart with her kneesalmost as high as her nose, and her yellow handkerchief twisted roundher head; at the dark Perrin, striding along by the donkey's side; atMossoo, still adorned with his last dancing ribbon, but ragged andshabby, and so very very tired that he limped along on three legs; atthe brown children among the bundles in the cart; and finally at baby. There her eyes rested in admiration: "What a lovely little child!" shesaid to herself. Baby was seated between the two boys, talking happilyto herself; her head was bare, and her bush of golden hair was all themore striking from its contrast with her walnut-stained skin. It made aspot like sunlight in the midst of its dusky surroundings. 

"Austin! Austin!" called out the vicar's wife excitedly as the cartmoved slowly past. There was no answer for a moment, and she calledagain, until Austin appeared in the porch. He was a middle-agedgrey-haired clergyman, with bulging blue eyes and stooping shoulders; inhis hand he held a large pink rose. "Look, " said his wife, "do lookquickly at that beautiful child. Did you ever see such hair?" TheReverend Austin Vallance looked. 

"An ill-looking set, to be sure, " he said. "I must tell Joe to leaveBrutus unchained to-night. "

"But the child, " said his wife, taking hold of his arm eagerly, "isn'tshe wonderful? She's like an Italian child. "

"We shall hear of hen-roosts robbed to-morrow, " continued Austin, pursuing his own train of thought. 

"I feel perfectly convinced, " said his wife leaning over the gate tolook after the gypsies, "that that little girl is not theirs--she's asdifferent as possible from the other children. How I should like to seeher again!"

"Well, my dear, " said Austin, "for my part I decidedly hope you won't. The sooner that fellow is several miles away from here, the better Ishall be pleased. "

"She was a lovely little thing, " repeated Mrs Vallance with a sigh. 

"Well, well, " said her husband; "I daresay. But here's something quiteas lovely. Just look at this Captain Christie. It's the best rose I'veseen yet. I don't believe Chelwood has a finer. "

"Not one of the little Chelwoods was ever a quarter as pretty as thatgypsy child, even when they were babies, " continued his wife gazingabsently at the rose, "and now they're getting quite plain. "

She could not forget the beautiful child all that evening, though shedid not receive the least encouragement to talk of her from her husband. Mr Vallance was not so fond of children as his wife, and did notaltogether regret that he had none of his own. His experience of them, drawn from Squire Chelwood's family who lived a little further up thevalley, did not lead him to think that they added to the comfort of ahousehold. When they came to spend the day at the vicarage he usuallyshut himself into his study, and issuing forth after they were gone, hissoul was vexed to find footmarks on his borders, his finest fruitpicked, and fragments of a meal left about on his smooth lawn. But MrsVallance grudged them nothing, and if she could have found it in herheart to envy anyone, it would have been Mrs Chelwood at the WhiteHouse, who had a nursery and school-room full of children. 

On the morning after the gypsies had passed, the Reverend AustinVallance was out even earlier than usual in his garden. He was alwaysan early riser, for he liked time for a stroll before taking the servicein his little church. Just now his roses were in full perfection, andthe weather was remarkably fine, so that it was scarcely six o'clockbefore he was out of doors. It was certainly a beautiful morning. Byand by it would be hot and sultry, only fit for a sensible man to sitquietly in his study and doze a little, and make extracts for his nextsermon. Now, it was deliciously cool and fresh. The roses weremagnificent! What a pity that the blaze of the sun would soon dim theirglorious colours and scorch their dewy fragrance. It would be a goodplan to cut a few at once before they were spoilt by the heat. He tookhis knife out of his pocket and hesitated where to begin, for he neverliked to cut his roses; but, remembering that Priscilla would insist onhaving some indoors, he set to work on the tree nearest him, andtenderly detached a full-blown Baroness Rothschild. He stood and lookedat it complacently. 

"I don't believe, " he said to himself, "that Chelwood, with all hisgardeners, will ever come up to my roses. There's nothing like personalattention. Roses are like children--they want individual, personalattention. And they pay for it. Children don't always do that. "

At this very moment, and just as he was turning to another tree, alittle chuckling laugh fell on his ear. It was such a strange sound inthe stillness of the garden, and it seemed so close to him, that hestarted violently and dropped his knife. Where did it come from? Helooked vaguely up in the sky, and down on the earth--there was nothingliving to be seen, not even a bird. "I must have been mistaken, " hethought, "but it's very odd; I never heard anything more clearly in mylife. " He picked up his knife, and moved further along the turf walk, agood deal disturbed and rather nervous. At the end of it there was arustic sort of shed, which had once been an arbour, but was now onlyused for gardening tools, baskets, and rubbish: over the entrance hung amass of white climbing roses. Walking slowly towards this, and cuttinga rose or two on his way, Mr Vallance was soon again alarmed by thesame noise--a low laugh of satisfaction; this time it came so distinctlyfrom within the shed, that he quickened his pace at once and, holdingback the dangling branches, looked in with a half feeling of dread. What he saw there so astonished him that he stood motionless for somemoments, as though struck by some sight of horror. On the floor was alarge wooden marketing basket, and in this, wrapped in an old shawl, laya little child of two years old. She had bright yellow hair, and abrown skin, and in her fat hands she held a queer little shoe with brassnails in it and brass clasps; she was making small murmuring sounds toherself, and chuckling now and then in perfect contentment. MrVallance stared at her in great perplexity; here was a puzzling thing!Where did the child come from, and who had left it there? Whoever itwas must come and take it away at once. He would go and tell Priscillaabout it--she would know what to do. But just as he let the creepersfall back over the entrance a tiny voice issued from the basket. 

"Mossy, " it said; "me want Mossy. "

"Now, who on earth is Mossy?" thought the troubled vicar, and withoutwaiting to hear more he sped into the house and told his tale to. Priscilla. 

In a very short time Priscilla was on the spot, full of interest andenergy. She knelt beside the basket and looked at the child, who staredback at her with solemn brown eyes. 

"I suppose it's one of the village children, " said her husband, standingby. 

"Village children, Austin!" repeated his wife looking round at him; "doyou really mean to say that you don't recognise the child?"

"Certainly not, my dear; I never saw it before to my knowledge. "

"Why, _of course_ it's the gypsy child we saw yesterday. And now yousee I was right. "

"What an awful thing!" exclaimed Mr Vallance. He sat down suddenly onthe handle of a wheel-barrow close by, in utter dejection. "Thenthey've left it here on purpose!"

"Of course they have, " said Mrs Vallance; "and you see I was right, don't you?"

"I don't know what you mean, " said the vicar getting up again, "by being_right_. Everything's as wrong as it can be, I should say. "

"I mean, that she doesn't belong to those gypsies. I was sure of it. "

"Why not?" asked her husband helplessly. 

"Because no mother would have given up a darling like this--she wouldhave died first. "

Mrs Vallance had taken the child on her knee while she was speaking andopened the old shawl: baby seemed to like her new position, she leanedher curly head back, stretched out her limbs easily, and gazed gravelyup at the distracted vicar. 

"Well, " he said, "whoever she belongs to, there are only two courses tobe pursued, and the first is to try and find the people who left herhere. If we can't do that, there only remains--"

"What?" asked his wife looking anxiously up at him. 

"There only remains--the workhouse, my dear Priscilla. "

Priscilla pressed the child closer to her and stood upright facing him. 

"Austin, " she said, "I couldn't do it. You mustn't ask me to. I'll tryand find her mother. I'll put an advertisement in the paper; but Iwon't send her to the workhouse. And _you_ couldn't either. Youcouldn't give up a little helpless child when Heaven has laid it at yourvery threshold. "

Mr Vallance strode quickly up and down the garden path; he foresaw thathe would have to yield, and it made him very angry. 

"Nonsense, my dear, " he said testily; "people are much too fond oftalking about Heaven doing this and that. That ill-looking scamp of agypsy fellow hadn't much to do with Heaven, I fancy. "

"Heaven chooses its own instruments, " said Priscilla quietly; and MrVallance made no answer, for he had said that very same thing in hislast sermon. 

"I'll have those tramps looked after at any rate, " he said, rousinghimself with sudden energy. "I'll send Joe one way, and drive the otherway myself in the pony-cart. They can't have got far yet. "

He hurried out of the garden, and Mrs Vallance was left alone with herprize. It was almost too good to be true. Already her mind was busywith arrangements for the baby's comfort and making plans for herfuture--the blue-room looking into the garden for the nursery, and theblacksmith's eldest daughter for a nurse-maid, and some little whitefrocks and pinafores made; and what should she be called? Some simplename would do. Mary, perhaps. And then suddenly Mrs Vallance checkedherself. 

"What a foolish woman I am!" she said. "Very likely those horriblepeople will be found, and I shall have to give her up. But nothingshall induce me to believe that she belongs to them. "

She kissed the child, carried her into the house, and fed her with somebread and milk, after which baby soon fell into a sound sleep. MrsVallance laid her on the sofa, and sat near with her work, but she couldnot settle at all quietly to it. Every moment she got up to look out ofthe window, or to listen to some sound which might be Austin coming backtriumphant with news of the gypsies. But the day went on and nothinghappened. The vicarage was full of suppressed excitement, the maidswhispered softly together, and came creeping in at intervals to look atthe beautiful child, who still clasped the little clog in her hands. 

"Yonder's a queer little shoe, mum, " said the cook, "quite a cur'osity. "

"I think it's a sort of toy, " replied Mrs Vallance, for she had neverbeen to the north of England and had never seen a clog. 

"Bless her pretty little 'art!" said the cook, and went away. 

It was evening when Mr Vallance returned, hot, tired, and vexed inspirit. His wife ran out to meet him at the gate, having first sent thechild upstairs. 

"No trace whatever, " he said in a dejected voice. 

"Dear me!" exclaimed Priscilla, trying not to look too pleased, and justthen a casement-window above their heads was thrown open, a white-cappedhead was thrust out, and an excited voice called out, "Ma'am! Ma'am!"

"Well, what?" said Mrs Vallance, looking up alarmed. 

"It's all come off, mum--the brown colour has--and she's got a skin aswhite as a lily. "

Mrs Vallance cast a glance of triumph at her husband, but forebore tosay anything, in consideration of his depressed condition; then sherushed hurriedly upstairs to see the new wonder. 

And thus began baby's life in her third home, and she brought nothing ofher own to it except her one little clog. 

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 2. 

WENSDALE. 

The village of Wensdale was snugly shut in from the rest of the world ina narrow valley. It had a little river flowing through it, and a littlegrey church standing on a hill, and a rose-covered vicarage, ablacksmith's forge, and a post-office. Further up the valley, where thewoods began, you could see the chimneys of the White House where SquireChelwood lived, and about three miles further on still was Dorminster, agood-sized market-town. But in Wensdale itself there was only a handfulof thatched cottages scattered about here and there round the vicarage. Life was so regular and quiet there that you might almost tell the timewithout looking at the clock. When you heard cling, clang, from theblacksmith's forge, and quack, quack, from the army of ducks waddlingdown to the river, it was five o'clock. Ding, dong from thechurch-tower, and the tall figure of Mr Vallance climbing the hill toread prayers--eight o'clock. So on throughout the day until eveningcame, and you knew that soon after the cows had gone lowing through thevillage, and the ducks had taken their way to bed in a long uneven line, that perfect silence would follow, deep and undisturbed. 

In this quiet refuge Maggie's baby grew up for seven years, under thename of Mary Vallance. She was now nine years old. As she grew thequalities which had shown themselves as a baby, and made Perrin call heras "orty as a duchess, " grew also, though they were kept in check bywise and loving influences. To command seemed more natural to her thanto obey, and far more pleasant, and this often caused trouble to herselfand others. True, nothing could be more thorough than her repentanceafter a fit of naughtiness, for she was a very affectionate child; butthen she was quite ready on the next occasion to repeat the offence--asready as Mrs Vallance was to forgive it. Mary was vain, too, as wellas wilful; but this was not astonishing, for from a very little childshe had heard the most open remarks about her beauty. Wensdale was asmall place, but there were not wanting unwise people in it, whoimagined that their nods and winks and whispers of admiration wereunnoticed by the child. A great mistake. No one could be quicker thanMary to see them, to give her little neck a prouder turn, and to tossback her glittering hair self-consciously. So she knew by the time shewas nine years old that she had beautiful hair and lovely eyes, and askin like milk--that she walked gracefully, and that her feet and handswere smaller and prettier than Agatha Chelwood's. All this strengtheneda way she had of ordering her companions about imperiously, as thoughshe had a right to command. "No common child, " she often heard peoplesay, and by degrees she came to think that she was very _un_commonindeed--much prettier and cleverer than any of the other children. "You've no call to be so tossy in your ways, Miss Mary, " said Rice, theoutspoken old nurse at the White House; "handsome is as handsome does. "But Mary treated such a remark with scorn. 

If the little clog, standing on the mantel-piece in her bed-room, couldhave spoken, what strange and humbling things it would have told her!For to belong to poor people would have seemed dreadful to Mary's proudspirit. As it could not, however, she remained in ignorance of her realcondition, and even in her dreams no remembrance of her real mother, orof the gypsies and her playfellows Bennie and Mossy, ever came to visither. 

Things at Wensdale had not altered much since Mary had been left thereas a child of two years old. The roses still flourished in the vicaragegarden under Mr Vallance's loving care, and he still thought them muchfiner than Chelwood's. At the White House there were now three childrenin the nursery and four in the school-room, of whom the eldest was agirl of ten named Agatha. These were Mary's constant companions; shejoined them in some of their lessons and in all their pleasures andplans of amusement. Not a picnic or a treat of any kind took placewithout her, and though quarrels were not unknown, Mary would have beenvery much missed on these occasions. It was she who invented the gamesand gave names to the various playgrounds in the woods; she could climbwell, and run swiftly, and had such a daring spirit of adventure thatshe feared nothing. In fact, her presence made everything so much moreinteresting, that, by common consent, she was allowed to take the lead, and no expedition was considered complete without her. Perhaps hercontrast to the good, quiet, brown Agatha, who was so nearly her ownage, made her all the more valued. Agatha was always ready to follow, to give up, to yield. She never tore her frocks, always knew herlessons, was always punctual; but she never invented anything, and hadto be told exactly what to say in any game requiring imagination. So itcame to pass naturally that Mary was at the head of everything, and shebecame so used to taking the command that she sometimes did so when itwas neither convenient nor becoming. There were indeed moments wheneven Jackie, her most faithful supporter among the Chelwood children, rebelled against her authority, and found it poor fun for Mary always tohave her own way and arrange everything. 

Jackie was nine years old, and felt in himself a large capacity fortaking the lead: after all, why _should_ Mary always drive when theywent out in the donkey-cart, or settle the place for the fire to be madewhen they had a picnic, and choose the games, and even order aboutFraulein Schnipp the governess? Certainly her plans and arrangementsalways turned out well, but still it became tiresome sometimes. Jackiegrew restive. He had a quarrel with Mary, who flew down the garden in arage, her hair streaming behind her like the tail of an angry comet. But it did not last: Jackie had a forgiving spirit, and was too fond ofher to be angry long. He was always the first to make up a dispute, sothat Mary was not at all surprised to see him soon afterwards waitingoutside the vicarage door in a high state of excitement. He was goingto drive with father in the dog-cart to Dorminster--might Mary come too?Consent given, Mary lost no time in throwing on a hat and jacket, whileSquire Chelwood's tall horse fretted and caught impatiently at his bit:then she was lifted up to Jackie on the back seat, and they were soonrolling quickly on their way. It was good of Jackie to have asked forher to go, Mary thought, after she had been so cross. She could nothave done it in his place, and she determined to give him a veryhandsome present on his birthday, which was coming soon. 

There were few things the children liked better than going intoDorminster with the squire. Beside the pleasant rapid drive, perched upon the high dog-cart, there was so much to see, particularly if ithappened to be market-day; and, above all, Mr Greenop lived there. MrGreenop was a bird-fancier, and kept an interesting shop in themarket-place, full of live birds and stuffed animals in glass cases. There was always a pleasant uncertainty as to what might be found atGreenop's, for he sometimes launched out in an unexpected manner. Heoften had lop-eared rabbits to sell, and Jackie had once seen a monkeythere: as for pigeons, there was not a variety you could mention whichGreenop could not at once produce. 

He was a nice little man, very like a bird himself, with pointedfeatures and kind, bright eyes; when he wore a dash of red in hisneck-cloth the resemblance to a robin was striking. The childrenapplied to him when any of their pets were ill, and had the utmostconfidence in his opinion and treatment. The most difficult cases weresuccessfully managed by him; he had even saved the life of Agatha'sjack-daw when it had swallowed a thimble. Mr Greenop was an object, therefore, of gratitude and admiration, and no visit to Dorminster wascomplete without going to his shop. 

So when Jackie asked in an off-hand manner, "Shall you be going nearGreenop's, father?" the squire knew that his answer was waited for withanxiety, and said at once:

"Yes, I'm going to the gunmaker's next door. "

That was all right. Jackie screwed up his shoulders in an ecstasy. 

"Father's always an immense long time at the gunmaker's, " he said; "weshall have time to look at all Greenop's things. I hope he's got somenew ones. "

"And I want to buy some hemp-seed, " said Mary. 

Mr Greenop welcomed the children with his usual brisk cheerfulness, andhad, as Jackie had hoped, a good many new things to show them; thenicest of all was a bullfinch which piped the tune of "Bonnie Dundee""at command, " as his owner expressed it. The children were delightedwith it, and immediately asked the price, which was their custom withevery article of Mr Greenop's stock, and being told, proceeded toexamine further. They came upon a charming squirrel with the bushiesttail possible, and while they were admiring it Mr Greenop was called toattend on a customer. 

"Jackie, " said Mary suddenly, "if you might choose, what would you haveout of all the shop?"

Jackie looked thoughtful. His birthday was approaching, and though hewould not have hinted at such a thing, it did pass through his mind thatMary's question might have something to do with that occasion. Hestudied the matter therefore with the attention it deserved, for he hadto consider both his own inclinations and the limits of Mary's purse. At last he said deliberately:

"The squirrel. What would _you_ choose?"

"The piping bullfinch, " said Mary, without an instant's hesitation. 

"Why, " exclaimed Jackie, "that's almost the most expensive thing in theshop!"

"I don't see that that matters at all, " answered Mary. "You asked mewhat I liked best, and I like that best--much. "

More customers and acquaintances had now crowded in, and the little shopwas quite full. 

"I believe we've seen everything, " said Jackie; "let's get up in thedog-cart and wait there for father. Oh, " he continued with a sigh, whenthey were seated again, "_how_ jolly it must be to be Greenop! Wouldn'tyou like to be him?"

"No, " said Mary decidedly, "I shouldn't like it at all; I couldn't bearit. "

"Why?" asked Jackie. 

"Oh, because he's quite a common man, and tucks up his shirt sleeves, and keeps a shop. "

"Well, that's just the nice part of it, " said Jackie eagerly--"sointeresting, always to be among the animals and things. And then hisshop's in the very best part of Dorminster, where he can see everythingpass, and all his friends drop in and tell him the news. I don't expecthe's ever dull. "

"I daresay not, " said Mary, with a shrug of contempt; "but I shouldn'tlike to be a common vulgar man like that. "

Jackie got quite hot. 

"I don't believe Greenop's vulgar at all, " he said. "Look how hestuffed those pheasants for father. I heard father say, `Greenop's anuncommonly clever fellow!' Father likes to talk to him, so he can't bevulgar. "

Mary did not want another quarrel; she tried to soften her speech down. 

"But you see I couldn't be _Mr_. Greenop, " she said, "I could only be_Mrs_. Greenop, and sit in that dull little hole at the back of theshop and darn all day. "

"Oh, well, " Jackie acknowledged, "that might not be so pleasant; but, "he added, "you might be his daughter, and help to feed the birds, andserve in the shop. "

Mary tossed her head. 

"What's the good of talking like that?" she said; "I'm _not_ hisdaughter, and I'm sure I don't want to be. "

"But you're always fond of pretending things, " persisted Jackie. "Supposing you _could_ change, whose daughter would you like to be?"

"Well, " said Mary, after a little reflection, "if I could change Ishould like to be a countess, or a princess, or a Lady somebody. LadyMary Vallance sounds rather nice, I think. "

Just then the squire came out of the shop, and they soon started rapidlyhomewards. 

"Mary, " said Jackie, squeezing himself close up to her, when they werewell on the way, and lowering his voice mysteriously, "I've got a secretto tell you. "

Jackie's secrets were never very important, and Mary was not prepared tobe interested in this one. 

"Have you?" she said absently; "look at all those crows in that field. "

"Oh, if you don't want to hear it--" said Jackie, drawing back with ahurt expression; "it's something to do with you, too. "

"Well, what is it?" said Mary; "I'm listening. "

"I haven't told Agatha, or Jennie, or Patrick, " continued he in aninjured voice. 

"Why, it wouldn't be a secret if you had, " said Mary. "Go on; I reallywant to hear it. "

"It was yesterday, " began Jackie, lowering his voice again; "I wassitting in the school-room window-seat reading, and Rice came in with amessage for Fraulein. And then she stayed talking about lots of things, and then they began to talk about you. " Jackie paused. 

"That's not much of a secret, " said Mary. "Is that all?"

"Of course not. It's only the beginning. They said a lot which Ididn't hear, and then Rice told Fraulein a long story in a very lowvoice, and Fraulein held up her hands and called out `Himmel!' But thepart I really did hear was the last bit. "

"Well, " said Mary, "what was it? I don't think anything of what you'vetold me yet. "

"`These awful words fell upon my ears, '" said Jackie gloomily, quotingfrom a favourite ghost story: "`As brown as a berry, and her name's nomore Mary Vallance than mine is!'"

"But I'm not as brown as a berry, " said Mary. "You must have heardwrong. They couldn't have been talking about me at all. "

"I know they were, " said Jackie with decision, "for when Fraulein saw meshe nodded at Rice and put her finger on her lip, and Rice saidsomething about `buried in his book. ' You see, " added Jackie, "I didn'treally _listen_, but I heard--because I couldn't help it. "

Wensdale was now in sight, and five minutes afterwards the dog-cartstopped at the vicarage gate. 

"Don't tell anyone else, " whispered Mary hurriedly as she clambereddown. "I'm going to ask mother about it. "

She ran into the house feeling rather excited, but almost sure thatJackie was mistaken. He often made muddles. What was her astonishment, therefore, after pouring out the story breathlessly, when Mrs Vallance, instead of laughing at the idea, only looked very grave and keptsilence. 

"Of course I am Mary Vallance, ain't I, mother?" she repeated. 

"You are our dear little adopted daughter, " said Mrs Vallance; "butthat is not really your name. "

"What is it then?" asked Mary. 

"I do not know. Some day I will tell you how you first came here, butnot until you are older. "

How mysterious it all was! Mary gazed thoughtfully out into the quietroad, at the ducks splashing about in the river; but she was notthinking of them, her head seemed to whirl. Presently she said:

"Do you know my real mother and father?"

"No, " answered Mrs Vallance. 

"Perhaps, " continued Mary, after a pause, "they live in a big house likethe Chelwoods, and have a garden and a park like theirs. "

"Perhaps they have, " said Mrs Vallance, "and perhaps they live in alittle cottage like the blacksmith and his wife, and have no garden atall. "

"Oh, I shouldn't like that at all, " said Mary quickly; then she suddenlythrew her arms round Mrs Vallance's neck and kissed her. 

"Whoever they are, " she said, "I love you and father best, and alwaysshall. "

She asked a great many more questions, but Mrs Vallance seemeddetermined to answer nothing but "yes" and "no. " It was verydisappointing to know so much and yet so little, and it seemedimpossible to wait patiently till she was older to hear more. At lastMrs Vallance forbade the subject:

"I don't want you to talk of this any more now, Mary, " she said. "Whenthe proper time comes, you shall hear all I have to tell; what I wantyou to remember is this: _Whoever_ you are, and whatever sort of peopleyou belong to, you cannot alter it; but you may have a great deal to dowith _what_ you are. We can all make our characters noble by goodness, however poor our stations are; but if we are proud and vain, and despiseothers, nothing can save us from becoming vulgar and low, even if webelong to very high rank indeed. That is all you have to think of. "

Excellent advice; but though Mary heard all the words, they did not sinkinto her mind any more than the water on the ducks' backs in the riveroutside; they rolled off it at once, and only the wonderful, wonderfulfact remained, that she was not Mary Vallance. Who was she, then? And, above all, what could Rice have meant by "brown as a berry?" Who wasbrown as a berry? Certainly not Mary herself; she was quite used tohearing that she was "as white as snow" and "as fair as a lily"--it wasAgatha Chelwood who had a brown skin. Altogether it was very mysteriousand deeply interesting; soon she began to make up long stories aboutherself, in which it was always discovered at last that she belonged tovery rich people with grand titles. This was what people had meant whenthey whispered that she was "no common child. " Mary's foolish head wasin a whirl of excitement, and filled from morning to night with visionsof grandeur. If the little clog could only have spoken! Mute, yet fullof expression it stood there, while Mary dreamed in her little white bedof palaces and princesses. 

"I was not made, " it would have said, "for foot of princess or lady, orto tread on soft carpets and take dainty steps; I am a hardworking shoemade by rough hands, though the heart they belonged to was kind andgentle; I have nothing to do with luxury and idleness. "

But no one understood this silent language. The clog was admired, andwondered at, and called "a quaint little shoe, " and its history remainedunknown. 

Mary longed now to tell Jackie her mighty secret, which began to weightoo heavily to keep to herself; but when he did come to the vicarageagain, he was not nearly so much impressed by it as she had hoped. Thiswas partly, perhaps, because his mind was full of a certain projectwhich he wished her to join, and she had scarcely bound him by a solemnpromise not to breathe a word to the other children of what she had toldhim, than he began eagerly:

"We're going to spend the day at Maskells to-morrow--the _whole_ day. Will Mrs Vallance let you go too?"

"Come and ask her, " said Mary; and Jackie, rather breathless, for he hadrun the whole way from the White House, proceeded with his request:

"The donkey-cart's going, " he said, "and the three little ones, andRice, and Fraulein, and all of us, and we're going quite early becauseit's so hot, and we shall stop to tea, and make a fire, of course, andmother hopes you'll let Mary go. "

"Well, I can't say no, " said Mrs Vallance, smiling at Jackie's heatedface; "but I'm not very fond of Maskells, there are so many dangerousplaces in it. "

"Oh, you mean the forbidden rooms, " said Jackie; "we don't go into thosenow. There are three of them, where the floor's given way, you know, with great holes in them. Maskells is _such_ a jolly place, " he addedpleadingly; "we don't like any other half so well. "

"You say Fraulein is going?" said Mrs Vallance. 

"Yes, and Rice, too; but they won't be in the way, because Fraulein'sgoing to sketch, and Rice will have to be with the little ones. "

"I hope they _will_ be in the way, " replied Mrs Vallance, "and preventyou heedless children climbing about in unsafe places and breaking yourlimbs. "

"Then Mary may go? And we start _punctually_ at nine, so she mustn't belate. "

Consent once given, Jackie took his departure, and his stoutknickerbockered legs were soon out of sight. 

Mary was delighted, for Maskells was the most charming place possible tospend a day in, and the prospect of going there made her forget for atime the one subject which had lately filled her mind--herself. 

Maskells was a deserted house standing near the high-road between theWhite House and Dorminster; it had once been a place of someconsequence, and still had pleasant meadows round it, sloping down to ariver at the back; but the garden and orchard were tangled andneglected--much more interesting, the children thought, than if they hadbeen properly cared for. 

The house had two projecting wings, and quaint latticed windows;outside, it had the appearance of being in tolerable repair, but therewas in truth scarcely a whole room in it, floors and ceilings had givenway, and great rifts and gaps yawned in them. The rotten old staircaseswere all the more dangerous because they still looked firm enough tobear a light weight, and though Jackie had once crawled up to the top ofone, out on to the roof, the attempt was never repeated. He hadremained there for half an hour clinging on to the side of a tallchimney, unable to move, until a farmer had fetched a ladder and got himdown. Since then staircases and upper rooms had been forbidden, and thechildren had to content themselves with playing on the ground floor andin the outhouses. There was a mystery hanging about the old place whichadded to its attractions, for they had heard that it had fallen intothis decay and been uninhabited so long because it was "in Chancery. " Amysterious expression, which might mean anything, and was more thanenough to clothe it with all the terrors which belong to the unknown. 

When dusk came on, and the owls and bats flapped their wings in shadowycorners, it was desirable to cling closely together and feel afraid incompany--a tremor was excusable in the boldest. Patrick, indeed, alwaysdeclared he had once seen a ghost in Maskells. Pressed for details, hehad been unable to give any clear account of it, and was a good deallaughed at, especially by Mary; but it was dimly felt by all that theremight be truth in it--anything was possible for a place "in Chancery. "

Mary liked to imagine things about Maskells; it would do for the Towerof London with dungeons in it, or for Lochleven with Mary Queen of Scotsescaping by night, or for a besieged castle, and hundreds of otherfancies. She invented games founded on those scenes which were popularat first, but as she always took the leading parts herself, the otherchildren soon tired of them. 

"Don't let's pretend anything else, " Jennie would say, who had apractical mind; "let's have a game of hide-and-seek. "

And certainly no place could have been better fitted than Maskells forthe purpose. 

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 3. 

THE ADVENTURE. 

Mary did not fail to start in good time for the White House on themorning after Jackie's invitation, and reached the gates leading intothe stable-yard just as the clock was striking nine. The donkey-cartwas standing there ready, and the four elder children were busilyengaged round it stowing away large parcels to the best advantage, andthrusting in a variety of small ones. There was an anxious look on alltheir faces, for they had so many things to remember and the cart wassmall. Rice, the old nurse, stood by with the youngest child in herarms; she was to ride in the cart with her three charges, who were toosmall to walk so far, but it seemed more than doubtful at present ifthere would be room by the time the packing was finished. Taught byexperience, however, she wisely forebore to interfere with thearrangements and waited patiently. 

"Have you got everything?" asked Mary as she entered. 

There was not much more visible of Jackie than his boots, for he wasmaking great exertions head-foremost in the cart, but he answered in amuffled voice:

"I think so. Read the list, Agatha. "

"Potatoes and apples to roast--" began Agatha. 

"There, now!" said Jackie, and the next minute he was plunging in at thekitchen door. 

"I _knew_ you'd forget something, " said Mary triumphantly. "What a goodidea it was of mine to have a list!"

Jackie soon came back with a knobbly-looking canvas bag in his hand, andfollowed by Fraulein Schnipp the German governess. 

"I say, " he said, "we've forgotten Fraulein's camp-stool and sketchingthings; and she says she can't go without them. "

"Well, " said Jennie in a low tone, "I don't believe you can get them in. I should think she might carry them herself. "

"Don't, " said Patrick with a nudge of his elbow; "you'll make her cry. "

It was a puzzling habit that Fraulein had, to weep silently atunexpected moments, and say her feelings were hurt. This was sodistressing that the children were always anxious to avoid it ifpossible. She stood looking on now with a pleased smile, grasping hercamp-stool, and understanding very little of the chatter going on roundher. Fraulein was very good-natured looking, with large soft blue eyesand a quantity of frizzy fair hair. 

At last the packing was done; camp-stool, sketching-books, and threesmall children on the top of everything. Rice would have to walk by theside of the cart. It really was a wonderfully hot day, and there wasscarcely any shade; the donkey went even slower than usual, and by thetime they reached Maskells the whole party was rather exhausted--Fraulein more so than anyone, and she sank at once on the ground undersome beech-trees opposite the house. It was in this spot that the cartwas always unpacked, the cloth laid, and dinner spread. Later on in theday a fire was made here to boil the kettle for tea, but until then thechildren were free to roam about and do as they liked. 

As Jackie had said, Fraulein was anxious to make a sketch of the oldhouse, and after dinner was over and she had a little recovered from herfatigue she planted her camp-stool conveniently and set to work. Thechildren knew now that neither she nor Rice would be "in the way" thatafternoon; they were both comfortably settled and would not be likely tostir for hours. 

But it was almost too hot to play, and the games went on languidly untilfour o'clock, when it began to get cooler, and there were pleasantshadows round about. 

"We ought to begin to pick up wood, " said the careful Agatha, "or thefire won't be ready for tea-time. "

"Well, we'll just have one game of hide-and-seek first, " said Jackie;and so it was agreed. 

Agatha hid first, but she was soon found, for she was not fond ofventuring far into the dark corners round Maskells; then it was Jackie'sturn, and then it came to Mary. 

Determined to distinguish herself, and find a more difficult place thanthe others, she wandered round to the side of the house which lookedupon the neglected orchard, and was furthest away from where Frauleinand Rice were sitting. She would not cry "Whoop!" for a long while, shethought, till she had found a very good place indeed. As she pushed herway among the low boughs of the apple-trees, and through the talltangled grass which reached nearly to her waist, she felt very bold andadventurous, for the children seldom ventured on this side--it wasunknown ground. Certainly the house looked far more mournful andruinous here than it did in front. Wooden shutters were fastenedoutside most of the windows, and one of them had swung back and gave adismal creak now and then on its rusty hinges. Trailing masses ofconvolvulus and ivy and Virginian creeper were hanging about everywhere, and the walls were covered so thickly that for some time Mary looked invain for an entrance. But at last she saw a little low-arched door. How inviting it looked! No doubt it would be locked; but at least shewould try it, and if she could get in it would be a splendidhiding-place. The others would never, never find her. She lifted theiron ring which hung from the lock, gave a little twist and a push, andwas surprised to find that it yielded easily. Before her was an almostentirely dark room with a low vaulted ceiling; through the cracks in theclosed shutters came faint streaks of light, and she could just see thatat the end of it there was another door like the one she had entered. 

Mary's heart beat fast with excitement. What was on the other side ofthat door? Hidden treasure, perhaps, or a dungeon where some captivehad been pining for years! Here was an adventure, indeed! Everythingelse was now completely forgotten. She had no doubt that she was on thevery edge of some great discovery; and though she did wish for a secondthat Jackie was there too, she decided directly afterwards that therewas more honour and glory in being quite alone. 

So she went boldly up to the door with a fast-beating heart and turnedthe handle. Wonderful! It opened at once, and straight in front of herthere rose a short steep flight of stone steps, with another door, partly open, at the top. But here she stopped uncertainly, and for thefirst time fear was mingled with curiosity, for plainly to be heardthrough that half-open door came the sound of voices. It was unpleasantto remember Patrick's ghost just then. Was this where it lived? If so, she thought she would go back. Yet it would be a pity, now that she hadgot so far, and something urged her strongly to go and peep into theroom above. Mary had many faults but she was no coward, and besidesthis, her proud spirit made her ashamed to run away, so after a littlehesitation she crept softly up the stone steps. She hardly dared tobreathe lest she should be heard, and as she went the voices becameclearer and clearer: they certainly sounded just like a man and womantalking. When she reached the top she paused a minute to gathercourage, and then peeped cautiously round the door. 

It was a large room--one of those which Jackie had called forbiddenrooms--for there was quite a big hole in one corner where the floor hadgiven way. There was a wide open fireplace with a high carved stonemantel-piece, and on the hearth a fire of sticks crackled away under ablack pipkin which stood on legs; from this there came a strange andsavoury smell. A woman was crouching on the ground in front of it withher back to the door, and a tall dark man leant against the mantel-pieceand fed the fire with some dry boughs which he broke into pieces. Herewere no ghosts at any rate. There was something reassuring in the sightof the fire and the black pot and the smell of food; but what were theydoing here, and who were they? It was perhaps some dark affairconnected with "Chancery. "

Mary felt frightened. She could not see the woman's face, but the manlooked so evil and dark, and had such bright black eyes! She drew backher head and prepared to creep softly down the steps and make her wayout. Now that she had seen these ghosts she would have plenty to tellJackie and the others, and they would all think her very brave. Shebegan to feel anxious to be with them again. 

Just then the woman spoke. 

"Bennie's late, " she said. "Supper's most ready. "

"He's havin' a look round, " answered the man, "against to-night. "

"What's the old chap's name?" continued the woman. 

"Chelwood, " said the man. "He's a JP. "

"What's that?"

"A bloke wot sits in court and sends yer to prison, " answered the man. 

Mary listened with all her ears and her eyes starting with horror. Herewas some dreadful plot--they were going to murder Squire Chelwood, perhaps! Should she run at once and give the alarm, or wait to hearmore? While she hesitated the woman spoke again. 

"I suppose it's best to begin there?"

"There's nowhere else, not to speak of, " answered the man, "'cept theparson's. "

The woman gave a low laugh. "I wonder how he liked the present you madehim this time seven years back, " she said. 

She got up as she spoke to lift the lid of the pot and stir itscontents; and Mary, afraid of being discovered, turned to go, tremblingwith excitement. Treading with great care, and feeling her way with onehand on the wall, she was almost half-way down when there fell on herear a sound which brought her to a sudden stand-still. Towards her, coming through the empty room at the bottom of the stairs, there werefootsteps plainly to be heard! Without doubt it was "Bennie" returning. The thought darted through Mary's mind, leaving her cold with terror. What could she do? To go backwards or forwards was equally dreadful--she was caught in a kind of trap. Oh for Jackie, Fraulein, Rice, whowere so near, and yet powerless to help her! All her courage gone, shesank down on the stone step, covered her face with her hands, andwaited. The footsteps came nearer. In another minute the door at thefoot of the stairs swung back, and a youth of eighteen or twenty camequickly up, almost stumbling over Mary in the dim light. 

"Hullo!" he exclaimed, "it's a child!" He put his fingers in his mouthand gave a low strange whistle, and in a moment the gypsy and his wifecame out of the room above. 

"Here's a shine!" said Bennie. 

He pointed to Mary, who still crouched motionless on the step with herhair falling over her shoulders. They all stood staring at her insurprise. 

"Belongs to a party outside, I bet, " said Bennie. "There's a lot of 'emt'other side of the house. Seed 'em as I wur comin' back. "

"Did they see you?" asked the man. 

"No fear, " answered Bennie shortly. "Got over the wall. "

They muttered hoarsely together over Mary's head, using a strangelanguage which she could not understand; but she made out that they wereannoyed, and that they could not agree what should be done. At last thewoman stooped down to her. 

"Where do you come from, my pretty?" she said in a wheedling tone. 

Mary did not answer, but still kept her face hidden. 

"Come alonger me, darling, " continued the woman. She took Mary's arm, and half-dragged, half-led her into the room above. The child's hat hadfallen off, and the light streamed down upon her bright yellow hair andher frightened brown eyes, as she raised them timidly to the dark facesround her. The woman started and gave a quick significant glance at herhusband. 

"You live at the parson's house in Wensdale, don't yer, dearie?" shesaid coaxingly. 

"Yes, " said Mary. She wondered how the woman knew. 

"But you're not the parson's child, " continued the woman. "Give me yourhand. " She bent, muttering over it: "No, no, not the parson's child--you belong to dark people, for all so white and fair you are. "

Was the woman a witch? Mary gazed at her with eyes wide with fear, andthe man and boy stood by with a cunning grin on their faces. 

"Seven years ago, " the woman went on in a sing-song tone, "you was lost. Seven years ago you was found. Seven years you've lived withstrangers, and now you've come to yer own people. "

What did she mean? These dirty, dark, evil-looking tramps her ownpeople! Mary took courage and drew herself haughtily upright. 

"You're not my people, " she said boldly. "I live at the vicarage, withMr and Mrs Vallance. I must go back to the others--it's gettinglate. "

"Not so fast, my little queen, " said the woman, still holding her handand gazing at the palm. "What's this 'ere little token I ketch sighton? Why, it's a little shoe! A little leather shoe with a row o' brassnails an' a brass toe. Now, by that 'ere token I know you belongs tous. Yonder's yer father, and yonder's yer brother; nobody and nothin'can't take you from us now. "

Mary burst into tears. It was too dreadful to find that this woman knewall about her; was it possible that she belonged to her in any way?

"I can't stay with you, " she sobbed, "I must go back. They wouldn't letyou keep me if they knew. "

"They couldn't help it, " said the woman with a scornful laugh, "not allthe parsons and squires as ever was couldn't. "

Poor Mary! All her spirit had gone from her now, she stood helplesslycrying in the middle of the room. 

"Wouldn't yer like to come back to pore Seraminta, yer own mother, whatbrought yer up and took care on yer?" the woman said in coaxing tones, "an to father Perrin, and dear brother Bennie. "

"No--no--no, " sobbed Mary, "I must go home. "

"Well, now, " said the woman, with a side wink to the two men, "supposewe _was_ to go agen our nateral feelin's and let you go back, what wouldyou promise to do in return?"

"Anything--I'll do anything, " said Mary, checking her tears and lookingup with a gleam of hope. 

"Then, look you here, " said Seraminta, changing her soft tone to athreatening one, and frowning darkly. "First you've got to promise notto tell a soul of yer havin' bin in this room an' how you got 'ere. Next, to keep a quiet tongue about what you heard us say; and last, tobring all the money you've got and put it under the flat stone where thefour roads meet, to-morrow at six o'clock in the evening. An' if yer doall these things we'll let you bide at the parson's. But if you breathea word about what you've seen an' heard, whether it's in the dark or thelight, whether it's sleeping or waking, whether it's to man, woman, orchild, that very minute you'll be claimed for ours, and ours you'll befor ever. "

The room was getting dark by this time, and the fire burning low gave asudden flicker now and then, and died down again; by this uncertainlight the dark figures standing round, and the lowering frown onSeraminta's crafty face, looked doubly awful. 

Mary was frightened almost out of her wits, for she believed every wordthe woman had said, and thought her quite capable of carrying out herthreat. The one thing was to escape. If she could only do that, shewould gladly keep silence about these dreadful people and their possiblerelation to her. 

"I promise, " she said eagerly. "I never, never will. Not to anybody. "

The gypsies drew together near the fire and talked in low tones, usingthe language which Mary could not understand: after a minute the womancame back to her. 

"Give me yer handkercher, " she said, and when Mary drew it tremblinglyout of her pocket she tied it over the child's eyes and took hold of herhand. 

"Come along, " she said, and Mary followed meekly. 

Although she could see nothing, she knew that they went down the stonesteps and along the way she had come, and presently they were outsidethe house, for she felt the wind in her face and the long grass underher feet. Suddenly the woman stopped. 

"Now, " she said, "remember; if you speak it will be the worse for youand for your friends, an' you'll be sorry for it all your life long. An' it's Seraminta as tells you so. "

"I won't, " said Mary, "if you'll only let me go. "

"It goes agen me, " said Seraminta, pretending to hesitate, "it naterallygoes agen me. But I dessay you'll be better off at the parson's thanyer could be with yer pore mother. Don't forgit the money. Now countfifty, an' then take off the handkercher. "

Mary began obediently; she had never been so submissive in her life. When she was half-way through the number she fancied she heard a rustle, and as she said the last one she pulled off the handkerchief and lookedround. To her great relief she was quite alone, in the thickest part ofthe orchard; the woman had vanished, and it seemed for a moment asthough it might have been some ugly dream. But no, it was too true. Ithad all really happened. "Ours you'll be for ever" echoed inSeraminta's harsh tones close to her ear. She shuddered, and began withfeverish eagerness to push her way out through the thick growing boughs. Oh to be with the others again! After searching for some time shefound a gate which led into the open fields. She could now see whereshe was. Oh joy! There in the distance was the well-known group ofbeech-trees and the blaze of a fire, round which were small figuresdimly moving. Mary could have shouted for delight and relief; she setoff running as hard as she could, never pausing till she arrivedbreathless in the midst of them. They all crowded round her, exclaimingand asking questions. 

"Here she is! Where _have_ you been? Fraulein and Rice are stilllooking for you. Did you lose yourself? Did you tumble down? Have youbeen into the forbidden rooms?"

Fortunately for Mary it was impossible to answer all these questions, soshe did not attempt to answer any of them. 

"Anyhow you didn't find me, " she managed to say as she threw herself onthe ground near the fire. 

"Oh, but isn't Fraulein in a state of mind?" said Jackie. "She saysshe's `out of herself' with anxiety, and she's been crying. Here shecomes. "

Poor Fraulein now appeared with Rice. She was so greatly agitated, andyet so relieved to find that Mary had come back, that she could notexpress herself in English. For some moments she poured forth a torrentof German and French, half laughing and half crying, but Rice lookedvery cross, and said severely at once:

"You've given us all a deal of trouble and anxiety, Miss Mary, with themfoolish pranks. "

Mary felt as though she must cry; it was hard to be scolded when she hadjust come through such a terrible trial. Her eyes filled with tears, and Jackie saw them; as usual, he was her comforter in distress, anddrawing near, with a blackened potato and a roasted apple in his hand, he seated himself close to her in a friendly manner. 

"I cooked 'em for you myself, " he said, as he made his offering;"they're awfully good ones. "

This attention consoled Mary a little, and she managed to bear up, but adulness had fallen over the whole party; Fraulein was still tearful, andRice cross, so that none of the children were sorry when the wagonettearrived to take them back to Wensdale. To Mary it was the greatestpossible relief; she never never wished to see Maskells again. When shefound herself tightly squeezed in between Fraulein and Jackie, withfriendly faces all round her, she began to feel safer, and very soon thelast glimpse of the tall chimneys was lost to sight in a turn of theroad. What a comfort it was to be with them all again! At another timeshe would have complained that Jackie was taking up too much room, anddigging his elbow into her, but all that was altered. He could notpossibly be too close, her only dread was to be left alone. She was sounusually meek, and looked so white, that presently Patrick, who wassitting opposite and staring at her with large round eyes, remarked:

"I expect Mary saw the ghost, only she won't say so. "

This interesting subject once started, lasted for some time, and Marywas tortured with all manner of minute questions. She managed to answerthem all somehow, but with so much less spirit than usual that it wasplain to see something was wrong. Jackie made up his mind to ask herafterwards, and meanwhile Fraulein interfered. 

"You shall not tease any more with your questions, " she said. "Mary isfatigue. "

But the questions had reminded Mary of something which till now she hadforgotten--Squire Chelwood's danger. She ought to warn Jackie; but ifshe did, the gypsies would come and take her away, perhaps that verynight. She could not risk that. And yet, Jackie's father! It would betoo dreadful. "Ours you'll be for ever" seemed to sound in her ear: sheshuddered; no, she could not do it. Suddenly a thought struck her, andshe pulled Jackie gently by the sleeve. 

"Jackie, " she said softly, very softly, so that Seraminta might nothear, "where does Hamlet sleep at night?"

Hamlet was a Danish boar-hound belonging to the squire. 

"Hamlet, " said Jackie. "Why, he sleeps just outside father's bed-roomdoor, and sometimes in the night he walks up and down the corridor, andhis tail goes flop up against the door. Once father thought it wasthieves. "

"I suppose Hamlet's very strong?" said Mary earnestly. 

"I should just rather think he was, " said Jackie. "He wouldn't makemuch of a robber. He'd just rear up on his hind-legs and take him bythe throat--so. " He launched himself forward as he spoke, and seizedPatrick by the neck. 

"And that would kill the robber?" asked Mary. 

"Dead as a nail, " replied Jackie with decision. 

"Don't you wish robbers _would_ come some night, " suggested Jennie. 

"What would you do if they did?" said Agatha. 

"I know what she'd do, " put in Patrick quickly; "she'd hide her headunder the bed-clothes and keep on screaming for Rice. "

"If I had a pistol I should shoot them, " said Jackie, "only mine won'tgo off. "

"And perhaps, " said Agatha, "_they'd_ have pistols that _would_ go off. "

"Oh! I say, " exclaimed Jackie suddenly, "if here isn't Mary actuallycrying away like anything. What's the matter with her?"

It was quite true. Overwrought and frightened, these dreadful picturesof robbers and pistols had a reality for her which was too much to bear. Mary the courageous, the high-spirited, who scorned tears and laughedat weakness, was now crying and sobbing helplessly, like the greatestcoward of them all. 

Fraulein put her arm round her compassionately. "She is quaite tootired, " she said; "it is an attack of nerfs. Nefer mind, dear shild. When you will sleep to-night you shall feel quaite better to-morrow. "

She drew her closely to her side; and Mary, who generally despisedFraulein and laughed at her broken English, was thankful now to feel thecomfort of her kind protecting arm. 

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 4. 

A GYPSY CHILD?

The sun was streaming through Mary's small window when she woke upsomewhat later than usual the next morning. For a minute she lay withhalf-closed eyes, feeling very snug and comfortable, quietly gazing atall the well-known objects in the room--at the picture of the littlegirl reading, which hung opposite her bed, at the book-shelf with allthe brightly-covered books she was so fond of, at her canary hoppingrestlessly in his cage, at the cuckoo clock, and finally at the littleclog in the middle of the mantel-piece. But when she came to this hereyes opened wide, she sat up, rubbed them, and looked at it again; forall in a minute, just as we remember a dream, there came back to her thedreadful events of yesterday. The gypsies, the dimly-seen room, theflickering fire, Seraminta's dark face as she described the little shoe. "Ours you'll be for ever. " Could it possibly be true that she, MaryVallance, was the child of such people? What a dreadful thing! She didnot feel so frightened this morning, and, her natural spirit partlyreturning after her night's rest, she was more inclined to believe thatSeraminta had spoken falsely. "If I told father all about it, " she saidto herself, "I don't believe she'd dare to take me away. " And yet, whenshe thought it over, how could the woman have known about the shoe? Andbesides, Rice's remark flashed across her, "brown as a berry, " certainlythat would apply to Seraminta, she was a darker brown than anyone Maryhad ever seen. It was true, then, she really was a gypsy child, and ifso, they had a right to claim her if they wished. How could she escapeit? Her only chance lay in keeping perfect silence as they had toldher, and also in taking them the money she had promised this evening. How much had she? Mary wondered. Her money-box, a small redpost-office, stood on the mantel-piece; she jumped out of bed andcounted the contents; more than usual, because she had been saving it upfor Jackie's present. Now it must all go to those wicked people, andJackie could have no present--Jackie, who was always so good to her, andwho had not grudged the savings of a whole year in pennies to buy her acouple of white bantams. How unkind, how mean he would think it! Marygazed mournfully at the money-box. It was a great trial to her, for shehad a generous nature and was very fond of Jackie. Might she not leavejust a little in the box? But no--she dared not. Perhaps even nowthere were dark eyes peering in at the window, and at night, who couldtell from what unexpected quarter Perrin might appear to take her away?She must give them every penny of it. With a sigh she put all the moneyback, dressed herself and went down-stairs. Mr Vallance was speakingas she entered the breakfast-room, and she just caught these words:

"Such a fine fellow! I can't think how the wretches managed to kill himwithout noise. "

Mary stopped short and turned very white; she looked anxiously at MrsVallance, who was pouring out tea. Was it Squire Chelwood they hadkilled, or was it Hamlet? She did not dare to ask any questions. 

"Is anything the matter, my dear child?" asked Mrs Vallance. "You lookfrightened, and so pale. "

Mary murmured something about being tired, and crept into her place atthe table. 

"I never like those expeditions to Maskells, " continued Mrs Vallance;"you all run about so wildly and excite yourselves so much. "

"Morris says, " said Mr Vallance, turning round from the window, "thatall his finest pullets are gone, too, and some of his ducks. "

Morris was the poultry-man at the White House. 

"Do you hear that, Mary?" said Mrs Vallance. "Morris has just beendown to tell your father that the poultry-yard was robbed yesterday. "

"And your old enemy the great turkey gobbler was found dead on theground, " added Mr Vallance. 

Mary breathed again. If it were _only_ the turkey gobbler. 

"Was anything else killed?" she asked in a trembling voice. 

"How they managed it I can't think, " repeated Mr Vallance; "and theyappear to have got clear off with their spoil, there's no trace ofthem. "

"Except the poor turkey gobbler, " said Mrs Vallance. 

"Did they get into the house?" Mary now ventured to ask. 

"No, my dear, no; they were not so daring as that. This sort of trampsis not too fond of going where there are likely to be dogs and pistols. "

"We must take warning by this, Mary, " said Mrs Vallance, "and becareful about our fowl-house; it would not do to lose my cochin-chinasor your pretty white bantams in the same way. "

"I don't suppose there's much fear of their attempting a second robberyin the same place, " said Mr Vallance. "They're probably far enoughaway by this time; still, I'm sorry we've no dog now. Poor old Brutus!We miss him, don't we?"

While all this was going on Mary felt as guilty as if she had stolen thefowls and killed the turkey gobbler. She knew where the thieves were, safely hidden in the old house, and no doubt planning some otherdreadful deed. If she could only have spoken! Her food tasted like drychips in her mouth, she swallowed it with the utmost difficulty, and itwas only by taking great gulps of tea that she could get on at all. Mrs Vallance noticed her disturbed looks. 

"I think you ran about in the sun too much yesterday, Mary, " she said atlast. "I will send up to Fraulein and ask her to excuse your lessonsthis morning. You will be better for a quiet day at home with me. "

Mary was relieved not to go to the White House, for she dreaded morequestions from the children, but as to spending a "quiet" day at home, that was not possible. It never would be possible any more, shethought, for now she had to consider and contrive how to get her moneyto the appointed place at six o'clock that evening. She knew the spotwell, it was only a little distance beyond the White House. Just wherethe four roads met there stood a sign-post; near this was a large oldoak-tree, and at its foot a broad flat stone with a hollow under oneside. It was there she had to put her money, but how to get it therewithout observation?

Her mind was so full of this as the day went on that everything elseseemed like a sort of dream; she heard Mrs Vallance talking to her, andanswered, but so absently that her mother looked at her in surprise. "She is certainly very much over-tired, " she said to herself; "I alwaysknew that Maskells was not a place for the children, and I shall tellMrs Chelwood so. "

Meanwhile the dreaded hour drew nearer and nearer, the bell was ringingfor evening service, and Mr Vallance came out of his study and put onhis wide-awake. 

"Would you rather not go to church this evening, Mary?" said MrsVallance. 

"My head aches, " answered Mary. "If they will only go without me, " shesaid to herself, "I can do it. "

"Very well, darling, " said kind Mrs Vallance; "I will stay with you, and we will go on with that nice book you like so much. "

Mary's face became as red as it had been white a moment ago. 

"Oh, no, " she stammered; "I'd rather be alone. May I go and lie down onmy bed until you come back?"

What a strange request from the ever-active Mary!

"Do as you like, dear, " said Mrs Vallance, and as she left the houseshe added to her husband, "I hope the child's not going to be ill, shelooks so dull, and flushes up so. "

Mary listened until she heard the click of the garden gate, then shesprang up from her bed, wrapped all her money in a piece of paper andput it in her pocket. She looked at the clock, in five minutes theywould be in church, then she would start, and if she ran all the way shewould be in time. 

Concealment was so new to her that she felt as though she were doingsomething very wicked as she ran quickly along the familiar road; shemet no one, but every rustle in the hedge, every innocent sound, madeher start and tremble, and when in the distance she saw the tallsign-post standing there with outstretched arms she shook with fear. She reached it; no one in sight; all the four roads silent and bare; andhaving hidden her packet tremblingly under the broad stone she turned togo, with guilty footsteps, when suddenly, from the tree above, therefell at her feet a small screwed-up piece of paper. She looked up;amongst the thick leafy branches in the very heart of the oak there wasa freckled face peering down at her. It was the youth Bennie. Shestood motionless with terror, staring at him, and he pointed at thepiece of paper, making signs that she was to pick it up. As she stoopedto do so there sounded in the distance the steady trot of a horse, andlooking round the tree she saw, coming along the road from Dorminster, asturdy grey cob with a broad-shouldered man on his back. Even at thatdistance Mary knew the cob and she knew the man. It was SquireChelwood: Bennie's quick eye saw him too. 

"Hide!" he said, in a low threatening voice, and pointed to a gap in thehedge opposite. 

Mary's brain reeled. Should she stop Mr Chelwood and betray Bennie?But then the gypsies would claim her, she would belong to them, theywould take her away. Anything was better than that. She jumped throughthe gap, and crouched down behind the hedge. 

On came the squire, nearer and nearer, his square shoulders rising andfalling with his horse's movement, his jolly brown face puckered with afrown of annoyance; no doubt he had been trying to find out the thieves. How strong he looked, how ready he would be to help her, how glad toknow where Bennie was! Now he was passing close, close to herhiding-place; if she sprang out now she could stop him. But no, shecould not; in another minute it was too late, the cob had turned brisklyinto the Wensdale Road, and the sound of his hoofs soon became faint inthe distance. 

She now saw Bennie slide nimbly to the ground, cast one quick glanceround, and snatch the money from under the stone; then stooping low, heran swiftly along under the hedge in the direction of Maskells, likesome active wild animal, and disappeared. 

Left alone, Mary also crept out of her hiding-place and took her wayback to the vicarage as fast as she could. Humble and crest-fallen, howdifferent to the Mary of two days ago, who had such lofty ambitions!How foolish now seemed those vain dreams and fancies! No "Lady Mary, "but a gypsy child; it was a change indeed. She got home before servicewas over, threw herself on her little bed, and hid her face on herpillow. How unhappy she was! No one could help her, and yet she hadmany kind friends near, who would be so sorry for her if they knew. Butthey must not know, that was the worst part of it, she must bear thisdreadful thing all alone. She had been fond once of having "a secret, "a mystery she could share with Jackie only, and talk about in corners. What a different matter it was to have a real one to keep!

Presently she heard Mrs Vallance's step on the stairs; Mary felt thatshe could not answer any questions about her headache, so she shut hereyes and pretended to be asleep. When her kind mother bent over her andkissed her, how hard it was not to put her arms round her neck and tellher how miserable she was; but she must not, she must lie quite still, and soon she knew that Mrs Vallance was going softly out of the room. It grew gradually dusk; Mary got up and began to undress herself, shewould not go down-stairs again that night, she would go to bed at once, she thought. As she put her hand into her pocket, she felt somethingthere beside her handkerchief, and drew it quickly out. There was thedirty scrap of paper Bennie had thrown from the tree, and which she hadquite forgotten. What did it mean? Was there anything inside it? Witha thrill of fear she darted to the window, untwisted the paper, and bythe dim light could just make out the following scrawl: "Leeve the enroost oppen nex Munday nite. " Mary gazed at it with horror, unable forthe first few minutes to take in the sense, but when she did so she sankdown on the ground and burst into tears. What wicked, wicked peoplethey were! Not content with taking all her money, they wanted to robthe hen-roost, to steal her pretty bantams and Mrs Vallance's splendidwhite cochin-chinas. It was too cruel. She clenched her fistpassionately. "They sha'n't do it, " she said to herself starting to herfeet. "I will tell the squire; I will have them punished. They shallbe put in prison. "

Then another thought came, and she drooped her head mournfully. "If Ido that they will claim me for their child. `Not all the parsons andall the squires as ever was could prevent it, ' Seraminta had said. Whatwould happen then? I should have to go away from Wensdale, from fatherand mother, from Jackie, and all of them at the White House. They wouldall know that I belonged to thieves--not only to common, poor people, but to bad people. I should have to tramp about the country in dirtyold clothes, and perhaps no shoes. Anything would be better. I wouldrather they stole all the chickens. Perhaps after that they will goaway, and I shall never see them again. "

She seized the scrap of paper and spelt it over a second time. Mondaynight--that was Jackie's birthday, a whole week off. Surely somethingmight happen before then. The squire might find out the gypsies'hiding-place, and lock them up. Oh, if she might only give him theleast little hint!

But she soon made up her mind firmly that she would risk nothing. Shewould do all they told her, she would leave the door unlocked, and helpthem to steal the chickens, and neither by word or look would she doanything to lead to their discovery. For she felt certain of what wouldfollow if she did--disgrace, ragged clothes, and utter misery. 

After many sorrowful thoughts of this kind she at last sobbed herself tosleep, and dreamed that she saw Perrin the gypsy man stealing stealthilyout of the garden with a hen under each arm. 

During the week that followed she felt as though she were dreamingstill, though everything went on as usual with quiet regularity. Sheworked in her garden and fed her chickens, and went to the White Housefor her lessons with Fraulein. Outwardly it was all exactly the same, but within what a heavy heart she carried about with her! If she forgother troubles for a few minutes in a merry game or a book, they all cameback to her afterwards with double force. She belonged to gypsies;Monday they would steal the chickens; it was Jackie's birthday, and shecould give him no present. Those three things weighed on her mind likelead and altered her in so many ways that everyone was puzzled. She wassubmissive at home and obedient to Fraulein at the White House, nevereven smiling at her funniest English words; she was ready to give up herown will and pleasure to the other children; and more than once Jackiehad discovered her in tears--she was "proud Mary" no longer. 

As the days went on it became almost impossible to be so unhappy withouttelling someone. Often, when she and Jackie were alone together, herheart was so full that the words were on the very tip of her tongue, butfear kept them back. It was a heart-rending thing just now to feed thechickens and to hear Mrs Vallance talk so unconsciously about them, andsay how many eggs they laid. Only three more days and they would all begone; the fowl-house would be empty, and there would be no white cock towaken her in the morning with his cheerful crow. 

There seemed no chance now that the gypsies would be discovered, for thestir which the robbery had caused had quite quieted down. No othertheft had been heard of, and the village people had ceased to talk aboutthe affair, and settled their minds to the idea that the scamps had gotoff to some great distance. Only Mary knew better. 

The Chelwood children did not let the matter drop so lightly. They hadcomposed a game founded on the event, which they called "Robbers, " andwere much disappointed when Mary steadily refused to join them in it, for they had counted on her help in adding interesting details andfinishing touches. She seemed, however, to shudder at the very idea. 

"I believe Mary's afraid, " said Patrick jeeringly; but even this tauntfailed to rouse her. She took it quite quietly. What _could_ be thematter with Mary?

"I shouldn't be a bit surprised, " was Rice's remark, "if Miss Mary'ssickening for something. "

The days flew past. Saturday now, and Mary came down to breakfast in astate of dull despair. 

"Mary, dear, " said Mrs Vallance, smiling as she entered the room, "Ihave just made a plan for you that you will like. Your father is goingto drive in to Dorminster, and you are to go with him and buy Jackie'spresent. "

She waited for the look of delight which she felt sure of seeing, forshe knew what Mary had set her heart on for Jackie--the squirrel out ofGreenop's shop. 

Poor Mary! Her thoughts flew to the empty post-office upstairs. Not apenny in it. No squirrel for Jackie, no drive to Dorminster for her. As she remembered what a jolly little squirrel it was, what bright eyesit had, what soft red-brown fur, and how Jackie would have liked it, herheart swelled. Now, she must go to his birthday party empty-handed, andit would have been the best present there. 

With eyes full of tears and a scarlet flush on her cheeks she mutteredvery low:

"I've changed my mind. I don't want to buy the squirrel. "

"You don't want the squirrel!" repeated Mrs Vallance in great surprise. 

"N-no, " stammered Mary, and she put her head suddenly down on the tableand cried. 

Mrs Vallance was much perplexed and very sorry for Mary's distress, forshe knew how she had looked forward to giving the squirrel to Jackie. It was not like her to change her mind about such an important matterfor any slight cause. 

"I'm afraid you and Jackie have been quarrelling, " she said, strokingMary's hair gently; "but if I were you I should take this opportunity ofmaking it up. Give him the squirrel and be friends, and then you'll behappy again. "

How Mary wished she could! She made no answer, only sobbed morebitterly, and felt that she was the most miserable child in the world. 

For now she had no longer any hope. Evidently nothing would happen todiscover the gypsies and save the chickens. The days went on with cruelquickness, and Monday would be here in no time--a black Monday indeed. 

Sunday morning came, and she sat with those thoughts in her mind by MrsVallance's side, and looked round at all the well-known objects inchurch with a half feeling that one of them might help her. They weresuch old friends. From the painted window opposite the twelve apostlesin their gorgeous coloured robes had gazed seriously down at her everySunday for the last five years. Much study of them during sermon time, though she always tried to attend, had made her quite familiar withtheir faces, and to-day she fancied that Peter would be the one shewould choose to ask for advice and assistance. Turning from these hereye fell on another acquaintance of her earliest childhood--thelife-size stone figure of a man. He lay in a niche in the chancel, peacefully at rest on his side, with closed eyes and one hand under hischeek. He had a short peaked beard and wore an enormous ruff; his facelooked very grave and quiet--so quiet that it always filled Mary with asort of awe. He had lain there for more than three hundred years, undisturbed by pain, or trouble, or joy. Would he be sorry for her, shewondered, if he knew how unhappy she was? But no--he would not mind--his calm face would not alter; "nothing matters any more, " it seemed tosay. There was no comfort for her there. With a sigh she turned alittle to the right where the Chelwoods sat--the Squire and MrsChelwood in front, and Fraulein with the children behind. RestlessJackie, to whom it was torture to sit still so long, was not ready asusual to catch her eye, for he was following with breathless interest, which Patrick shared, the progress of a large black spider towardsFraulein's ungloved hand. Fraulein was very frightened of spiders, andthere was every reason to hope that, when it touched her hand, she wouldgive a great jump and shriek out "Himmel!"

Mary's glance wandered further, but suddenly it stopped short, for atlast it was met and answered by another pair of eyes, dark and eager, with such longing earnestness in their gaze, that she felt as though shecould not look away again. For a minute, which seemed a long, longtime, she stared fixedly at them, and then began to wonder who it wasthat took so much interest in her. It was a tall woman of about thirty, who sat among the servants from the White House; a stranger, withnothing remarkable about her except the extreme plainness of her dress, and a certain hungry expression in her eyes. "I wonder who she is, "thought Mary, "and why she stares at me like that. "

She turned her head away again, and five minutes afterwards the servicewas over and the congregation clattering out of the church. As shestood in the porch waiting for the Chelwood children the strange womancame quickly up to her, and, bending down, said hurriedly:

"Might I ask, missie, what your name is?"

"My name's Mary Vallance, " said Mary. 

The woman shrank back, and the eager light died out of her eyes. 

"Thank you, missie. I ask pardon, " she murmured, and passing on wentquickly down the churchyard to the gate. 

What an odd woman! When the children were all walking together towardsthe vicarage they passed her, and Mary asked who she was. 

"That?" said Agatha. "Oh, that's our new school-room maid. "

"She only came yesterday, " added Jennie. "She comes from Yorkshire. And what do you think? When Patrick first heard she was coming he saidhe was sure he shouldn't like her; and when Rice asked him why, he said, `Because I hate Yorkshire pudding so. '"

"Well, " said Patrick, "it's the only thing I know about Yorkshire. "

"But you oughtn't to judge people by puddings, " said Agatha reprovingly. 

"Anyhow, " returned Patrick, "she doesn't _look_ nice--there's such agreat big frown on her forehead. I expect she's cross. "

"No, she's not cross, " said Jackie, "she's sorry; mother told us allabout it. She lost her child a long while ago. That's what makes herlook grave. Mother says we ought to be very kind to her. "

"Jennie and I shall have most to do with her, " remarked thematter-of-fact Agatha, "because she's going to brush our hair instead ofRice. "

They had now reached the vicarage gate, and Jackie lingered after therest to have a few last words with Mary. 

"You'll come early to-morrow afternoon, won't you?" he said, "because Iwant to show you my presents before the others come. I know what two of'em are going to be. Jolly! Something _you'll_ like as well. "

Jackie cut a high caper of delight as he spoke, in spite of its beingSunday and Fraulein quite near. His pleasure in anything was alwaysdoubled if Mary could share it. That was so nice of Jackie. It made itall the more distressing at that moment to remember that she could givehim no present to-morrow, besides the mortification of appearing meanand stingy to the other children. She began to think that it would bealmost better to give up going to his birthday party. But what excusecould she make? Then another idea came to her. Was there anythingamong her own possessions that he would like to have? She ran them overin her mind. Books? Jackie hated books; it was only under strongpressure that he would ever open one, and she could not pretend to beignorant of this. If only Jackie were a girl! Then she could give himher work-box, which was nearly new, or a doll, or a set of tea-things, but it was no use to think of that. Still pondering the matter she wentupstairs into her own little room, and the moment she entered her eyefell on the little clog standing in the middle of the mantel-piece. Thevery thing! Jackie had often and often admired it, and though everyonewould know that she had not spent any money in getting it, still itwould be much much better than having nothing at all to give. She tookit off the mantel-piece and polished it up with her pocket-handkerchief. Dear little clog, she would be sorry to part with it, and it wouldleave a great gap among the other ornaments, but still it must go--afterall it would not go far, only to the White House. Thinking thus, andrubbing it meanwhile, she noticed for the first time that there were twoletters faintly scratched on the wooden sole, "BM. " Who was BM?"Perhaps that's my name, " she thought; "but I don't want to know it ifit is. I'd rather be Mary Vallance. " And then the dark faces of Perrinand Seraminta came before her and she frowned. How hateful it was tobelong to them! She, Mary Vallance, who had always been so proud anddelicate in her ways, so vain of her white skin, and so sure, only theother day, that her people were rich and great. That was all over now;even Rice could not call her "Tossy" any more. 

It was in a very humble and downcast spirit that she paid a farewellvisit to the fowls on Monday afternoon, before starting for the WhiteHouse. The white bantams had become very tame, and when they pecked thecorn out of her hand it was almost too much to bear. It was the lasttime she should feed them! Angry tears filled her eyes as she thoughthow they would be stolen that night; she longed to punish the gypsypeople, and yet she was powerless in their hands, and must even helpthem in their wickedness. Poor Mary! She was very unhappy, andsurprised that nothing happened to prevent it. It seemed so hard andcruel. Nevertheless, every step she took that afternoon towards theWhite House was bringing her nearer to help and comfort, though she didnot know it. 

Jackie came running to meet her in the hall, arrayed in his best suitand best manners. 

"Come along into the school-room, " he said, "and see the presents. "

While he was showing them to her, two little heads looked in at the openwindow from the garden. They were Patrick and Jennie. 

"We've guessed what your present is, Mary, " they both cried at once. 

The twins were such tiresome children! If there was an uncomfortablething to say, they always said it. 

"I'm sure you haven't, " answered Mary sharply. 

"It comes from Dorminster, " said Patrick grinning. 

"And it begins with S, " added Jennie. 

"It lives in a cage, " chimed in Patrick. 

"And eats nuts, " finished Jennie in a squeaky voice of triumph. 

Their little eager tormenting faces came just above the window sill:Mary felt inclined to box their ears. 

Jackie, who was a polite boy, pretended not to hear. He knew quite wellthat Mary had brought him a present, and he more than suspected what itwas, but this was a most improper way to refer to it. 

"Shut up, will you, " he said, and just at that minute Agatha came intothe room with some visitors. They had all brought presents, and Maryknew by the way Agatha stared at her that she was wondering where herswas. Perhaps it would be better to give the clog now, though she hadintended to wait until she and Jackie were alone. She was drawing itout of her pocket when Fraulein, who had been admiring the various giftsand chattering away in broken English, said suddenly:

"And vair is Mary's present? It is zumzing ver pretty, ver nice, verwot you call `jollie, ' I suppose. Zumzing better zan all, as she andJean are so attach. "

This speech changed Mary's intention. She was ashamed to produce theclog now. She drew her hand out of her pocket empty, gave a proud tossof the head, and said with crimson cheeks:

"I haven't brought anything. "

There was silence in the room. Every eye was fixed upon her; it was themost cruel moment of her life. Even Jackie flushed hotly, turned away, and began to pull out all the blades of a new pocket-knife someone hadgiven him. 

How stupid it was of Fraulein not to let the matter drop, without sayinganything more! Instead of this she held up her hands and exclaimed:

"Est-ce possible? Do I onderstand? Nozing? You have not broughtnozing for Jean's jour de fete? But perhaps I do not onderstand?"

It was so irritating to see her standing there waiting for an answer, that Mary, never very patient, lost her temper completely. 

"No, you don't understand. You _never_ do, " she said, and rushed out ofthe room into the garden. She ran quickly when she once got outside, for she felt that she could not get far enough away from the whole partyin the school-room; from Fraulein with her stupid remarks, from thevisitors who had all stared in surprise, even from Jackie whomisunderstood. But it was natural, after all, that he should do that. How could he know she had brought anything for him? And now she hadbeen rude to Fraulein, and made his party uncomfortable. She wonderedpresently whether they would come after her, and persuade her to goback; it would be unkind if they did not, and yet she would rather bealone just then. There was no one following her, and she thought shewould go somewhere out of sight. The nut-walk would be best. So sheturned into the kitchen-garden, and soon came to the nut-walk; the treesgrew on each side of it with their branches meeting overhead, and in oneof the biggest Jackie had contrived to fix a sort of perch made out ofan old board. There was a convenient notch a little lower down, whereyou could place your feet, and it was considered a most comfortableseat, amply large enough for two. Mary was fond of sitting there, andnow it seemed a sort of refuge in distress; she swung herself up intoit, sat down, and leaned her bare head against the branches at the back. Through the thick leaves she could see a long way--all over thekitchen-garden, and a bit of the lawn near the house, and the brown roofof the stables, where the pigeons sat in a long row. When the childrencame out she should see them too, she thought, but she need not jointhem unless she liked. For some time the garden was very quiet, and shebegan to think that perhaps they meant to play indoors. That was not atall like Jackie, who always liked a game with a good deal of running init, and besides, he _must_ want to know where she was. It was ratherdull, after all, to sit there alone, while the others were enjoyingthemselves. Should she go a little nearer the house? Just as shethought this, she was startled by a distinct cry of "Whoop!" whichseemed to come from the walk below. She peeped down through the leaves. There was Jackie crouching in a frog-like attitude behind a tree, withhis limbs gathered into the smallest possible compass. The rustlingmade him look up, and he held out his hand with all the fingersoutstretched, and a sudden grimace which meant "Don't speak. " They wereplaying hide-and-seek. 

Mary knew better than to spoil the game, but she gave a beseechingglance at him, and beckoned. Jackie shook his head; evidently hisfeelings were hurt, and he did not mean to be friends just yet. Marywas in despair. How could she manage to speak to him? Perhaps this washer only chance of doing so alone. From her perch she could see thepursuers scouring wildly about in a wrong direction at present, but soonthey could not fail to search the nut-walk, and then it would be toolate. She took the little clog from her pocket, cautiously descendedthe tree, and creeping up to Jackie, placed the parcel noiselessly athis side. It was neatly folded in white paper, and had his name writtenon it in elegant fancy letters. Jackie turned his head and saw theinscription:

"For Jackie, with Mary's love. "

His screwed-up mouth widened into a grin, he picked it up, turned itround and round, and at last whispered hoarsely:

"Why didn't you give it before?"

"Because of Fraulein, " answered Mary in the same tone; "they're a longway off. Come up into the tree. "

Both children were soon tightly wedged into the nut-tree seat, andJackie at once began to examine his package; watching his face, Marycould see that he was surprised when the clog appeared, though he triedto hide it by another grin. 

"Thank you, " he whispered. 

"It's the only thing I had, " explained Mary hurriedly. "I meant to giveyou _such_ a nice thing. I saved my money, and I had enough. You_would_ have liked it so--" She stopped and sobbed a little under herbreath. 

Jackie said nothing. He was evidently wondering why she had not givenhim this nice thing. The reason was such a dreadful reason, and it wasso hard not to be able to explain it all to him, that Mary could notkeep back her tears: she bit her lip, and screwed up her face, but itwas useless, they would come, so she leant her forehead against Jackie'svelveteen shoulder, and cried in good earnest, without saying anotherword. Jackie was both startled and uncomfortable; the tree quite shookwith the violence of Mary's sobs, and her long hair got into his eyesand tickled his face as he sat, screwed up close to her in the narrowperch. He did not mind that, but he was very sorry indeed to see her sounhappy, and could not think how to comfort her. Lately he had seen hercry several times, but never as badly as this. What could be thematter? With some difficulty he tugged out of his pocket a smallhandkerchief, which by a lucky chance was perfectly clean, and, raisingher face a little, dabbed her eyes softly with it. 

"Don't, " he whispered. "I like the shoe awfully--_much_ better than theother thing you were going to give me. Don't cry. "

But Mary cried on. 

"You don't surely mind what that owl of a Fraulein said, do you?"continued Jackie. 

"N-no, " said Mary. 

"What are you crying for, then?"

If she could only tell him!

"Is it anything about the Secret?" asked Jackie. 

No answer. 

"I expect it is, " he went on in an excited whisper. "But you ought totell me, you know, however horrid it is. Is it horrid?"

Mary nodded. There was comfort even in that, though she must not sayanything. 

Jackie leant eagerly forward. Splash! Fell a great rain-drop on thetip of his nose, and a pelting shower quickly followed. Patter, patter, fell the fast-falling rain on the leaves above the children's heads, sprinkling Mary's yellow hair and Jackie's best velveteen suit. 

"We must go in, " he said; "all the others have gone. _Won't_ you justtell me first?"

"I can't tell you, " said Mary mournfully. "And I don't want to go in. I should like to stop here always. "

"Well, you couldn't do that, you know, " said Jackie gravely. "There'sno roof, and you'd get wet through, and hungry too. Come along. "

He gave her hand a gentle pull, and prepared to descend. As hecautiously lowered one leg, a woman with a shawl over her head camerunning down the nut-walk; it was Maggie, the new school-room maid. 

"Why, there you are, Master Jackie, " she said; "we've been lookingeverywhere for you. You're to come in out of the rain this minute, please. And have you seen Miss Mary? Marcy me, my dear, where did youget yon?"

She pointed excitedly to the little shoe which Jackie still held. 

"Mary gave it me, " he answered. 

Without further ceremony this strange woman seized the shoe from him, and with trembling hands turned it over and looked closely at the woodensole. Then she clasped it to her breast, and with a sudden light in hereyes exclaimed:

"I knew it. I felt it was her. Heaven be praised!" and before Jackiehad at all regained his breath, she had rushed away down the nut-walk, and was out of sight. 

Mary, who had remained unseen, looked down from the tree. 

"Isn't she an odd woman?" she said. "Do you think she's mad? Orperhaps those are Yorkshire ways. "

"If they are, " replied Jackie much ruffled and discomposed, "I don'tlike Yorkshire ways at all. What business has she to cut away like thatwith my shoe?"

There was something mysterious altogether about Maggie's behaviour, forwhen the children reached the house they found that the others were fullof excitement and curiosity. She had been seen to rush wildly in fromthe garden with the little shoe hugged to her breast, and now she hadbeen talking to mother alone for a long while. But soon tea-time came, all manner of games followed, and the school-room maid was forgotten inmore interesting matters. Even Mary was able to put away her troublesfor a little while, and almost to enjoy herself as she had been usedbefore they began. She was to stop at the White House that night, because it was still wet and stormy, so she resolved not to think of thechickens or Perrin or Seraminta just for that one evening. It would betime enough to be miserable again when morning came. 

Everything went on merrily until Jackie's guests were all gone away. 

"What shall we do now?" he said, yawning a little, for there was stillan hour to be filled up before bed-time. Just as he spoke Mrs Chelwoodcame into the school-room. 

"Children, " she said, "would you like me to tell you a story?"

Nothing could possibly be better, and the offer came at the right momentwhen things were feeling a little flat; the children received itjoyfully, and gathered round their mother eagerly, and yet with acertain seriousness, for it was an honour as well as a delight to have astory from her--it happened so seldom. 

"This is a story, " began Mrs Chelwood when they were all settled, "which I have only just heard myself, and it is a true one. It hassomething to do with one of Jackie's presents to-day. "

"I wonder which?" said Jackie, rubbing his knees. 

"You shall hear, " said his mother. "Now, listen. 

"Once there was a poor mother who lived far away from here in the northof England, and worked in a factory. She had only one child, which sheloved so fondly that it was more than all the world to her, and thoughshe had to work very hard all day, it seemed quite light and easy forthe child's sake. "

"Why didn't the father work?" asked Agatha. 

"The father was dead. "

"Was it a boy or a girl?" asked Patrick. 

"And what was its name?" added Jennie. 

"It was a little girl, " said Mrs Chelwood, "and she was called Betty. "

"But Betty isn't a name, " objected Agatha, "it's short for something. "

"In the north it is used as a name by itself, " replied Mrs Chelwood;"many of the children there are christened Betty, and so was this littlegirl, though she was very seldom called so. "

"Why?" asked Mary. 

"Because the people in the village had given her a nickname. Theycalled her `Little Clogs. '"

"What a frightful name to give her!" said Agatha. "What did they do itfor?"

"Because she was so proud of a tiny pair of shoes which someone had madefor her. They were exactly like that one Mary gave Jackie, and they areproperly called `clogs. '"

"They're not a bit like the clogs Mrs Moser, the charwoman, wears, "said Agatha. 

"If you interrupt me so often I shall never finish my story, " said hermother. "Well, this poor mother couldn't take her child with her intothe factory, so she used to leave her with a friend close by, and fetchher after her work. But one evening when she went as usual there was nobaby to be found--she was gone!"

"Where?" said Mary. 

"No one knew. She had been stolen away, or lost, and on the door-step, where she had been playing, there was one little clog left. "

"Who had stolen her?" asked Mary anxiously. 

"They heard later that a fair-skinned child had been seen with gypsieson the road to London, but that was not till long afterwards. For yearsthe mother heard no news of her, and wandered up and down the countrywith the one little clog in her hand seeking her: she felt sure sheshould know her again, though all this time the child was growing up, and was a baby no longer. But the mother never quite despaired, and shehad a feeling that somehow the little clog would help her in her search:on its wooden sole, as well as on that of the lost one, she hadscratched two letters--BM. 

"So the time went on and on. It was seven long years after she had losther child that the mother heard of a situation in a place calledWensdale, and went there to live. Now you can tell me the mother'sname. "

"Why, of course, it must be Maggie, " said Jackie, who had been staringfixedly at Mary for the last two minutes with his mouth wide open; "andthat's why she caught hold of my shoe and--"

"Let me finish the story, " said Mrs Chelwood, "and then you shall talkabout it as much as you like. In this very place there was a littlegirl living at the vicarage who had been left in the garden there bygypsies seven years ago. She had a funny little shoe with her when shewas found, and had kept it ever since; and now, perhaps, you know whothat little girl is. "

"It's me!" cried Mary, starting up--"it's my shoe--and I saw theletters--and I don't belong to the gypsies after all, and--"

"My dear, " said the squire, putting his head in at the door, "I'm toomuddy to come in, but you'll all be glad to hear that we've caught thoserascals and they're all in Dorminster jail. "

Mrs Chelwood hurried out of the room, and the children all began totalk at once, to ask questions, to exclaim, to wonder if the gypsieswould be hanged, and so on. Presently, however, it was found that Maryhad strange and dreadful experiences to relate. A silence fell upon theothers until she had finished, and then they looked at her with a sortof awe. 

"So our chickens won't be stolen, " she repeated, "and that dreadfulSeraminta can't take me away. "

"It's a tremendously puzzling thing though, " said Jackie reflectively;"here you've got two mothers, you see, and two names. How will youmanage, and where will you live?"

"She's only got one _real_ mother, " cried Patrick. 

"And one _real_ name, " said Jennie. 

"And shall you mind, " continued Jackie seriously, "about not beinggrand? You're not Lady anything, you see, but just `Betty. '"

"I don't want to be grand any more, " said Mary earnestly, "and I don'tmind anything else one bit, now I don't belong to the gypsies. "

"How glad your last mother--no, I mean your first mother--must be, " saidAgatha, "that someone made you that Pair of Clogs. "

This was only one of many and many a conversation amongst the childrenon the same subject during several following weeks. And what awonderful subject it was! Surely never had such a strange thinghappened in a quiet village as this discovery of Mary's mother, and asto Mary herself, she was now surrounded by an air of romance which wasmore interesting than any story-book. If she could only have remembereda little about that time she passed with the gypsies! But none ofJackie's earnest appeals to "try hard" produced any results, for allthat part of her life was wiped as clean out of her memory as when onewashes marks off a slate with a sponge. It was all gone, and when shelooked back it was not Seraminta and Perrin and the donkey-cart she saw, but the kind faces of Mr and Mrs Vallance and her happy, pleasant homeat the vicarage. And yet, though her earliest recollections were ofthese, she did not in truth belong to them; they were not her people, and sunny Wensdale was not her place; Maggie was her mother, and cold, grey Haworth on the hillside was her real home. It was, as Jackie hadsaid, a most puzzling thing, and the important question arose--wouldMary have to go away? It was wildly irritating to be shut out from allthe talks and conferences which were always going on now between Mary'stwo mothers and Mrs Chelwood. The children felt that it was more theirconcern than anyone's, but they were told nothing, and the air of theschool-room was so full of excitement and curiosity that Fraulein was indespair. The slightest noises in the house during lesson time nowseemed to carry deep meaning--perhaps only a bell ringing, or some oneshutting the door of mother's sitting-room, but it was enough to makeJackie put down his slate-pencil and look at Mary with an awestruck andimpressive gaze. She would give an answering nod of intelligence, andPatrick and Jennie, not to be left out in the cold, would at once beginto nod rapidly at each other, as much as to say, "We understand too. "It was only Agatha who took her placid way undisturbed. But the daycame when, matters being at last arranged, the children were told allabout it, and this is what they heard:

Mary was to spend a year with her real mother at Haworth, and a yearwith Mrs Vallance at Wensdale, alternately, until she was eighteenyears old. On her eighteenth birthday she might choose at which ofthese two homes she would live altogether. 

"If you _could_ choose, " Jackie had once said to her in jest, "whosedaughter would you be?"

And now, in years to come, the choice would really have to be made--thechoice between Haworth and Wensdale, hard work and idleness, poverty andriches. Which would it be?

"Of course, " was Jackie's first remark, "you'll choose Wensdale, won'tyou?"

But so many strange things had happened lately to Mary that she did notjust now feel as if anything was "of course. "

STORY TWO, CHAPTER 1. 

BUZLEY'S COURT. 

"It's a terr'ble lonesome part from what I hear tell. Miles from therail, and the house don't stand as it might be in the village street, but by itself in the fields. Mrs Roy--that's the Reverend Roy's wife--was very straight with me about it. `If you think, Mrs Lane, ' saysshe, `that your daughter'll find the place too dull and far away I'drather you'd say so at once, and I'll look out for another girl. It'snot at all like London, ' says she, `and I make no doubt Biddy will feelstrange at first. '"

Mrs Lane wielded a large Britannia metal teapot as she spoke, kept aneye on the sympathetic neighbour sitting opposite at the tea-table, andalso contrived to cast a side glance at Biddy, who stood at the firemaking toast and listening to the conversation. She had heard hermother say much the same thing a great many times since it had beensettled that she was to go to Wavebury and take care of Mrs Roy's baby, and she was now quite used to hearing that it was a "lonesome" place, though she did not know what it meant. At any rate it must be somethingimpossible to get at Number 6 Buzley's Court, Whitechapel, where she hadlived all the thirteen years of her life. Perhaps she might find itpleasant to be "lonesome, " she thought, and yet her mother always addedthe word "terr'ble" to it, as if it were a thing generally to bedisliked. 

Meanwhile the conversation went on:

"And she goes to-morrow, then?" said Mrs Jones. "Now I dessay it's afairish long journey by rail?"

"We've got all directions wrote out clear, by the Reverend Roy hisself, "answered Mrs Lane proudly. "Biddy, reach me that letter out of thechany jug on the shelf. "

Receiving it, she flattened it carefully out on the table with the palmof her hand before the admiring eyes of Mrs Jones, and, pointing toeach word, read out slowly and loudly the directions for Biddy'sjourney. 

"She gets out, yer see, at Canley station. That's as far as the railgoes. There she'll be met and druv over to Wavebury--eight miles, MrsRoy said. "

"Dear!" exclaimed Mrs Jones, as the letter was folded up again, "what aoutlandish place!"

"We've worked hard, Biddy and me, " continued Mrs Lane with a glance ofpride at her daughter and a little sigh, "to get all her things nice andready. Two new dark laylock prints I've got her. "

"With a spot?" inquired Mrs Jones full of interest. 

"No, with a sprig--I always think there's an air about a laylock printwith a sprig. It looks respectable and like service. I don't hold withthem new-patterned bright cottons. Once in the wash-tub, and where arethey afterwards? Poor ragged-out things not fit to wear. I remember Ihad laylock prints when I first went to service as a gal, and there'sbits of them very gowns in the patch-work quilt yonder. "

"Ah!" said Mrs Jones admiringly. Then looking at Biddy's capablelittle square figure she added, "You'll miss her at first a goodish bitat home. "

"If it wasn't that baby's out of hand now and runnin' about I couldn'tlet her go, not if it was ever so, " replied Mrs Lane emphatically. "But I shall rub along somehow, and seven pounds a year's aconsideration. Yes, she's a handy gal, Biddy is, with children. Shehad ought t'know summat about 'em, for she's helped to bring six of 'emup. There was Stevie--a deal of trouble we had with him. Alwaysweakly, and cut his teeth in his legs. Never out of arms, that childwasn't, till he was pretty nigh two year old. I never should a' rearedhim if it hadn't been for Biddy. That I own. "

On the subject of Stevie's sufferings Mrs Lane had always a great dealto say, and when she paused, less from lack of matter than want ofbreath, Mrs Jones took up the tale and added experiences of a likenature. Biddy therefore heard no further reference to herself and herprospects, and pursued her own thoughts undisturbed. And she had agreat deal to think of, for to-morrow she was going into the world! Shewould say good-bye to Buzley's Court and to all the things and people init she had known and lived with, and turn her face to meet new thingsand new people. Nothing would be familiar to her in that strange world, not even tea-cups with blue rims like these she was washing up for thelast time. Everything new, down to the two lilac prints, made longerthan ever before, lying at the bottom of the new black box. It waswonderful to think of, and very confusing to the mind. There would evenbe a new baby to look after. But when Biddy reached this point shesmiled securely, for she had no fears about the baby, though Mrs Royhad looked so doubtfully at her and said that she was small. Small!What had that to do with it? Biddy felt in herself a large capacity forhandling babies. Had she not brought Stevie through teething attendedwith alarming complications? She was not likely to think much of MrsRoy's baby after that. 

And indeed Biddy was one of those people who seem formed by nature inbody and mind on purpose to be nurses. The babies were comfortable inher strong capable arms, and their little woes and troubles were quietedand soothed by her patient placid temper. Then, too, she had, as hermother had said, a great deal of experience, for though she was onlythirteen years old now, she had always, ever since she could rememberanything, had a baby on her mind. A baby had always been the chiefcircumstance in her life from the time when she was too small to doanything but keep watch by its cradle, to that when she learnt herlessons for school with a baby in her arms. In her play-hours, when thechildren of Buzley's Court gathered to enjoy themselves after their ownmanner in the summer evenings, Biddy looked on from the door-step--withthe baby. By the time baby number one was beginning to stagger about, and seize upon knives and scissors and other dangerous playthings, babynumber two--pink and incapable--was ready for Biddy's closest attention. Life, therefore, without a baby on hand would have seemed to herunnatural and even impossible; and the baby at Wavebury, instead ofsomething to be dreaded, was the only idea her mind rested on with theconfidence of long familiarity. 

"For babies, " she thought, "are pretty much alike. There's fat ones andthere's thin ones. The fat ones don't cry so much, and the thin onesdo, and that's about the only way they differ. "

That night was a very short one to Biddy, and it seemed to her that shewas still asleep and dreaming as she and her mother hurried along thecold grey streets in the early morning. Even when they reached thestation, much too soon for the train, she could hardly take in the senseof all her mother was repeating to her so earnestly, though she heardthe words. 

Not to lean against the door, not to lose her ticket, not to forget herbox, or the name of the station she was going to. Finally, to be a goodgal and mind her work, and remember to say her prayers, and to give MrsLane's dooty to her mistress. All of which she promised, and presentlyfound herself seated in a third-class carriage clasping in one hand hercotton umbrella, and in the other a small shiny black bag which MrsLane called a "ridicule. " Then, when she saw her mother standing aloneon the platform, she began to wake up and to feel that it was no dreamor anything like one. She was really setting forth by herself for a"lonesome" place where there would be no mother. Mother had scoldedsometimes, and said sharp things on washing days, but she was fond ofBiddy, and proud of her too, and Biddy knew it; the tears rose to hereyes as the train moved away, and as long as she could she waved the"ridicule" in answer to mother's energetic farewells with her umbrella. But soon, the train quickening its pace, the familiar figure was lost tosight--checked shawl, best black bonnet, gingham umbrella, all vanished, and Biddy was alone, whirling along rapidly towards strange places andpeople. 

Then, for one minute, she felt she must "give way, " but not having beenused to such a luxury in Buzley's Court, where there was never a momentto spare, she thought better of it, winked back the tears, and sat veryupright. 

Soon there were plenty of surprising things to be seen out of thewindow, and first the exceeding greenness of the landscape struck herwith astonishment, although it was November and the trees were bare. Then, as she got further into the country, she wondered to see so fewhouses. "Where does the folks bide?" she said to herself. It seemed anempty sort of place, with nothing going on, and Mrs Roy had been quiteright when she had said, "The country's not at all like London. "Biddy's round brown eyes were still staring out of the window with afixed expression of surprise when the short winter day began to closein, and a misty gloom spread over the fields and hills as they seemed tochase each other hurriedly past. But though she still tried to lookout, and sat stiffly upright in her corner, her head nodded forward nowand then, and the whirr and rattle of the train sounded with a sort ofsing-song in her weary ears. She struggled to keep awake, but hereyelids seemed pressed down by some determined hand, and at last shegave it up and let them remain closed. After that she was conscious ofnothing till she heard a shout of "Canley station!" quite near her, andshe jumped up with a start and saw a porter holding the carriage dooropen; the light of his lantern shone on the wet pavement, but everywhereelse it was quite dark and raining fast. 

"Oh, please, " said Biddy, "I'm to get out; and is there anyone here fromWavebury?"

She had repeated this sentence so often to herself that it came out nowwithout the least effort. 

"All right!" said the porter good-naturedly, "you come alonger me;" andhe helped Biddy out and opened her umbrella for her, and asked if shehad any luggage. Then diving into the van he reappeared with theprecious black box on his shoulder, and led the way along the drippingplatform. 

"There's a gen'leman waiting for yer, " he said. 

Outside the little station there was a flickering gas-lamp, and by itslight Biddy saw a farmer's spring-cart standing in the road with a smallrough pony harnessed to it; in it there sat a young man very muchmuffled up in a number of cloaks--he wore a wide-awake pulled well downover his face, and was smoking a pipe. "Can it be the Reverend Roy?"thought Biddy. 

But she had not time to wonder long, for he turned quickly towards her. 

"Are you the little girl for Truslow Manor?" he asked; and thencontinued, speaking so rapidly that there was no answer needed:

"All right--here you are--give me your hand. Rather a high step. Takecare. Capital!" as Biddy struggled up with the porter's help, andarrived, umbrella and all, flat at the driver's feet in the bottom ofthe cart. 

"Now, then, " he went on, having picked her up and placed her on thenarrow seat at his side, "put this on, and this, and this. "

He plunged into the back of the cart and produced numerous shawls andwraps, which he threw upon the breathless Biddy, talking all the while. 

"You'll find it fresh up on the downs. Where's your box? In at theback? All right! Then off we go!"

Biddy was quite confused and "put about" by this impetuous behaviour, and she had just made up her mind that this was _not_ the Reverend Roy, when her ideas were upset by the porter, who called out, "Good-night, Mr Roy!" as they drove away. Parsons in the country were, then, different from those in London, like everything else. It was surprisingto find them so "short and free in their ways. "

To her relief he did not speak to her again, but puffed away at his pipein silence while they crawled slowly up a long hill leading out of thetown. But this quiet pace did not last, for, the road becoming level, the pony took to a kind of amble which seemed its natural pace, and wassoon urged from that into a gallop by its driver. Rattle, rattle, bump!Went the little cart over the rough road; and Biddy, feeling that shemust otherwise be tossed out like a nine-pin, clung desperately to hernew master's many wrappings. The Reverend Roy drove very wild, shethought, and how dark it was! She could just dimly see on either sideof her, as they bounded along, wide open country stretching far away inthe distance; great gently swelling downs were lying there in themysterious darkness, and all the winds of heaven seemed to have metabove them to fight together. How it blew! And yet it managed to raintoo at the same time. The wind battled with Biddy's umbrella, andtugged madly at her bonnet strings, and buffeted Mr Roy's wide-awake, and screamed exultingly as it blew out his pipe!

"Fresh up here, isn't it?" he remarked as he took it out of his mouth. 

Fresh! Biddy had never felt so cold in her life, and could not havethought there had been so much fresh air in the whole world puttogether. 

On they went, swinging up and down until her brain reeled; on, on, through the rain and whistling wind, over the lonely downs, while shestrained her eyes in vain for sight or sound of a living creature. Ifthis was what they meant by a "lonesome" place it was "terr'ble" indeed. 

Hours seemed to pass in this way, and then the pony slackened its pace alittle. Biddy peered from under the edge of the umbrella and could nowmake out that they were in a sort of lane, for instead of open countrythere was a hedge on each side of the road. They must be near Waveburynow, she thought, though she could see no houses or lights or people;her fingers were cramped and cold, and she could not cling on muchlonger either to her umbrella or Mr Roy's cloak. But suddenly the ponywas checked to a walk, the cart ceased to jump up and down so wildly, and she was able to relax her hold, with a deep sigh of relief. 

"It's an awkward bit just here, " said Mr Roy, "for they've been fellinga tree, and left pieces of it lying about in the road. "

In front of them was a white gate which stood open and led into whatlooked like a farmyard, for there were sheds and outbuildings round itand straw scattered about. Through this they drove, jolting over a goodmany rough obstacles and then through another gate and stopped. Theyhad arrived at last, and this was Truslow Manor. All Biddy could see, however, was a deep stone porch, with a seat on each side of it like theentrance to a church, and then a massive oak door, with heavy hinges anda great brass knocker. There was no light anywhere; but presently, asBiddy, stiff with cold, was preparing to unwind her many wrappings, thedoor swung slowly back, and a little figure appeared with a lamp in itshand. By its faint glimmer she recognised her new mistress, Mrs Roy, whom she had already seen in London. 

"Oh, Richard, " said a plaintive voice, "how glad I am you're back! Isthe girl there?"

"Here we are, " answered Mr Roy cheerfully, as he helped Biddy to climbout of the cart. 

"It's an awful night. How's the baby?"

"I don't think she's _worse_, but the spots are still there, and MrSmith hasn't been. Come in, Biddy. "

Following her mistress Biddy found herself in a narrow stone passage, and caught through an open door to the left a glimpse of a panelled roomlighted up by a great glowing wood fire. It looked splendidlycomfortable after the cold dreariness outside. Mrs Roy opened anotherdoor at the end of the passage. 

"Mrs Shivers, " she said to some invisible person within, "here's BiddyLane. Please, give her some tea, and let her get warm, and then sendher to me in the drawing-room. "

The door closed on Biddy, and Mrs Roy returned to the panelled room, where her husband, having emerged from his wet wrappings, was spreadinghis hands over the blaze and shivering. 

"Well, Richard, " she said earnestly, "what do you think of her?"

"Of whom?" asked Richard. 

"Why, of the girl. "

"Well, I think, judging by myself, she must be cold and hungry. "

"She's _very_ small, " continued Mrs Roy, sitting down in a low chairand glancing thoughtfully at the cradle which stood near it--"smallerthan I thought. "

"Who? The baby?"

"No. Of course, I mean the girl. I wish you wouldn't joke, Richard, when you know how anxious I am. "

"I didn't mean to, really, " said Mr Roy penitently, as his wife lookedup at him with distressed blue eyes. "Only, as you always call the baby`She, ' how was I to know? As to being _small_, you know--well, the lastgirl was _big_ enough, I'm sure. "

"And stupid enough, " added Mrs Roy sadly. "I couldn't have kept her, even if she hadn't insisted on going away. "

"I suppose you've cautioned Mrs Shivers not to gossip to this girl?"said Mr Roy in lowered tones. 

"Oh, yes, indeed, " answered his wife, casting a nervous glance round theroom. "She won't hear anything about _that_. And I do hope, if she'shandy with the baby, that she'll stay. It _would_ be such a comfort. Only I wish she wasn't so small. "

At this moment the door opened, and, after some hoarsely encouragingwhispers from Mrs Shivers, who remained unseen, the small form of Biddyherself appeared. She had put on a white apron and a large cap; therewas a great deal of cap and apron and very little of Biddy, and beingnervous, she stood with her arms hanging forward in rather a helplessway which did not impress Mrs Roy favourably. Fortunately for Biddy, however, the baby, wakened just then by the noise of the door, began tocry, and its mother stooped over the cradle and lifted the child in herarms. Biddy's shyness vanished. The cry of a baby was to her as thesound of trumpets is to a war-horse. She advanced eagerly and stoodclose to her mistress. 

"The baby's not at all well to-night, " said Mrs Roy appealingly. "She's covered with tiny red spots, and _so_ feverish. I'm expectingthe doctor every minute. "

Biddy came still nearer, and examined the small face attentively. 

"Lor'! Mum, " she exclaimed triumphantly, "you've no call to mind aboutthat. That's only thrush, that is. Three of ourn had it, and didbeautiful. She's bound to be a bit fretful, but she won't come to noharm, so long as you keep her warm. "

The confidence with which Biddy spoke, and the manner in which sheshortly afterwards took the baby in her arms, and soothed it to sleepwith a proper rocking movement of one foot, comforted Mrs Royimmensely. And when the doctor came he confirmed Biddy's opinion. It_was_ thrush. After that Mrs Roy went to bed happier in her mind thanshe had been for weeks. Though small, her new nurse-maid wouldevidently prove a support and a treasure; the only thing to bequestioned now was--would she stay?

STORY TWO, CHAPTER 2. 

TRUSLOW MANOR. 

Truslow Manor, where the curate and his wife lived, and Biddy had cometo take care of the baby, had belonged in days gone by to the ancientfamily of Truslow. 

There were no Truslows in Wavebury now, but traces of them were stillleft there, for in the church there was not only an antiquely carved pewcalled the "Truslow Pew, " but also a tablet in the chancel bearing thedate 1593, which set forth the virtues of a certain John Truslow in thefollowing terms:--

 "The body of John Truslow here doth rest, Who, dying, did his soule to Heaven bequest. The race he lived here on earth was threescore years and seven, Deceased in Aprill, '93, and then was prest to Heaven. His faith in Christ most steadfastly was set, In 'sured Hope to satisfy His debt. A lively Theme to take example by, Condemning Deth in Hope a Saint to dye. "

Notwithstanding this the people of Wavebury did not hold the memory ofthe Truslows in much veneration; they had been "a bad lot, " it wasrumoured, and the old manor-house, which still bore their name, waslooked on with suspicion as a place which had possibly witnessed many adeed of darkness. But the days both of its wickedness and grandeur werenow over, and it stood in the fields with a forlorn and deserted air, although its mullioned windows and panelled rooms and tall chimneys gaveit a look of decayed dignity. One wing of it, however, had completelydisappeared; at the back, which was near the road, it was hemmed in bymean sheds and outbuildings, and the front was approached, not by astately avenue, but by a little wicket gate leading through a fieldwithout a footpath. Small and needy farmers had been its only tenantsfor years, but when Mr and Mrs Roy came to Wavebury they took a fancyto the old house, and arranged to hire five rooms in it. Terms beingsatisfactorily settled with Mr Shivers, their landlord, who with hiswife continued to occupy the other part of the house, they took up theirabode with much comfort and contentment, and, when Biddy arrived, hadbeen living there for nearly two years. They were fond of TruslowManor, and found only one little drawback to it, which, they wereaccustomed to say to each other, was hardly worth mentioning; for thepresent, therefore, we will not mention it either. 

Biddy looked out of her window with some curiosity the morning after herarrival; she wondered what she should see by daylight. Not much, buteverything was in startling contrast to Buzley's Court. A field, a rowof tall elms growing at the end of it, which cut off any further view; aflock of geese, a flock of turkeys, a little black donkey, a foal, and arough pony--that was all. She afterwards discovered that there was agate at the end of the field, and that a little sluggish river, calledthe Kennet, flowed along under the row of elms; a narrow footway crossedthis, and led directly through the churchyard into the village, or ifyou liked to turn to the left, it brought you at last into the high-roadat the back of Truslow Manor. In dark evenings this way into thevillage was not without its perils, for an unwary traveller might easilystep over the edge of the path as he crossed the river and find himselfin its muddy bed. 

Biddy soon knew this way to church very well; and amongst the manystrange customs at Wavebury, she thought it curious that there should betwo services every day, though the congregation was seldom more than twoor three in number. 

"Whenever you like to go to church, Biddy, " said her mistress, "I willalways take the baby. "

So Biddy went sometimes, though she never ceased to wonder why theprayers should be read when there was scarcely anyone to listen to them. Once, indeed, there were only herself and Mr Roy in the church, and asthey walked home together after the service she felt obliged toapologise. 

"Please, sir, " she said, hurriedly drooping one knee as she walked, "I'msorry you had to read all them long prayers jest for me. "

Whereupon Mr Roy tried to make her understand why he should still haveread them, whether she had been there or not. Biddy did not feel veryclear about it at the end of the explanation, though she was consciousthat he "talked very kind, " and she fell back on the thought that afterall it was the country, and quite different from London. 

But this difference was "borne in upon her" most strongly of all whenshe went for the first time to the downs which closely surroundedWavebury. Passing up the long straggling village with its thatchedcottages, she came suddenly on them stretching away in the distance, pathless, and, as far as she could see, endless. Then she stoodbewildered. Such lots of space everywhere; so much sky over her head;such a great green carpet under her feet, spread over the gentle risingand falling of the hills. All green, except for the scattered flocks ofsheep, and the cairns of grey stones, and the groups of stunted thorntrees, bent and twisted and worried by the wind into a thousand oddshapes. 

Looking back towards the village, where part of the land had beencultivated, she could see the oxen ploughing, their horned heads clearlyoutlined against the sky, and--stranger sight still--long rows of womenin flapping sun-bonnets bending patiently to their labour in the fields. Beyond these, a little collection of thatched roofs, and grey church, and yellow stacks, made up the village of Wavebury; after that, downsagain as far as the eye could reach. 

It was, indeed, a "lonesome" place, and there was something "terr'ble"in its solitude compared to the comfortable closeness and crowdingchimneys of Buzley's Court; but, fortunately for Biddy, her busy life atTruslow Manor did not leave much leisure for dwelling upon this. Astime went on she and her mistress, drawn together by one commoninterest, became really attached to each other; the baby's crumpled redhand, which could just hold one of Biddy's fingers, kept her a willingprisoner in its feeble yet mighty grasp, and all went on well. For MrsRoy was not disappointed in her hope of finding her little nurse asupport and comfort, and valued her opinion highly with regard to thebaby's ailments; true, it was sometimes rather irksome and annoying tohear so often that "our" Johnnie, or "Julia, " or "Stevie" had cut theirteeth and felt their legs exactly in the same way as dear little Dulcie. Mrs Roy naturally felt it impossible that there should be another babythe least like Dulcie; but she was wise enough to conceal this, and toallow Biddy's confidences about Buzley's Court and the Lane family toflow on unchecked. 

So, despite the strangeness of many things in Wavebury, and theircontrast to all she had been used to, Biddy was happy, and soon began tofeel at home there; but she did not cease to wonder at some countrycustoms, and amongst them the fact which specially struck her, thatnearly all the women worked in the fields as well as the men. When inher errands to and from the village she passed these tramping along theroads, she stared at them with astonishment that did not lessen withtime. Everything about them was so curious. Their deeply lined faceswere red with wind and weather and old before their time--made harsher, too, than nature intended, because all the hair was tucked away underthe cotton sun-bonnet, which were the most feminine-looking of theirgarments, the rest of which gave a general effect of coarse sackingending in heavy boots. 

Biddy singled out one of these women as an object of almost fearfulinterest, and got into a way of watching for her as she passed TruslowManor every morning to her work. She was tall and very powerfullybuilt, her features were coarse and swollen, and there was somethingrepelling and yet fascinating to Biddy in her cunning, shifty glance. The way in which she strode along the road, too, swinging a rake, orhoe, or pitchfork in her hand, gave an impression of reckless strengthwhich made the little nurse-girl shudder, and yet she felt unable toremove her gaze as long as the woman was in sight. 

One day as Biddy was hastening home from an errand in the village shesaw this well-known figure coming towards her with its usual rollingmovement, and to her surprise it came to a stand in front of her, and, leaning on the handle of its pitchfork, surveyed her with a sort ofleer. Biddy stopped too, and they looked at each for a minute insilence. Then the woman spoke:

"You be the new gal yonder?" she said with a jerk of her head. 

"I'm Mrs Roy's nurse, " replied Biddy, trembling a little, yet with somedignity. 

The woman chuckled hoarsely. 

"You don't sleep much at nights, I reckon?" she continued. 

"Yes, thank you, " said Biddy, who had been taught to be always polite;"the baby doesn't cry scarcely any. "

For all answer the woman gave a loud stupid laugh and strode away, leaving Biddy standing in the road much discomfited. She stared afterher for a moment and then hurried back to Truslow Manor, and told hermistress of the meeting. 

"Oh!" said Mrs Roy quickly, "that was only poor Crazy Sall. She's halfsilly, and she has dreadful fits of drinking, besides. You mustn't mindanything she said to you, and you must promise never to speak to heragain, or take any notice of her at all. "

"I won't, mum, " said Biddy; and indeed she did not feel anxious forCrazy Sall's further acquaintance, though the failing mentioned by hermistress did not surprise or shock her, she knew too many people in theneighbourhood of Buzley's Court who were troubled in the same way. 

"And, " continued Mrs Roy, looking earnestly at Biddy, "I want you topromise me another thing, and that is, _never_ to stop and listen to anygossip when I send you into the village. "

Biddy promised that too; but it was not quite so easy to keep thispromise as the first, for she was a sociable character, and in Londonhad become quite used to enjoying fragments of chat on door-steps andelsewhere. When, therefore, in the baker's shop at Wavebury, which wasalso the post-office, she sometimes found a busy knot of talkers, it wasnatural to her to stand open-mouthed and drink in the conversation. Really anxious to obey her mistress, she struggled hard with this badhabit, but it was so strong within her that she was not alwayssuccessful, and lately she had caught a chance word now and then whichwas at once dreadful and attractive--the word "ghost. " Not only severaltimes at the post-office, where the speakers had nudged each other andbecome suddenly silent when she appeared, but once she was certain shehad heard Mrs Shivers say it to Mrs Roy. They were talking earnestlytogether, and when Biddy threw open the door and bore in a trayful ofclattering cups and saucers they stopped, but not before she had plainlycaught that one terrible word. Her curiosity now reached an almostunbearable pitch, but it was soon to be further enlightened. 

One bright morning, when she had been at Wavebury for nearly two months, she was walking up and down near the house with the baby in her arms, waiting for Mrs Roy, who had carefully warned her meanwhile not to goout of the sunshine or to stand still, and to keep within sight of thewindows. Her walk, therefore, was rather a limited one; it laybackwards and forwards between the farmyard gate and the kitchen door. 

On her way she passed and repassed an open cart-shed where Mr Roy, whistling cheerily, was engaged in his favourite pursuit ofcarpentering. He had cast aside his black coat, and for his betterconvenience wore a short blue-flannel boating-jacket; about his feet theyellow-white shavings curled in larger and larger heaps every minute, ashe bent over his carpenter's bench in the all-absorbing enjoyment ofmeasuring, smoothing, and planing. The shed was also occupied by twogoats and a family of cocks and hens, some turkeys were perched on theempty wagon at the farther end, and an inquisitive pig looked in now andthen in a friendly manner. These all eyed their human companionthoughtfully from time to time, but without any alarm, for they had nowdiscovered that both he and his various edged tools were perfectlyharmless. 

Up and down went Biddy in the sunshine, keeping up a low murmur ofconversation with the baby, casting a glance at her busy master, andcatching a scrap now and then of a gossip going on at the kitchen doorbetween Mrs Shivers and Mr Peter Sweet, landlord of the village inn. 

She did not take much heed of this until suddenly this sentence, utteredin the loud tones of Mr Sweet, sounded clearly in her ear: "And so theTruslow ghost's been, seen again!" Biddy started; she could not helpquickening her steps, so that she soon got back again to the kitchendoor, where Mr Sweet's broad back was turned towards her. She couldnot see Mrs Shivers, but she knew it was her voice that said:

"Jest as the clock strikes ten--crosses the Kennet at the end of thefield. "

Biddy felt rooted to the spot. She must hear more about it, and sheglanced round to see if Mr Roy noticed where she was standing. No. His earnest face and pursed-up mouth looked more engrossed than ever. Neither of the speakers could see her, for between her and them therewas a small piece of thick yew hedge. So, secure in her wrong-doing, Biddy lent an attentive ear and forgot her duty, the baby, andeverything else. She could hear every word. 

"It's my belief, " said Mrs Shivers, "and it's what I've always held to, that it's one of them old Truslows, as was a wicked lot, come out of hisgrave to see the place where he committed a crime. It's likely hemurdered some one in this very house, and that makes him oneasy. Somegambling quarrel, I make no doubt it was, for they say you may see aparty of men playing cards in the drawing-room here any night aftertwelve. It's only naturable to think it. "

"Well, " said Mr Peter Sweet reflectively, "I don't say as you mayn't beright, for it do seem to come straight out of the churchyard as it were. But what bothers me is, why it should go on all-fours. I don't supposethem old Truslows were in the 'abit of doing that in their lifetime. And then there's summat white on its head that flaps like a couple o'large ears. What would that be?"

"That's hid from us, " answered Mrs Shivers solemnly, "by the mercifulworkings of Providence. "

"It's never seen after it crosses the Kennet?" resumed Mr Sweet. 

"No one ever _stops_ to see it, " replied Mrs Shivers; "everyone's tooscared. Why, " (in a lowered voice), "the last gal as was here she _met_it as she was going with a message to the rectory. She jest turned andrushed back to the house, and come into the kitchen in vi'lent'isterricks. "

"Very natural, " said Mr Sweet approvingly. "Now, what does the curatethink on it?"

"Oh, he jest laughs, " said Mrs Shivers rather contemptuously. "Youknow his way. But Mrs Roy, I can see she's timid about it, though shewon't hear it talked on. She's afraid this new gal will get frightenedaway like the other. "

At this moment, when Biddy's ears were strained to the utmost, and hereyes had grown large and round with horror, her mistress's voice callingher from the other side of the house roused her with a guilty shock. She recovered herself as well as she could and went hurriedly away, butthe knowledge which she took with her destroyed her peace of mind formany a day. Things hitherto familiar and friendly now became full ofterror, and the comfort of her life was gone. Even her own shadow, castby the flickering fire and dancing in grotesque shape on the ceiling, made her shudder; and when at night she peered timidly out of herlattice, and saw the row of elms standing dark against the sky at theend of the field, she shook with fear. Turning hastily from this to theshelter of the bed-clothes she would find no refuge, but a place full ofrestless fancies; for now, instead of dropping at once into a dreamlessslumber, she remained broad awake and seemed to hear fragments of theghost story over and over again. The "old Truslow, " the flapping ears, the terrible adventure of the last nurse-girl chased each other throughher poor little worried mind and would not be forgotten. Crazy Sall'swords came back to her, and she heard her repeat mockingly: "You don'tsleep much at nights, I reckon?"

Biddy became very miserable, for even sunshine and the baby in her armswere powerless to drive away those dark fancies entirely, though theythen became easier to bear. It was not only the consciousness ofknowing about the ghost, but to know it _alone_ and not to talk of it toanyone! That was doubly dreadful. Sometimes she thought she must tellher mistress or Mrs Shivers, but then she remembered she would alsohave to confess her disobedience. She could not do that, for Mrs Roywould never trust her again, and perhaps send her away. What wouldmother say then? A good place and seven pounds a year lost! It wasimpossible to risk it. 

So she kept silence, but it was a heavy burden to bear, and under itsweight she became downcast and gloomy, a different Biddy from thebriskly alert one of two months ago. The baby was the first to noticethis. She missed her nurse's cheerful voice, and looking up in her facefound there a settled sadness instead of the usual ready smile. Thisshe resented in her own fashion, and cried dismally, wrinkling up hertiny features in disgust, and when this had happened once or twice MrsRoy's attention was also drawn to the change. 

"Are you quite well and happy, Biddy?" she asked. "You don't look sobright as you used to. "

Biddy twisted up the corners of her apron and hung her head on one side, but made no answer. 

"_Are_ you quite happy, Biddy?" persisted her mistress. 

Biddy would have given worlds to say, "I'm terr'ble afraid of theghost, " but her tongue refused to utter the words, and after waiting amoment Mrs Roy turned away. But that night she said to her husband inmournful emphatic tones:

"Richard, I _hope_ it's only my nervousness, but I _do_ believe thatsomehow or other Biddy has heard something about _that_. "

No one was quite happy and comfortable at Truslow Manor just now, forlatterly the baby had been ailing; she had evidently caught a chill andwas feverish and fretful. "How could Dulcie have taken cold?" Mrs Roywondered many times in the day, while the conscience-stricken Biddystood speechless, and thought of that conversation at the kitchen door. Mr Roy was made uneasy too by his wife's anxiety, and also felt deeplyincapable of making any suggestion about the origin or treatment ofDulcie's illness; everything seemed a little ruffled and disturbed inits usual even flow. 

"You know I have to take the service over at Cherril to-night, " said MrRoy to his wife one morning. "They've asked me to dine thereafterwards. You won't mind my leaving you? I shall get back by ten. "

"Oh, no!" replied Mrs Roy readily, though in truth she was not fond ofspending the evening at Truslow Manor alone. "I shall have Biddy downto sit with me; and I do think baby seems better to-day. It's a longwalk for you, though, Richard, and there's no moon. "

"Oh, I'll take a lantern!" said the curate, and accordingly he startedoff that afternoon on his six-miles walk thus provided. 

Biddy and her mistress spent the evening together, talking softly overtheir needlework, so as not to disturb Dulcie's sleep in the cradlenear. The glowing fire, the cheerful room, and Mrs Roy's kind chatwere almost sufficient to drive away Biddy's usual terrors; at any rateshe forgot them for a time, and was peacefully happy. But this did notlast long. Suddenly the baby's breathing became hoarse and difficult, and Mrs Roy, kneeling at the side of the cradle, looked up in alarm ather nurse. 

"Oh, Biddy, " she cried, "what is the matter with her? See how shestruggles for breath!"

"Lift her up, mum, " suggested Biddy, "perhaps she'll be more easy-like. "

But Dulcie was not easy-like. On the contrary, her tiny face grewalmost purple, she gasped, clenched her fists, and seemed on the pointof choking. 

"Biddy, " said Mrs Roy calmly, but with despair written on everyfeature, "I believe it's croup!"

Biddy stood speechless. Here was a case outside her experience; shecould offer no suggestion--not one of the Lane babies had ever hadcroup. 

"Get hot water, " said Mrs Roy, "and then run as fast as you can for thedoctor. Take a lantern. Run, Biddy, run--" for the girl stoodmotionless--"every minute is of consequence. "

But Biddy did not stir; she only gave one miserable despairing glance atthe clock. Three minutes to ten! _It_ would be crossing the Kennetjust as she got there. 

"Biddy, Biddy, " cried her mistress, "why don't you go?"

Poor Biddy! She looked at Dulcie struggling for breath in her mother'sarms, and fighting the air with her helpless little hands. It waspitiful, but she could not move; she only gazed horror-stricken, and asif turned into stone. 

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs Roy in tones of anguish, "why doesn't Richard comehome? What _shall_ I do?"

Biddy's heart was touched; she clasped her hands and exclaimed, almostunconsciously:

"Oh, mum, it's the ghost! I'm dreadful feared of meeting it!"

The secret was out now, but Mrs Roy scarcely noticed it at all. If theroom had been thronged with ghosts she would not have minded them justthen--her whole heart was full of Dulcie. 

"Send Mrs Shivers then, " she said, "and bring the hot water at once. "

Recovering the use of her limbs Biddy quickly had a hot bath ready; but, alas! She came back from the kitchen with the news that Mr and MrsShivers were both out, and had taken the lantern. 

"Then, Biddy, " said her mistress looking up as she knelt by the bath, where the baby was now breathing more quietly, "there is only you. Ican't leave her, and if this attack comes on again I don't know what todo. Most likely you'll meet Mr Roy long before you get to the village. Send him on if you do, and come back yourself. Only go, for my sake!"

Her beseeching eyes were full of eloquence, but still Biddy hesitated. 

"Nothing can hurt you, " continued Mrs Roy in a pleading voice; "and Ishall bless you all my life long. Oh, Biddy, you wouldn't let Dulciedie!"

To go and meet the ghost, or to let Dulcie die--they were equallydreadful to Biddy. As she thought of the first, icy-cold water seemedto be trickling slowly down her back; and as she thought of the second, a great aching ball came into her throat and her eyes filled with tears. 

"I'll go, mum, " she gasped out. "Don't you lose heart. "

Mrs Roy gave a trembling sigh of relief as Biddy's sturdy form movedtowards the door. 

"Put on my thick grey shawl hanging in the passage, " she said; "and oh, Biddy, make him understand that he must come as quickly as ever he can. "

Biddy threw the heavy shawl over her head and shoulders, and stepped outthrough the dark porch into the darker field. Mrs Roy had said therewas no moon that night, but there was--a small pale one, just enough tomake everything look dimly awful. The wind was high, rattling the barebranches of the trees, and chasing the clouds hurriedly along; it blewcoldly in Biddy's face as she left the warm shelter of the house. Shecould see the track across the field and the white gate at the end ofit, and the row of dark elms tossing their arms wildly. Towards theseshe set her face, and, bending down her head, ran steadily on. "Goback, go back!" the wind seemed to shout as it pressed against her withits strong outspread hands; "Go on, Biddy, for my sake!" whispered MrsRoy's pleading voice behind her. And these two sounds were so distinctthat in the middle of the field she stopped uncertainly. But the littlevoice from Truslow Manor and the thought of Dulcie's danger werestronger than the wind, and drove her on again till she stood withtrembling knees close to the river, her hand touching the latch of thegate. What, oh! What was that, looming towards her, shapeless andawful, across the bridge! A cow, perhaps?--it was too low; a dog?--itwas too large. On it came, slowly, nearer and nearer, and Biddy couldsee that where its head should have been there was something that nappedabout loosely; the rest of it was a formless, moving piece of darkness. Biddy could not stir--she clung in an agony to the gate-post and staredwithout making a sound. To run away would be impossible, even if herlimbs had not been useless from terror: it would be far worse to feelthis creature at her back than to face it. So she stood for a minute, which seemed a lifetime, and then, recovering her voice, uttered ashrill, despairing scream. At the sound the thing stopped, reareditself, as it were, on its hind-legs, and swayed about uncertainly infront of her. Still clinging to the gate, Biddy thought of her motherand began to say her evening prayers; her knees were giving way, and shefelt she must soon sink upon the ground. 

Then--oh, blessed moment!--there suddenly sounded out of the darkness, at the back of the awful figure, a cheerful human voice and a firm humanfootstep. Mr Roy's lantern flashed in the surrounding gloom. 

"What's the matter? Who's this?" he said in comfortable human accents, and held the light full in the ghost's face. What did Biddy see? Notthe spectral features of any strange old Truslow, but the earthly andfamiliar ones of--poor Crazy Sall!

Dulcie did not die. When, a little later, the curate came hasteningback with the doctor, she was quite well and sleeping calmly in hercradle. It had not been croup, the doctor said, and Mrs Roy hadalarmed herself without cause. Nevertheless Biddy had earned hermistress's undying gratitude by her conduct that evening, and she wasquite as much praised and thanked as if she really had saved the baby'slife. 

"For it _was so_ brave of her, you know, Richard, because she could nottell then that it was only poor Crazy Sall. "

Only poor Crazy Sall, returning half-tipsy from the public-house!

Cunning enough to know that in this condition she could not safely trusther unsteady, reeling steps over the narrow bridge, it had occurred toher on one occasion to crawl on her hands and knees. This once done, itwas often repeated, and, as surely as the night was dark and she hadfreely indulged at the village inn, the Truslow ghost might be seencrossing the Kennet at ten o'clock. Each fresh beholder adding somegruesome detail to the dimly-seen form in its flapping sun-bonnet, theghost bit by bit took shape, and at last was fully created. Who cantell how many years longer it might have lived but for Biddy's screamand her master's flashing lantern?

The whole village felt the discovery to be mortifying; and aftereveryone had said that he, for one, had never given credit to the ghost, the subject was discreetly dropped. There was silence even at the inn, where for years it had been a fruitful source of much conversation andmany solemn opinions. 

Mr Sweet did indeed refer to it once, for meeting Mrs Shivers heventured to say derisively: "You and yer old Truslows, indeed!" But shewas immediately ready with such a pointed and personal reply about "acouple of long ears" that he retreated hastily and felt himself to beworsted. 

So the Truslow ghost vanished from Wavebury, and very soon from mostpeople's memories also, but Biddy had not forgotten it when she wasquite an old woman. 

STORY THREE, CHAPTER 1. 

AFTER ALL!--ALBERT STREET. 

 "The wealth of a man is the number of things which he loves and blesses, which he is loved and blessed by. "--_Carlyle_. 

Albert Street is in a respectable neighbourhood on the outskirts ofLondon--not quite in London, and certainly not in the country, thoughonly a little while ago there were fields and lanes where rows of housesnow stand. There are, indeed, bits of hedgerow still left where thehawthorn tries to blossom in the spring, and dingy patches and cornersof field where flowers used to grow; but these have nearly alldisappeared, and instead of them heaps of rubbish, old kettles, emptysardine-boxes, and broken crockery are scattered about. Only thedandelions are lowly enough to live contentedly amongst such vulgarsurroundings, and still show their beaming yellow faces wherever theyhave a chance. It was difficult in Albert Street to feel that springand summer meant anything else than heat and dust and discomfort. Itwas more bearable in the winter, Iris Graham thought; but when the warmbright weather came it was strange to remember that somewhere it waspleasant and beautiful--that there were flowers blooming, and birdssinging from morning till night, and broad green fields and deep woodsfull of cool shadows. Iris dreamt of it all at night sometimes, andwhen she waked there was the cry of the milkman instead of the birds'songs, and the cup of withered dandelions she had picked yesterdayinstead of banks of primroses and meadows full of cowslips. But in thedaytime she did not dream, for she had no time; every bit of it wasquite filled up with what she had to do--her lessons, her clothes tomend, her two little sisters to take out or amuse indoors, endlessmatters to attend to for the two boys who were at a day-school and camehome in the evening, errands for mother, and other duties too numerousto mention. From the time she got up in the morning till she went tobed there was always something to be done, for she was the eldest, andeveryone in the house seemed to expect something from her. There werefive children and only one maid-servant to do all the work, so no one inNumber 29 Albert Street had any idle moments on their hands. The smallhouse was always full of noise and hurry and bustle--a baby crying or aboy rushing up and down stairs, the street-door slamming, or "Iris!"shouted in shrill impatient voices. It was hard to be for ever calledupon to do something for someone else, to have no time of your very own, to be everyone's servant--to be only thirteen years old, and yet to haveso very few holidays. Iris had come to feel this more and more stronglylately, to long for ease and pleasure and idleness, and to leave offserving other people. These moods increased every day. She was tiredof being busy, tired of the hurry and worry of Albert Street, she wastired of doing things for others; she should like to go quite away intothe country a long way off and do just as she pleased all day. Andbecause she kept these discontented fancies quite to herself they grewvery strong, and at last took hold of her mind altogether. She began tofeel that there never was such a hard-worked injured person as IrisGraham, or such a dull, unamusing life as hers. Even the sound of herlittle sisters' voices as they said the verses they were learning about"the busy bee" provoked her beyond endurance. "I hate bees and I hatebeing busy!" she said to herself. 

One warm morning in May she sat, with these thoughts in her mind and abasket of work by her side, in a little room at the back of the housecalled the "Boys' Room. " Her mother was lying down upstairs with a badnervous headache, and Iris had succeeded with great difficulty inkeeping the house quiet for the last hour. The only other person in theroom was her brother Max, mumbling over his lessons for the next dayhalf aloud, and presently he threw his book across the table to her. 

"Just hear me this, " he said. 

Iris propped the book up against her basket and went on darning. 

"Go on, " she said. 

"Now came still evening on, " began Max, with his eyes fixed on theceiling and his fingers drumming on the table, "and twilight grey had inher sober livery all things clad--all things clad--oh, bother! What'sthe next?"

Iris prompted him, and he halted lamely through his task with many asigh and groan. 

"Why couldn't Milton make his things rhyme?" he said impatiently as hissister returned the book. "I never knew such rotten stuff to learn as_Paradise Lost_. "

"You don't half know it, " said Iris. "Oh, mustn't it have been nice tobe Adam and Eve!"

"Awfully slow, " answered Max, making a fancy portrait on the margin ofhis Milton. 

"That's just what I should like, " said Iris. "I'd rather things wereslow. I don't want them all to come huddling together. Fancy the wholelong day in a lovely, lovely, garden with no lessons to do, no clothesto mend, and all your time to yourself. "

"You'd get jolly well tired of it, " said Max; "anyhow, I wish old Miltonhadn't written all this stuff about it. "

Abandoning the argument, he clasped his rough head with both hands andbent muttering over his task. The lines he had just repeated stayed inIris's mind like the sound of very peaceful music, and changed thedirection of her thoughts, for now they turned, as her long needle wentin and out of the grey sock, to her godmother's house and garden in thecountry. It was called Paradise Court, and though Iris had not beenthere since she was eight years old, she remembered it all perfectly; apicture of it rose before her again, and in a moment she was far awayfrom Albert Street. She saw wide stretches of green lawn, with quietmeadows beyond; snowy white blossoms in the orchard, radiant flowers inthe garden, borders, a row of royal purple flags with their sword-likeleaves, which had specially pleased her because their name was "Iris" aswell as her own. How happy she had been for those two or three days. How the sun had shone, and the birds had sung, and what big bunches offlowers she had picked in the fields. It was paradise, indeed. And shehad to live in Albert Street. With a sigh she turned her eyes from thebright picture of her fancy, and glanced round the room she sat in. Itwas very small, and had folding doors which could be opened into thedining-room, and it was just as shabby and untidy as Max and Clementcould make it. The chief thing to be noticed about it was the number ofblots and splashes of ink; they were everywhere--on the walls, on thedeal table, on the mantel-piece, on the map of the world, on thedog's-eared books, and on Max's stumpy finger-ends--there was hardly aninch of space free from them. From the window you could see the narrowstraight piece of walled garden, one of many such, stretching along sideby side in even rows at the backs of the houses. They were all exactlyalike, in shape, in size, in griminess, and in the parched and sicklylook of the plants and grass. How hard Iris had tried to make thatgarden pretty and pleasant to look upon! With hope ever new, and alwaysto be disappointed, she sowed seeds in it, and spent her pennies inroots for it, and raked and dug and watered it. In vain; nothing wouldgrow but some spindly London pride and scarlet geraniums. And indeedthis was not surprising, for the garden had many things against it inthe shape of poor soil, scorching sun, and numerous sparrows, not tomention boys and cats. A constant warfare was going on in it, for thecats lay in wait for the sparrows, and the boys were always on the watchfor the cats, with jugs of water, traps of string, and other cunningstratagems. There was not much chance for the flowers, and even theturf was worn away in mangy patches by the feet of eager and excitedcombatants. At the end of it, built against the wall, there was anerection of old wire and packing-cases, in which Max and Clement keptrabbits, white rats, and a squirrel. A strange mixed scent of animalsand decayed cabbage-leaves was sometimes wafted into the house from thisin the summer. 

"Perhaps it would be better to shut the window, " Mrs Graham would sayto Iris. Iris thought it would be better for the boys not to keeprabbits; but to any hint of this kind her mother's answer was always thesame: "They may be a little disagreeable sometimes, dear, but I couldn'tdeprive the poor boys of one of their few amusements. "

Her words came into Iris's mind this evening as her eye rested on theunsuccessful garden, and she bent over her work again with a sigh. 

Always someone else to think of, someone else to work for, never alittle bit of pleasure that was quite her own. How could she be happy?And if she were not happy how could she be contented? It was hard tohave nothing pretty to look at. Some people lived in the midst ofpretty things; there was her godmother, for instance, who never sawanything ugly or disagreeable near her, but everything that was pleasantand beautiful. People who lived in places like Paradise Court could bepatient, and kind, and gentle without any difficulty, but in AlbertStreet--A sharp scream from the other side of the folding doors, thesound of something thrown, and then a volley of angry sobs and cries. Iris started up and rushed into the next room; she had left her twolittle sisters there happily at play, but she now found a very differentstate of things. Dottie, a child of five, stood in the middle of theroom, with clenched fists and puckered red face, screaming at the top ofher voice, while Susie sat on the floor near nursing a rag doll withperfect composure and calmness. 

"Naughty Dottie!" said Iris earnestly, "to make such a noise. What'sthe matter?"

Dottie could not speak, for she was using all her breath to scream with, but she held out an appealing dumpy arm, and pointed to the doll. 

"Why, that's Dottie's doll, Susie, " said Iris, turning to the otherlittle girl; "did you take it from her?"

Susie nodded, still with an unmoved countenance, and Dottie redoubledher screams. Iris put both hands over her ears in despair. 

"Dottie, " she said, "if you don't try to leave off I shall put you tobed, and let Susie keep the doll. "

It was not at all easy for Dottie to leave off when she was once wellset going, but she checked herself a little. 

"Give the doll back, Susie, " said Iris. 

Susie looked up to see if her sister were in earnest, and meeting aglance of great severity she rose and advanced towards Dottie sideways, with one finger in her mouth, and holding the doll by the legs, headdownwards. Dottie, still sniffing and sobbing, made a convulsive snatchat it. 

"Kiss each other, " said Iris, for this was always a sign that thequarrel was over for the time and peace agreed on between the two littlegirls. They had hardly given each other the angry embrace usual at suchmoments when a boy's voice rang shrilly from the top of the stairs. 

"Iris, Iris! Where's Iris? Oh, Iris, do just come here!"

Poor mother! Any chance of her getting some sleep must be over longago. It was impossible to keep the children quiet. 

"Clement, " said Iris impatiently, as a boy in knickerbockers cametumbling down-stairs at headlong speed, "I do think you might rememberthat mother has a headache. Why can't you come and find me instead ofshouting about like that?"

"Oh, I say, " said Clement, stopping short and staring at her, "aren'tyou just cross this evening! What makes you in such a tremendoustemper?"

Iris felt almost inclined to cry. 

"What do you want me for?" she said in a resigned and injured voice. 

"Why, just look here!" Clement raised one knee and displayed a widerent in his knickerbockers, of the shape known as a "trap-door. "Through this he stuck his fingers, that it might be shown to betteradvantage. "Caught it on a nail on the squirrel-house, " he saidbriefly. 

"Oh, dear me!" said Iris wearily; "there's an evening's work. And I'veonly just finished Max's socks. Pray, don't make it any larger, Clement. "

"You'll mend it, won't you?" said Clement earnestly, still gazing at hisknee. "You see it shows so awfully, and I shall want to put 'em onto-morrow. "

"Yes, " said Iris, "I suppose I must. I'm sure Mary won't have time. "

"You're a brick, " said Clement, and he gave her a rough kiss on thecheek and rushed off. 

"How tiresome the boys are!" said Iris impatiently to herself; "howtiresome it is to be poor! How tiresome everything is!" and she satdown on the last step of the stairs and rested her head mournfully onher hand. Then her eye caught sight of a letter lying on a table in thepassage. It was a fat rich-looking envelope, and it was directed in astiff upright hand. Iris knew that writing--it was her godmother's. "How funny, " she thought, "just as I was thinking of Paradise Court. I'll take it up to mother. "

But there was something stranger still in store for her when Mrs Grahamhad read that letter. It contained an invitation for Iris to spend awhole month with Mrs Fotheringham. 

"Mother!" exclaimed Iris. 

It was the only word she could say for some moments. It seemed toowonderful and delightful to be true. 

"Can I go?" was her next breathless speech. 

"Would you like so very much to go?" asked her mother smiling. 

It was an unnecessary question, for Iris's whole face was alight withjoyful anticipation. Her cheeks flushed, and she shook her long hairback impatiently as though eager to take flight at once. 

"It will be a nice holiday for you, " continued Mrs Graham. 

Suddenly it came into Iris's mind that it was mother who wanted aholiday. How tired she looked, and how often her head ached!

"Mother, " she exclaimed impetuously, "I won't go! It's horrid of me toleave you with all the children. You ought to go instead. "

"But you see I am not asked. I don't think that would quite do. "

"Well, at any rate, " said Iris, "_I'd_ better not go, " and she sighed. 

"That would be a pity, indeed, " said her mother; "and I should be sorryto refuse your godmother's kind offer for many reasons. And though Isha'n't see all the beautiful things at Paradise Court, I shall havepleasure, too, while you are there, because I shall know you areenjoying them. "

"How I wish we could all have them!" said Iris. 

"And yet there's something here in Albert Street, " said her mother, "which I've got, and you've got, and even Dottie and Susie have too, which is worth more, and costs more, and does more good than all thosethings, and which no one could buy, if he were the richest man in theworld. "

At another time Iris would have paid attention to what her mother said;but now, although she heard the words, her mind was too full of ParadiseCourt to make any attempt to think of their meaning. She could only sayto herself that she was to go quite away from Albert Street for a wholemonth--away from the noise and worry, and needlework and ugliness, to aplace where birds sang, and flowers bloomed, and one might be idle allthe day long. 

STORY THREE, CHAPTER 2. 

PARADISE COURT. 

 "No price is set on the lavish summer, June may be had by the poorest comer. "--_Lowell_. 

Paradise Court, where Mrs Fotheringham lived, was not very far from asmall country town. Far enough, however, and sufficiently surrounded byits own garden and meadows, to prevent any vulgar sounds of toil andtraffic from penetrating to it. 

Mrs Fotheringham disliked the sight of poverty and dirt as much as thenoise of hurry and bustle. "All she wanted, " she said, "was peace andquietness, " and she seldom stirred beyond the gates which opened to thehigh-road from her own grounds. Here, in the fine summer days, she wascontented to take her exercise, to admire her flowers, to consult andscold her gardener, and to poke viciously at the weeds with herwalking-stick. She was quite an old lady, a widow for many years, andlived alone, except for the society of a green parrot and a companion. The parrot might more justly have been called the "companion" than thelady who filled that post, for it was an old and valued friend, and inperfect sympathy with its mistress; the companion, on the contrary, waschanged very often, and seldom stayed with her more than six months. "And yet, " Mrs Fotheringham was used to observe, "there was really _so_little she required!" There were only four indispensable things, andfor the rest she was not difficult to please. On these points, however, she must be satisfied: The lady must have sound views on Church andState; she must have seen good society; she must read aloud well; andshe must understand how to make chicken curry, in case the cook waschanged. Strange to say, however, the ladies were constantly foundwanting in one or other of these matters. There was always a wrongflavour somewhere, either in the curry, or the church opinions, or thereading aloud, and perhaps this result was partly caused by the closeobservation of Mrs Fotheringham and the parrot, who seemed to lie inwait for all shortcomings with cold and critical glances. The bird wasaccustomed often to sit on its mistress's shoulder in which position itwould trifle lovingly with the border of her cap and croon softly andcoaxingly into her ear. At these times there was an air of mostcomplete and confidential understanding between the two, which did notinclude the outside world, and there was something weird about it whichmight well affect the nerves of the lady on trial. 

At any rate, though few other things changed much at Paradise Court, thecompanions were always coming and going, and shortly before Iris's visita new one had arrived. Her name was Miss Munnion. 

Iris reached Paradise Court at five o'clock in the afternoon, after along and dusty journey. The old sober grey house looked very peacefuland quiet, but all round trees and shrubs and flowers waved their littlegreen hands and seemed to dance rejoicing in their new spring dresses. For it was May time, and the weather, which had hitherto been cold andwet, had suddenly changed, sunshine streamed over the country, and theair was as warm as summer. Everything smelt so sweet, and looked soluxuriant and gay, that Iris felt quite confused and giddy as she stoodwaiting for the door to be opened; her winter frock and jacket seemedhot and stuffy, and the scent of the great lilac bushes and syringas andhawthorns wrapped her heavily round in a sort of dream. 

But the door opened and the dream vanished at the appearance of astiff-looking maid-servant, who scanned the small dusty figure and theshabby box on the top of the cab with equal indifference. "MrsFotheringham was walking in the garden, " she said. "Would Miss Grahamjoin her there, or would she prefer to go to her room?"

In a nervous flurry of shyness Iris replied that she would go to MrsFotheringham in the garden, though it was far from what she reallywished, and the maid immediately led the way thither. There was no MrsFotheringham visible for some time, but presently, turning under a lowarchway, they entered a small walled garden, and then Iris saw her. Shewas inspecting her tulips, and was followed by Miss Munnion, and at alittle further distance by the gardener. Over her cap she wore acomfortable white woollen hood, and in her hand she carried a stumpyblue umbrella; every now and then she stopped, and pointed out somespecial favourite with this, or shook it scornfully at somethinginferior, and in these criticisms Miss Munnion agreed with nods andshakes of the head. A fourth member of the party was the parrot, who, in his brilliant attire of emerald green, touched with glimpses of rosecolour, matched the finest tulip there. Taking his pleasure after hisown manner, he waddled along the turf border, turning in his crookedtoes, and screwing his head sideways at intervals to look at the sky. Sometimes he stopped to tweak some tender stalk with his hooked beak, and sometimes he took a sudden and vicious little run at a sparrow orsome other bird at a distance; when it flew away he flapped his wingsand gave an exulting squawk. 

Mrs Fotheringham came to a stand-still as Iris advanced, planted theblue umbrella firmly on the ground, and surveyed her gravely from top totoe. The old lady, with her high-bridged nose, was certainly a littlelike the parrot in the face, and though her eye had not the changingbrilliancy of the bird's, it was quite its equal in the unblinkingfixity of its gaze. 

"Well, child, " she said, when Iris was close to her, "you must have yourfrocks lengthened. You look positively gawky. Shake hands with MissMunnion. Ah, mind the parrot! Moore!" raising her voice to call to thegardener, "is it possible I see that odious pink and white stripeamongst the tulips again?--you know I hate it. The most mawkish, foolish thing! It offends the eye. See that it is rooted up withoutdelay. Miss Munnion, we will now go indoors, and you'll perhaps be kindenough to show this young lady her room, and tell her when we dine andso forth. I forget your name, " (turning sharply to Iris). "Somethingtiresome and fantastical, I know. Ah! Iris. Well, Iris, when you wantto know anything, or do anything, or go anywhere, you are to ask MissMunnion. _Never_ come to me with questions, or ask me `why. ' MissMunnion doesn't mind being asked `why. ' You are here, you know, with adistinct understanding that you are not to be troublesome, and that youare to amuse yourself. As long as you do that, I daresay we shall geton very well, and I don't care how long you stay; but I'm not used tochildren, and, of course, if I find you in the way I shall send you homeat once. I think that's all I have to say. Oh, there's one thing more. If you ever drive out with me I wish you to remember that I disliketalking in a carriage. I tell you all this because it's always betterto put things on a right footing from the first. "

They had reached the house by this time, and as Iris followed MissMunnion meekly and silently upstairs she made up her mind on two points:She would _never_ drive with her godmother unless she were absolutelyobliged, and she would very seldom ask Miss Munnion "why, " or apply toher in any way. For she seemed a most uninteresting person; herfeatures had a frozen, pinched-up look, and her eyes had no sort ofbrightness in them. It was impossible to imagine that she ever laughed;but at least, thought Iris, she might try and look cheerful. When shewas left alone she looked round her room with mingled awe andsatisfaction; everything was so bright and fresh and comfortable, andthere were actually easy-chairs! From the window she could seefar-stretching peaceful green fields, where the grass was getting talland thick. Cowslips would grow there, without doubt. The only soundswere the twittering evening song of the birds, the cooing of the pigeonsin the stable-yard, and far off a distant cry of someone calling homethe cows to be milked. How Iris loved it all! How different it was toAlbert Street! If you looked out of the window from the bare littleroom she shared with Susie and Dottie you saw nothing green at all, onlya row of staring ugly yellow houses--the most pleasant noise you couldhope for was the rattle of a cart or the grinding of an organ. Just atthis very minute she went on to remember it was tea-time in AlbertStreet. Dinner for father and mother at one end of the table, and teafor the children at the other. There was the big yellow jug full oftea, ready mixed with milk and sugar, which Iris always poured out forherself and her brothers and sisters. The only difference this eveningwould be, that mother would pour it out instead, and cut the thick breadand butter for the hungry boys. She saw it all, and as she saw it sheshook her head. "Certainly, " she said to herself, "it is a bad thing tobe poor. "

Dinner was at six o'clock, because it did not suit Mrs Fotheringham'sdigestion to dine later; it was a solemn and delicately prepared littlemeal, served by a maid who stepped about silently, never clattering thedishes, and this absence of noise was in itself a strange thing to Iris, for she was used to associate food with much rattle of knives and forksand clash of crockery. There were many nice things to eat and prettythings to look at, but it was rather awful, too, to sit in almostperfect silence and listen to the remarks of Mrs Fotheringham and MissMunnion. Opposite to Iris there was a long low window, through whichshe could see part of the lawn and a path leading to the kitchen-garden. She sat gazing vacantly out upon this, when suddenly she saw somethingvery interesting. 

This was a man, who came rushing along the path in the most frantichurry, beating and dashing about him with his hat, and shaking his headincessantly. He was either pursued by some unseen and terrible enemy, or else he was crazy. Whichever it was, it was so exciting to Iris thatshe craned her neck to follow his movements as far as she could, andpresently, moved by his increasing agitation, she exclaimed aloud:

"What _can_ be the matter with him?"

Her godmother's keen eye followed her glance to where the unfortunateman was still dodging about as though to escape something, and strikingmadly out into the air. She smiled contemptuously. 

"It's that idiotic Moore, " she said. "He irritates the bees, and Idon't wonder. I'm sure he irritates me. "

"He'll be stung, " exclaimed Iris, getting up from her chair eagerly;"he'll certainly be stung!"

"Yes, " said Miss Munnion, laying down her knife and fork, and lookingmildly round at Moore's struggles, "I'm really afraid he will. "

"Very likely, " remarked Mrs Fotheringham composedly; "he often is. I've always noticed, " she continued, with a pointed glance at hercompanion, "that bees, as well as birds and beasts, are quite aware whenanyone's frightened of them. Moore's a complete coward, and they knowit. They never touch me. "

The parrot and Mrs Fotheringham had already discovered that MissMunnion was nervous. She was afraid of all animals, but specially ofparrots. 

"Once, " continued the old lady, "you show fear to man, woman, or child, you are their bond-slave for ever. And it's the same with the loweranimals. "

Miss Munnion said that she had often observed it, and that it was verytrue. 

The following morning Iris woke up to remember that her holiday hadreally begun, and that there was a whole long day before her with noduties in it--nothing but idle hours and sunshine. It was the strangestthing in the world at first, and quite difficult to believe, that aslong as she appeared at meal-times, no one would ask, "Where is Iris?"No one would say, "Fetch this, " or "Go there, " or "Do this. " Her timewas her own at Paradise Court, and she was left to fill it up just asshe pleased. And she spent most of it in the garden and fields, forfortunately the fine weather continued, and it was hardly necessary tobe indoors at all. 

How beautiful it all was! Every morning something new had budded orblossomed, and was ready to greet her with its fresh bright face; forthe spring had till lately been so cold and wet that the flowers couldnot bloom at the right time, and now, called out by the mild soft air, they all came crowding eagerly together, looking over each other'sshoulders, as it were, and almost tripping each other up in their haste. So Iris found kingcups, primroses, and cowslips all in blossom togetherin different parts of the fields, and the garden was suddenly brightwith all sorts of flowers which had seldom seen the sunshine in eachother's company before. And there were other interesting things too, for the birds were all busy just now about their domestic concerns, andshe discovered more than one nest built so confidingly, that they werelow enough for her to peep into them and meet the bright glance of themother bird. 

"If I could only show them to Max and Clement, " she said to herself asshe stole away on tiptoe, holding her breath. Then there were the bees, Moore's deadly enemies, which lived in a long row of hives under thekitchen-garden wall; they were quite friendly to Iris, and allowed herto watch their comings and goings without any show of anger. She hadfriends, too, in the pigeons, which soon learnt to come fluttering roundher to be fed, and in the three sleek brown and white cows which she sawmilked every evening. 

In the midst of so much that was pleasant and delightful Iris sometimesfelt almost beside herself with enjoyment. She was driven to jump andsing, and even to whistle in order to relieve her feelings, for therewas no one to whom she could express them. There were, indeed, momentswhen she hardly restrained herself from rushing indoors to share somenew-found delight with her godmother and Miss Munnion. It was almostimpossible to keep it all to herself. One of these occasions was when, for the first time, she gathered her lap full of soft, faintly smellingcowslips. She sat and looked at them in lonely rapture. 

Oh for Susie and Dottie to help her to make them up into balls! Thenshe remembered that she really had been very tired of Susie and Dottie;it was odd she should want them directly she got away from them. 

Day followed day, each hour of them full of sunshine, and beauty, andleisure; but there was just one little drawback at Paradise Court, whichIris began to feel more and more strongly--there was no one to talk to. A hundred times a day she wanted someone to share her pleasure oramusement--to laugh with her, or wonder with her, or to search with herfor fresh treasures. It seemed to take the edge off everything if shemust enjoy it alone; and this desire for sympathy at last grew so strongthat it caused her to be guilty of the grave indiscretion I shall nowrelate. A friend had once given Mrs Fotheringham a couple of half-wildwhite ducks of a peculiar kind, and these had so multiplied andincreased in the quiet retreat of Paradise Court that they nowthreatened to become too numerous. Orders had accordingly been giventhat their eggs were to be taken wherever they were found, and as theywere of a delicate flavour Mrs Fotheringham had them cooked for herprivate use. The poor ducks, therefore, were perpetually thwarted intheir endeavours to bring up a family; but one of them continued itsefforts in such an undaunted manner that Iris watched the struggle goingon between it and Moore with the keenest interest. Nest after nest thisduck made, laid its eggs, and settled itself comfortably, only to bedisturbed with shouts and cries, and ruthlessly hustled off. Overcomefor the moment, but "constant still in mind, " it waddled composedlyaway, sought a more retired position, and made further arrangements. The same thing happened all over again! Poor duck! Iris felt verysorry for it, and would willingly have helped it to hide itself fromMoore if she could; but it was impossible to convey this sympathy to itsmind, and in the end it conducted its own affairs with great sagacity, and completely baffled the enemy. For one morning as she passed thebee-hives, her attention was caught by some soft white object under oneof them, almost concealed by the straw hackle which came low down oneach side of it. She stopped; could it be her friend the duck? Itreally was; it sat there on its nest in a heavenly calm of perfectsecurity, safe at last, and its round dark eye gazed serenely forth uponall the world, including Moore. It had nothing further to fear fromhim. 

The duck had won, and Iris felt so glad that she longed to shake handswith it, and make it understand how clever she thought it. She was, indeed, so pleased that it was absolutely necessary to tell someoneabout it, and after she had smiled and nodded at the duck a great manytimes, to which it made no sort of response, she turned and ran quicklyindoors. Now she lived so much alone at Paradise Court that she wasignorant that this very hour was sacred to Mrs Fotheringham's nap; itwas most important that she should not be disturbed, and no one wouldlightly have done so who knew how much depended on it. If she did notget her nap she did not relish her dinner; and if she did not relish herdinner she was cross; and if she was cross the whole household wasuncomfortable, for she could by no means suffer other people to be atrest if she were uneasy. 

On this particular afternoon she was well on the way to get a verycomfortable doze. The day was warm; the room was carefully darkenedMiss Munnion sat holding her book close to a crack in the Venetianblind, reaching aloud in a subdued and murmurous voice. Whether MrsFotheringham slept or not she had to go on for an hour. The old lady, drowsy with the unusual heat, was just on the edge of slumber, but stillpartly conscious; sometimes she lost a whole page of the book at a time, then she heard a little of it, and then Miss Munnion turned into a beeand buzzed in the window. Just at this critical moment Iris banged openthe door and burst into the silent room. 

"Oh!" she cried in her shrill childish voice, "what _do_ you think theduck has done?"

It was so dark after the bright sunlight out of doors that at first shedid not see her godmother at all, but only Miss Munnion, who dropped herbook in her lap and stared at her with a helpless and frightened face. 

Mrs Fotheringham started nervously; she grasped the arms of her chairand exclaimed half awake in an agitated voice:

"What's the matter? Who's there? Who's done what?"

"It's the duck, " stammered Iris in a more subdued manner. 

"Is the chimney on fire?" continued Mrs Fotheringham. "I insist onknowing what's the matter. Miss Munnion, where are you? Why don't youfind out what's the matter?"

"It's something about a duck, " said Miss Munnion slowly, "but I really--don't--quite--"

By this time Mrs Fotheringham was fully awake, and had recovered fromher confusion. 

"You never _do, quite_, " she said sharply. Then to Iris:

"Child, come here and explain why you rush into the room in thisabominable manner. "

Poor Iris advanced. She wished she could say that something was onfire, or that something more important had happened than the ducksitting under the bee-hive. It seemed nothing at all now, not the leastamusing, and certainly not a sufficient reason for disturbing hergodmother's nap. 

"I didn't know you were asleep, " she began. 

"Keep to the point, " said Mrs Fotheringham; "what did you do it for?"

Iris told her story very lamely, and conscious of an unsympatheticaudience. The very parrot ruffled up his feathers and turned hisglistening eye upon his mistress when it was over, as though he shruggedhis shoulders and said:

"Here's a poor affair!"

"Do you mean to tell me, you stupid and vexing child, " said MrsFotheringham, "that you woke me up merely to relate this nonsense?"

Iris had nothing to say, but she thought it unkind of Miss Munnion tomurmur in the background:

"Most thoughtless!"

"If anything of this nature occurs again, " said Mrs Fotheringhamseverely, "I shall send you home at once. Other failings I can excuse, but selfish thoughtlessness is a thing I abhor. There, go away. No, Miss Munnion, you needn't read any more, I shall not be able to sleepnow. My nerves are quite shaken. "

Iris wandered disconsolately out into the garden. Everything looked asbright and gay as ever, but she felt sad. It was hard to be disgracedand scolded as though she had done something wrong, when she had onlymade a mistake. "I really _did_ think they would like to hear about theduck, " she said to herself; "and how _could_ I know she was asleep?"How they would have liked it at home! How often mother was waked upsuddenly by the noise of the children, or the boys rushing in to ask hersomething! Her patient face came before Iris now, full of thegentleness and love which were always there as a matter of course, because she was "mother. " There was something wanting at ParadiseCourt--something that not all its radiant flowers, and pleasantluxurious rooms, and daintily prepared meals could supply. 

"After all, " said Iris, "it doesn't seem to make people kinder to haveso many nice things as my godmother. "

She came to this conclusion with a sigh, and then, hearing the stableclock strike five, remembered that it was post time. Perhaps therewould be a letter from home. At any rate she would run down to thelodge and meet the postman. It was such a cheering thought that shefelt almost happy again, and ran along whistling and swinging herstraw-hat in her hand. The drive was long and very winding, so that shedid not at first perceive that there was someone in front of her whoseemed to be bound on the same errand; when she did so, however, she hadno difficulty in recognising the figure, which had a lop-sided movementlike a bird with one wing. It was Miss Munnion. She was evidently ingreat haste, and walking, or rather running faster than Iris had everseen her--so fast, indeed, that she was soon hidden in a sudden turn ofthe road, and was next visible coming back with the letters in her hand. Walking slowly now, she was reading an open one, and stopped now andthen to study it more attentively. Iris ran up to her with the eagerquestion, "Is there one for me?" on her lips; but when she saw MissMunnion's face she checked herself. For the frozen little countenancehad thawed, the features worked and twisted about strangely, and thedull eyes were full of tears. 

"What's the matter?" said Iris bluntly. Miss Munnion looked up; she wascompletely altered in voice and manner; her hands trembled, her littlelace head-dress was crooked; she was evidently deeply troubled. 

"It's my sister Diana, " she said--"my only sister. She is dangerouslyill. She's been asking for me. "

"Where is she?" asked Iris. 

"Oh, that's the worst of it!" cried Miss Munnion. "It's all the way toSunderland, right up in the north. Oh, what shall I do?"

"Of course you must go to her, " said Iris, with the confidence of youth. 

"But, " said poor Miss Munnion, looking at the child without a spark ofhope in her eyes, but a great longing for help and advice, "there's MrsFotheringham. She'll disapprove, she so dislikes being worried. When Icame she told me she hoped I had no relations to unsettle me. And Ihaven't. I haven't a soul in the world that cares for me except Diana. And she was always so strong. How could I tell she would fall ill?"

"Perhaps you wouldn't be gone long, " suggested Iris, "and I could readto godmother. "

"I'm so afraid, " said Miss Munnion, wiping her eyes meekly, "that MrsFotheringham will dismiss me if I go, and I can't afford to lose thesituation--I really can't. And it's such an expensive journey toSunderland. And yet, there's Diana; she comes before everything, and itcuts me to the heart to think of her asking for me. "

Iris stood looking at her gravely. She felt very sorry, but also alittle contemptuous. Of course Diana ought to come before everything, and yet Miss Munnion did not seem able to make up her mind to go to her. 

"Well, " she said, "you can't go to Sunderland and stay here too. "

"Very true, " murmured Miss Munnion. She did not mean anything by thesewords, but they were so habitual that she could not help using them. 

"Then you'd better come straight to my godmother and tell her, " saidIris, "if you _mean_ to go. "

"Oh, of course I mean to go, " said Miss Munnion reproachfully. "Howcould I forsake Diana when she wants me?"

"Well, then, there's no use in thinking of anything else, " said Iris. 

It was an evident relief to Miss Munnion to be taken in hand firmly evenby a child. Years of dependence on the whims and fancies of others haddeprived her of what little decision and power of judgment she hadpossessed. She could hardly call her mind her own, so how could shemake it up on any point?

Yet all through her troubled and dreary life one feeling had remainedalive and warm--affection for her sister Diana. "Many waters cannotquench love, " and its flame still burned bright and clear in MissMunnion's heart. 

"Although she really is very silly, " thought Iris, as they turned backtogether towards the house, "there's something I like about her afterall. She's much nicer than my godmother. "

She hurried Miss Munnion along as fast as she could, almost as though itwere Susie or Dottie she had in charge; and indeed the poor lady was sonervous at the prospect of Mrs Fotheringham that she was as helpless asa child. She stumbled along, falling over her gown at every step, dropping her letters, or her spectacles, or her pocket handkerchief, anduttering broken sentences about her sister Diana. Iris picked up thesethings again and again, and at last carried them herself, and so broughtMiss Munnion triumphantly, but in a breathless condition, to the door ofthe house. 

"Now, " she said, "you'd better take the letters in to my godmother andtell her all about it at once. I'll wait here till you come back. "

She had not to wait long, for Miss Munnion reappeared in less than fiveminutes shaking her head mournfully. 

"It's just as I thought it would be, " she said. "Mrs Fotheringhamthinks it's very unreasonable of me to want to go to Diana. "

"Did you tell her she was ill?" asked Iris. 

"Yes, and she said she supposed there were doctors in Sunderland whowould do her more good than I should. She doesn't seem to be able tounderstand why I should want to go. She says it's fussy. "

"Did you tell her that I would read to her while you are gone?" askedIris. 

"No, my dear, I couldn't get that in; she's so very impetuous. Andbesides, the first thing she said was:--

"`Of course you'll understand, Miss Munnion, that if you feel obliged togo to Sunderland our connection is at an end. ' So I shall lose thesituation after all, " ended Miss Munnion with a sigh. 

Iris stood in silent thought for a moment. 

"Did she look _very_ angry?" she said at length. 

"Well, yes, " said Miss Munnion. "I must say she seemed completelyupset. I think she was vexed to start with, because, you know, shedidn't get her nap. "

"You stop here a minute, " said Iris suddenly, and ran into the house. She pushed open the door of Mrs Fotheringham's sitting-room gently andpeeped in. Her godmother was sitting very upright in her high-backedchair, a frown on her brow, and the parrot on her shoulder. She lookedso alarming that Iris felt almost inclined to run away again, but theold lady turned her head suddenly and saw her. 

"Well, " she said, with an air of sarcastic resignation, "what do _you_want? Any more ducks under bee-hives, or have _you_ got a sick sistertoo?"

"Please, godmother, " said Iris, with a great effort, "I want you to letme read to you while Miss Munnion is away. "

"Oh!" said Mrs Fotheringham. 

She stared silently at Iris for a moment, then resumed. 

"I've no doubt it would be an immense pleasure to listen to you if youread like most children of your age. Anything more?"

Iris became scarlet under her godmother's fixed gaze, for both she andthe parrot seemed to be chuckling silently at her confusion. But shethought of Diana, and of poor Miss Munnion waiting outside, and managedto gasp out:

"Please let Miss Munnion come back. "

"She hasn't gone yet that I know of, " replied Mrs Fotheringham, withoutremoving her eyes from the child. 

"But she _must_, " continued Iris, "because of Diana. "

"Well, I must say, you are a most extraordinary child, " said the oldlady, after another pause, "with your ducks and your Dianas! What is itto you, I should like to know, whether Miss Munnion goes or stays? Itdoesn't interfere with _your_ comfort, I suppose. "

Iris could not answer this question, but she stuck to her point, andsaid in a low voice:

"I should like her to see her sister and come back. "

Mrs Fotheringham looked more and more puzzled, and her frown grewdeeper. Iris felt that there was not a gleam of hope for Miss Munnionand Diana; but when at last the words came she found she was mistaken, for they were as follows:

"You may go and tell Miss Munnion, " said the old lady, "that the soonershe starts on this wild-goose chase the better, and that I will spareher for one week, but if she wants to stop away longer she needn't comeback at all. And this is on the condition that neither you nor she areto mention her sister Diana to me ever again, whether she is ill, orwell, or anything about her. As to your reading to me, I've no doubtyou either mumble or squeak, and I couldn't bear it, so pray don'timagine you'll be the least use while she's away, or let her imagineit. "

She waved her mittened hand fretfully, and Iris, thankful to bereleased, flew with her good news to the trembling Miss Munnion. 

Early the next morning, almost unnoticed by the household, and carryingher own little black bag, she started on her two-miles walk to thestation. Iris went with her as far as the lodge gates. 

"Good-bye, " she said, holding out her hand, "and I hope you'll find yoursister Diana better. " She felt inclined to add, "Take care of yourpurse, and don't lose your ticket, " as though she were parting from achild; but Miss Munnion suddenly leaned forward, and gave her a hardlittle nervous kiss. It felt more like a knock from something woodenthan a kiss, and Iris was so startled that she received it in perfectsilence. Before she had recovered herself the small figure, morelop-sided than ever now, because it was weighed down by the bag, hadstumbled through the gates, and was on its way down the road. Iriswatched till it was out of sight, and then went slowly back to thehouse. 

STORY THREE, CHAPTER 3. 

THE LOST CHANCE. 

 "For all is bright, and beauteous, and clear, And the meanest thing most precious and dear, When the magic of love is present-- Love that lends a sweetness and grace To the humblest spot and the plainest face, That turns Wilderness Row to Paradise Place, And Garlick Hill to Mount Pleasant. "--_Hood_. 

Iris had no longer any completely idle days, for she soon found that hergodmother expected her in some measure to fill Miss Munnion's place; shemust be ready at Mrs Fotheringham's beck and call, to read to her, drive with her, and walk with her in the garden. They were none of themdifficult duties, and could not in any sense be called hard work. A dayat Paradise Court was in this respect still a very different matter froma day in Albert Street; yet sometimes Iris felt a heavy wearinesshanging upon her, which was a new way of being tired--quite a differentsort of fatigue to anything she had known before, but quite asuncomfortable. Most of all she hated the drives. To sit opposite hergodmother in perfect silence in a close stuffy carriage, and be drivenalong the dusty roads for exactly an hour at exactly the same pace. Nota word spoken, unless Mrs Fotheringham wished the blinds pulled up ordown, or a message given to the coachman. Iris longed feverishlysometimes to jump out and run up a hill, or to climb over the gates intothe fields they passed on the way. There were such lots of lovelythings to gather just now. Dog roses and yellow honeysuckle in thehedges, poppies and tall white daisies in the fields, and wavingfeathery grasses. But at all these she could only look and long out ofthe carriage window. She often thought at these times of poor MissMunnion, and wondered how her sister Diana was, and whether she had beenvery glad to see her, and most of all she wondered how Miss Munnion_could_ have been so anxious to keep the situation; she must be so verytired of sitting opposite Mrs Fotheringham and looking out of thecarriage window. 

These reflections were of course kept to herself, and indeedconversation of any kind was forbidden during the drives, but Iris wasso used to talking that it was impossible to her to keep silence atother times. By degrees she lost her awe of her godmother, andchattered away to her about that which interested herself--her brothersand sisters, their sayings and doings, and their life at home. Sometimes she found Mrs Fotheringham's keen dark eyes fixedinquisitively upon her, as though they were studying some curiousanimal, and sometimes her funniest stories about Dottie or Susie werecut short by a sharp, "That will do, child. Run away. "

But this did not discourage her, and she became so used to hergodmother's manner that it ceased to alarm her, and once she evencontradicted her as bluntly as though she had been Max or Clement. Eventhis had no bad effect, however, for shortly afterwards MrsFotheringham remarked:

"It's a positive relief not to have Miss Munnion here agreeing witheverything I say. It's as fidgeting as a dog that's always wagging itstail. "

But though she got on better than she could have expected with hergodmother, and though Paradise Court was as beautiful and pleasant asever, Iris's thoughts were now constantly at Albert Street. AlbertStreet, which was no doubt still ugly and disagreeable, hot, andglaring, and stuffy, and where even the summer sky looked quitedifferent. Nevertheless there were some very delightful things there, seen from a distance. When anything amused Iris, Max's freckled faceimmediately came before her, with its sympathetic grin of enjoyment;when she was sad she felt Susie's and Dottie's soft little clingingfingers in her own; when she was dull she heard Clement's squeaky voicejust ready to burst into a giggle at one of Max's stupid jokes. "It's along time since I laughed till I ached, " she said to herself. Thepeaceful repose of Paradise Court, the silence, which was only broken bya shriek from the parrot, and the murmurous coo of the pigeons outside, was indeed almost too complete. It would be nice to hear the hastytramp of feet up and down stairs again, or someone shouting "Iris!" fromthe top of the house. Even the sound of Clement's one song, "The TenLittle Niggers, " which he performed perpetually and always out of tune, would be pleasant to the ear. It had often made her cross in AlbertStreet, but now the thought of it was more attractive than the sweetestnotes of the nightingales which sung every evening in the garden atParadise Court. 

One afternoon Iris was walking with her godmother in the little walledgarden where she had found her on the first evening of her arrival. Thetulips were over now, and Mrs Fotheringham's attention was turned to acertain border which Moore had been planting out under her direction; hehad suffered a good deal during the process, for, being a slow thinker, he took some time to understand his mistress's meaning, which now andthen escaped him entirely. Often, however, he was afraid to ask her torepeat an order, because it made her so angry, and in consequence hismistakes were many and frequent, which made her more angry still. Thisvery day she had discovered that he had actually sown the sweet peas inthe wrong place. 

"The man's a perfect fool!" she exclaimed in great wrath; "after all theminute directions I gave him about this border. He gets stupider andstupider every day. One would think he had a thousand things to employhis mind, if he's got a mind, instead of these few simple facts. "

"Perhaps, " said Iris, "he's been thinking about his baby. It's beenawfully ill. Bronchitis it's had. "

"His baby!" said Mrs Fotheringham, glaring round at her; "what do _you_know about his baby?"

"Oh, " replied Iris cheerfully, "I know all about it. It's teething, youknow, and then it caught cold, and then it turned to bronchitis. It'sbeen ill a fortnight, but now it's taken a turn. "

"Has it, indeed?" said Mrs Fotheringham sarcastically. 

"You see, " said Iris, "I know all about bronchitis, because Dottie hadit so badly a year ago. We had to keep her in one room for ever solong. It was Roche's embrocation that did her more good than anything. I told Moore that, and he got some. When Dottie got better the doctorsaid we ought to take her to the seaside, but that was out of thequestion, mother said. "

"Why?" asked Mrs Fotheringham. 

"Because it would have cost so much, " answered Iris. 

She thought it was rather dull of her godmother not to have known thatwithout asking, but as she seemed interested in Moore's baby she went onto supply her with a few more facts about his family. 

"Moore has seven children, " she said; "the eldest is just Max's age, tenyears old. _His_ name is Joseph. Then there's another boy, _his_ nameis Stephen. Then there's a girl, _her_ name is--"

"Stop!" said Mrs Fotheringham sharply. 

Iris looked up startled, in the act of checking off the members ofMoore's family on her fingers. There was an expression of decideddispleasure on Mrs Fotheringham's face. 

"May I ask, " she said, "how and where you have gathered these detailsabout Moore's affairs?"

Iris hung her head. She had done something wrong again. 

"It was after he told me his baby was ill, " she said; "_I_ told _him_about Dottie being ill, and how many brothers and sisters I had, andtheir names and ages, and then he told me about his children. "

"And what possible interest could that be to you?" asked MrsFotheringham. "You appear to have very strange tastes. Pray, rememberfor the future that I object to your talking in this familiar way toMoore, or to any of the servants. Also, that there is _nothing_ Idetest so much as hearing about people's sick sisters, and sick babies, and so on. Everyone near me appears to have a sick relative just now, and to neglect their work in consequence. "

So Moore's baby was a forbidden subject now as well as Miss Munnion'ssister, Diana. It was a new thing to Iris to keep silence about whatwas passing in her mind, and a hundred times in the day she was on thevery edge of some indiscreet remark. She managed to check herselfbefore it came out, but it was really very difficult and tiresome. 

"At any rate, " she said to herself, "there's _nothing_ we mus'n't talkabout at home; and though we do all talk at once and make a great noise, it's much better than not talking at all. "

Nevertheless the conversation had made some impression on MrsFotheringham, for the next day, after studying Iris in silence for sometime, she said suddenly:

"Were you sorry not to go to the seaside after Lottie was ill?"

"Lottie?" said Iris; "oh, you mean Dottie. Her real name is Dorothy, you know, only she's so small, and round, and pudgy, Max says she's likea full stop. So she's always called Dottie. "

"You've not answered my question, " said Mrs Fotheringham. 

"Why, of course we were all dreadfully sorry, " answered Iris. "We didgo once, but I'm the only one who remembers what it was like, becausethe others were too small. "

"Did you like it?"

"I _loved_ it, " said Iris fervently, "The bathing, and the nice swishynoise the waves made on the beach, and the smell of the sea, and therocks, and the sea-weed, and shrimps, and the tiny little crabs. It waslovely. "

"It's a pity you can't often go, " remarked Mrs Fotheringham. 

"Yes, " said Iris with a sigh, "it is. But, you see, the lodgings are sodear, and there's such a lot of us. "

"Ah!" said Mrs Fotheringham, "it's a bad thing to be poor. "

Iris looked up quickly. Those were the very words she had said toherself when she first arrived at Paradise Court. It seemed almost thather godmother must have overheard them, and yet that was quiteimpossible. A bad thing to be poor! Somehow Iris felt now that theremight be worse things than want of money. It flashed across her, as shelooked at Mrs Fotheringham, that she should not like to be a rich oldlady with only a green parrot to love her. 

"How would you like to have plenty of money?" asked Mrs Fotheringham. 

"It would be very nice, " said Iris, resting her chin on her hand, andproceeding to consider the subject. "I could buy presents for them allat home: lop-eared rabbits for Max, and a raven for Clement, and waxdolls for Susie and Dottie--they've only got rag ones. "

"Humph!" was her godmother's only reply; "now you may run out into thegarden. "

Always glad to be released from Mrs Fotheringham's presence, and hershaded room, Iris took her straw-hat and ran out into the sunshine. Asshe went she turned over in her mind all the things she would buy and doif she were rich. This was not at all a new employment, for she and herbrothers often did it at home, though they always differed widely as tothe best way of spending the imaginary fortune. "I would buy mother alight green satin dress and pearls, " she thought, "and give father awhole lot of books all bound in scarlet and gold, and--"

"If you please, miss, might you happen to have seen Muster Moore justlately?"

Iris looked round and saw a stout young woman with a checked shawl overher head; she was very red in the face, and panted as though she werequite out of breath. 

"They told me in the house I should find him hereabouts, " she went on;"but I've run all over the place and I can't catch sight of him, and Ido want him most pertickler. "

"He isn't here, I know, " said Iris. "He's gone over to Dinham in thedonkey-cart to fetch parcels from the station. "

"Oh, dear!" said the young woman, wiping her hot face with her apron, "how orkerd things always do happen! There's the baby took ever so muchworse. She can't hardly fetch her breath, poor lamb! And I want somemore stuff to rub her chest with. I durs'n't leave her to go so far asDinham myself for it. "

"Can't you send one of the boys?" said Iris, much interested and full ofsympathy. 

"Bless you, missie, they're all at school. I've no one only the threelittle uns at home. Well, I must go back. There's a neighbour holdingof her now. "

"Stop a minute, " said Iris, as the woman turned sadly away, "_I'll_ goand fetch it. I know the way to Dinham. "

She felt quite excited, and eager for the adventure. 

"Thank you kindly, miss, but I couldn't trouble you, not to go all thatway. "

"It's only two miles across the fields, " said Iris. "Moore told me so;and I know exactly what to ask for--a bottle of Roche's embrocation--I've often got it before. "

Mrs Moore took a bottle from under her shawl and looked at it. 

"I _did_ bring the bottle with me, " she said hesitatingly, "so as thereshouldn't be no mistake. "

"All right, " said Iris, taking it from her and nodding cheerfully; "Iwon't be long, I can run very fast. "

"You _might_ happen to meet Moore comin' back, and then he could go andget it, " continued Mrs Moore in an undecided tone. 

But Iris did not wait for any further suggestions, she only nodded againand ran down the garden towards the gate which led into the fields. What a delightfully free feeling it was! She ran along the narrowpathway between the tall grass growing on each side, and heard herskirts brush against it as she passed with a nice whispering noise. Thecool wind blew in her face and rustled in the trees, and made the redsorrel and daisies and cow-parsley bend and wave at her pleasantly. "_Now_ I know how a bird feels when it gets out of a cage, " she said toherself, and she was so happy that she sang a little tune. Added to herpleasure there was a great sense of adventure and even peril about thejourney, for, though she did not confess to herself that she wasdisobeying her godmother, she yet knew that to rush over the fields toDinham in this way to fetch medicine for Moore's baby was the last thingshe would approve. 

Without stopping to consider this, however, or to gather any of thetempting things growing so near her hand, she ran on, swinging the emptybottle in the air; on, on, through three long fields, and then shechecked her speed, for in the distance she could see the chimneys ofDinham, and she knew she could not be far off. 

She had often been there with her godmother, but that was by the road, shut up in a close carriage--now she would arrive on foot, alone, withher garden hat on, no gloves, and her hair quite rough. It was a verydifferent matter; the chemist might perhaps think she was some littlewild girl and refuse to give her the medicine. She looked at the labelon the bottle to see his name: Jabez Wrench, High Street, Dinham. Shehad been to his shop with Mrs Fotheringham, and she remembered MrWrench. He was a white-faced man with red hair, and he smiled a greatdeal. "I shall say I come from Paradise Court, " said Iris to herself, "and then he'll know it's all right. "

It was not difficult to find the way when she left the fields, for theroad led straight into the High Street of Dinham, where the chemist'sshop was. Iris entered it rather shyly, for her first excitement was agood deal sobered; there was Mr Wrench behind the counter with his redhead bent over a pestle and mortar; he hardly looked up as Irispresented the bottle. "Who's it for?" he asked shortly, without ceasinghis occupation. 

"It's for Mrs Moore's baby, " said Iris; and added after a pause, "Icome from Paradise Court. "

It was wonderful to see how Mr Wrench's voice and manner altered atonce. He looked up, bowed, and puckered his white face into the smilewhich Iris remembered. 

"I beg pardon, " he murmured, "I did not for the moment recognise--Shallwe have the pleasure of sending the medicine?"

But this Iris hastily refused, and in a few moments she left the shop intriumph with a bottle of Roche's embrocation neatly done up in whitepaper and sealing-wax. Whether, however, she was too much uplifted inspirit to see where she was going, or whether the place looked differentnow to when seen out of a carriage window, she did a very foolish thing, for instead of turning to the left, as she should have done, she turnedto the right, and walked on some distance without noticing her mistake. But when at length she arrived at a little grey church, she stopped indismay: "I know, " she said to herself, "that I didn't pass a church; Imust be going the wrong way. " To her horror there now sounded from thechurch clock the hour of five. How late it was! There would hardly betime to get home and change her frock before her godmother missed her. How angry she would be! What dreadful things she would say, and howterrible she would look! If only it were possible to get back in time!She was just turning hastily to retrace her steps, when towards her, trotting briskly along with head erect, came a donkey drawing a smallcart, and in the cart was a man standing up to drive. Iris stopped andwaved her parcel in the air eagerly to attract his attention, for theman was Moore returning from the station, and the donkey was MrsFotheringham's donkey, David. 

Moore pulled up after a good deal of effort, for David did not wish tostop, and Iris rapidly and excitedly poured forth her story. She mixedup the baby, the medicine, the lateness of the hour, and how she turnedthe wrong way, in a manner which might have puzzled the quickest brain;but Moore did not show any surprise. That would come later when he hadarranged his ideas a little; at present his face was perfectly stolid ashe said:

"You'd best git up and ride home, missie. David'll take you backquicker nor you can walk, now his head's this way. "

Iris looked longingly at the cart. She really was a little tired now, and very much afraid of her godmother's anger, and besides, the driveitself would be most delightful. She would not have hesitated a moment, but she remembered Mrs Fotheringham's injunction about talking to Mooreand the servants. 

"But I needn't say _much_ to him, " she concluded, and the next minuteshe had taken the rough brown hand Moore held out to her, and clamberedover the side of the cart. David, who had laid back one long furry earas though listening to the conversation, now pricked it forward againand started off. Seated on the rough plank, which shook and rattledwith every movement of the cart, Iris felt in the best possible spirits. This was indeed a pleasant way of travelling, and how wonderfullysuperior to the stuffy comfort of Mrs Fotheringham's well-cushionedbrougham! The Dinham road was full of new beauties seen in this manner;the evening breeze was soft and cool, and from some of the fields camethe sweet smell of hay as they passed. There was plenty of variety, too, in the bumps and jolts of the springless cart, Moore's way ofdriving was new and attractive, and David's paces had at least the meritof unexpectedness. Sometimes, after trotting gallantly along for someminutes with uplifted crest, he brought himself up to a sudden anddetermined walk; then Moore would hurl himself forward in the cart withan energetic stamp, and growl out a number of strange and injuriousremarks, of which Iris only heard the first three:

"_You_ David! What are you up to? _Git_ along with you!" The restdied away in a hoarse murmur as David quickened his movements. Irisenjoyed it all thoroughly, and sat holding on with both hands to theplank in the midst of the parcels, with a wide grin of pleasure on herface. The Dinham road was very quiet, and there were few people about;but as they approached Paradise Court an open carriage with a pair offine chestnut horses drove rapidly by, and David, as was his custom onsuch occasions, drew up and stood quite still while it passed, in spiteof Moore's utmost exertions. 

"Who was that lady in the carriage?" asked Iris, for she saw Moore touchhis cap. "I think I've seen her before. "

"Very like, missie, " answered Moore; "that was Lady Dacre from theTowers yonder. "

He turned into the stable-yard, helped Iris carefully down, and saidslowly, as though he were continuing a previous speech:

"And I take it main kind of yer, missie, to have fetched the stuff forthe little un. "

To her relief Iris found that it was only half-past five, and that hergodmother had not missed her from the house. The great adventure seemedlikely to remain undiscovered, and she went to bed feeling glad she hadfetched the medicine, though a little ashamed of keeping it a secret. She had no fear, however, that her disobedience would have anyuncomfortable results; though in this she was mistaken, as is often thecase when we judge of things too hastily. For the very next afternoon, while she was reading aloud to Mrs Fotheringham, the door opened andthe maid-servant announced a visitor--Lady Dacre. 

The name struck a chill to Iris's very heart. She retired modestly to acorner of the room and bent her face over her book. Had Lady Dacrerecognised her yesterday? Would she say anything about it if she had?Could anything be more unlucky? She sat and trembled as she turnedthese things over in her mind, and listened anxiously to theconversation, but at present it did not approach any dangerous subject. The ladies were discussing the weather, the want of rain, the new vicar, Lady Dacre's rheumatism, and the unreasonable behaviour of Miss Munnion. So far all was safe. How would it do to slip out of the room whilethey were so busily engaged? Iris got up and moved cautiously towardsthe door, but, unfortunately, she was so occupied in trying to treadvery softly that she forgot the book in her hand, and it slid to thefloor with a loud thump. The conversation stopped, and Lady Dacreturned her good-natured face in the direction of the noise. She was anice-looking pink-faced old lady, with silver hair, and a cozy blacksatin bonnet. 

"So you have your little god-daughter with you still?" she said to MrsFotheringham. "Ah, I recollect we met yesterday in the Dinham Road. "

Iris looked beseechingly at her, but she only nodded and smiledcomfortably. 

"In the Dinham Road!" repeated Mrs Fotheringham, "what were you doingin the Dinham Road alone, Iris?"

"Oh, she wasn't alone, " said Lady Dacre kindly, "she had a gallant steedand a charioteer to take care of her. She was coming along in very finestyle. I remember thinking, as I saw her, what a capital thing it wasto be twelve years old. "

She laughed, and got up as she spoke to go away, perfectly unconsciousof poor Iris's despair. 

As her guest left the room Mrs Fotheringham's darkest frown gathered onher forehead. 

"_Did_ you meet Lady Dacre yesterday?" she asked, and then added coldly, "Perhaps it was one of Moore's daughters she mistook for you. "

For a brief moment the possibility of taking advantage of this ideadarted through Iris's mind, but she let it go, and answered faintly:

"I _did_ meet her. "

"Where were you, and with whom?"

When her godmother spoke so very distinctly Iris knew how angry she was, and it was dreadfully difficult to answer at first. Presently, however, gathering courage she lifted her head and said almost defiantly:

"In the donkey-cart with Moore. "

"Did you drive to Dinham with him?"

"No. "

"How did you get there?"

"I ran across the fields. "

"And with what purpose beside that of disobeying me?"

"To fetch--" Iris stopped; she was approaching the fatal forbiddensubject. 

"To fetch what?"

"Medicine. "

"Don't tell me untruths, " said Mrs Fotheringham still more icily; "whatcould you want medicine for?"

"I'm telling the truth, " said Iris indignantly; "it was for--"

"Well, well, well, " said Mrs Fotheringham impatiently, "for--"

"Moore's baby, " finished Iris, almost in a whisper. 

"Now, " exclaimed Mrs Fotheringham, falling back in her chair, "mayHeaven grant me patience!" She remained leaning back in a flattenedstate for so long that Iris wondered if she were ill or going to faint;but just as she determined to call the maid her godmother raised herselfinto her usual erect position and beckoned. 

"Come here, " she said, "I've something to tell you. Sit down. "

Iris sat down, feeling rather frightened, but yet as though the worstwere over; at any rate she had nothing more to confess. 

"I invited you here, " began Mrs Fotheringham, speaking very slowly andimpressively, "with a certain object in view, and that was that I mightjudge whether it would be possible to offer to adopt you altogether. Had I done so it would have been an untold advantage to you in manyways, and a great relief to your parents, for your future would havebeen provided for. You have plainly shown me, however, that it would beimpossible to have you here. You have shown selfish disregard for mycomfort, disobedience, and low vulgar tastes. This last escapade hasdecided me. Your chance is over. "

"What chance?" asked Iris, who had not altogether grasped her meaning. 

"Your chance of living here at Paradise Court, and of being rich, instead of going back to Albert Street, where you will always bemiserably poor, and have to work for your living. "

"Oh, but anyhow, " said Iris, now quite roused, "I couldn't possibly dothat. I mean, I couldn't _live_ here even if you liked me. "

"Why not?"

"Why, of _course_ I couldn't. How could I possibly leave father andmother and the others? _They_ wouldn't like it either. "

"You like Albert Street better than this, I suppose, " said MrsFotheringham coldly. 

"Oh, _dear_, yes--much. As long as the others are there. "

"You won't like it best always, " said Mrs Fotheringham. "There willcome a time when you'll remember that you've missed a chance. Why, youfoolish child, " she continued, speaking more earnestly and with a toneof half pity, "you don't know what money can do. It can do everything. If you are cold it can warm you, if you are dull it can amuse you, ifyou are hungry it can feed you, if you are insignificant it can make youa power in the world. It can bring people to your feet, and make themserve you. "

"But not love you, " said Iris quickly. 

"Pooh!" said Mrs Fotheringham. 

She hardly spoke again for the rest of the evening, but remained deep inthought, from which Iris did not dare to rouse her by any question. Thenext day had been arranged for her return home, and when everything wasready, and the carriage waiting at the door to take her to the station, she went to say farewell to her godmother and Paradise Court. She foundher sitting in the verandah, with the parrot on a stand close by, andthere was such a lonely look about her that for a moment Iris feltsorry. 

"Good-bye, godmother, " she said gently. 

"Ah, you're going, " said Mrs Fotheringham, holding out a hard whitehand; then looking at her sharply:

"Are you glad to go?"

"I've enjoyed myself _very_ much, " said Iris politely. 

"But you like Albert Street better?"

"Well, you see, the others are all there. " She could not help smiling alittle as she thought how the "others" would all be at the station tomeet her, and how they would laugh, and talk, and wave things, and kissher, and how much she would have to tell them. 

"I'll give you a proverb to take back with you, " said Mrs Fotheringhamafter a moment's pause. "Try and remember it. `When Poverty comes inat the door, Love flies out of the window. ' There never was a truerword spoken. "

She leant back in her chair. The interview was ended. Iris's visit toParadise Court was over. 

But not the memory of it, that dwelt freshly in her mind for years; andwhen Susie and Dottie demanded again and again to be told how the ducksat under the bee-hive, or how Iris had driven from Dinham in thedonkey-cart, the whole place came before her like a brightly paintedpicture. And in the picture were two things which it pleased her mostto look at and remember--Miss Munnion's face when she had kissed her atthe gate, and Moore's when he thanked her for fetching the "stuff forthe little un, "--these always stood out clearly, even when thebackground of Paradise Court became dim and indistinct. Neither wereher godmother's parting words and her proverb forgotten. Sometimes inafter years, when Iris came to know what poverty really means, and whendifficulties and troubles rose in Albert Street which a little moremoney would have relieved, she thought of them mournfully. Poverty hadindeed come in at the door, and it might have been in her power to keepit out. She could not do that now, she had missed her "chance, " as MrsFotheringham had said; but there still remained one other thing--Loveshould not fly out of the window. And he never did. Many hands, someof them small and weak, held him fast in 29 Albert Street, and he wasalways to be found there, though he might hide himself for a time. 

"After all, " said Iris to herself, "there are flowers here as well as inParadise Court!"

And so there were. There is a crop that flourishes sometimes better inthe hard soil of poverty and labour than where beauty, culture, art, andall that wealth can produce spread their soft influences. These are theflowers called patience, unselfishness, simplicity, love. They growbest, not where life is most pleasant to the senses, but where coldwinds often blow roughly and outward things are ugly and poor. 

"Nothing is sweeter than love, nothing more courageous, nothing higher, nothing wider, nothing more pleasant, nothing fuller nor better inheaven and earth. "--_Thomas a Kempis_. 

THE END.