CHAPTER VII.

WHICH SHALL IT BE? BLUE OR WHITE?

ONE thought above all others was in Margaretta's mind. She would leave

Northbrook Hall at once and for ever. But where should she go?

She bethought herself of that old promise, and without waiting even

to change her simple wrapper for a walking dress, she gathered up her

precious letters, threw a soft woollen shawl round her, put on her hat,

and went rapidly towards the little dwelling tenanted by Nelly Corry

and her mother. As she passed through the ill-kept conservatory she

plucked a rose from a bush that had been a favourite of her mother's,

and which she had tended with loving hands.

She had tasted nothing since early on the preceding evening, and when

she reached the cottage she was faint with want of food and excitement,

for it was getting towards noon.

Nelly was in the midst of her dressmaking, but at the sight of

Margaretta, she deposited her work on the seat she was occupying, drew

forward an old wicker chair, the most comfortable one in the place, and

begged her visitor to sit down. Then she removed her hat with gentle

hands, and, quite alarmed at Margaretta's woe-begone appearance, asked

what was the matter and what she could do for her.

The girl could not answer, but to Nelly's dismay she burst into a

passion of hysterical weeping.

Nelly strove to soothe her with loving words, and wished that her

mother would come, for Mrs. Corry being a little better than usual had

gone to do the shopping of the tiny household.

[Illustration]

Soothed and calmed at last, Margaretta told her tale to her humble

friend, and concluded by saying, "I have come to you, Nelly. I have

kept my promise. I have scarcely any money, for Mrs. Moffat has my last

sovereign, and I forgot to mention it before she left."

"Don't name money, dear Miss Meg. I am not without a trifle, and there

is Thorley with plenty, who would do anything for you. I will get you a

cup of tea and something with it. Then you will be better, for you are

faint for want of it."

Nelly busied herself in preparing the tea, and poor Meg thankfully

partook of it, and then read, one by one, all the letters written by

that dear hand, and now first opened by her own. From them she gathered

all the details of her mother's illness and journeyings to and fro,

of the tender cares by which she was surrounded; and she read, with

tear-moistened eyes, how that dear parent was ever looking forward

to meeting her again, and to the time when no one would be able to

separate them from each other. In more than one letter money was

enclosed, so that Margaretta found she would need no help of this kind.

As she closed the last precious letter she felt more tenderly towards

her grandmother. "At least," thought she, "I have been able to read my

dear mother's words of love. She might have read them herself and then

burned them."

Old Lady Longridge was truly a strange mixture. Too vindictive to give

up her daughter-in-law's letters, yet impelled by a certain sense of

honour to refrain from reading words only meant for the eyes of her

granddaughter, and determined that in saying she knew nothing of Mrs.

Norland's movements, the statement should be true.

Thorley had a trying time with her old mistress that day. She found out

that Margaretta had left the Hall, but that she had carried nothing

away with her, so rightly judged that she had taken refuge at Nelly

Corry's. She had no chance of following her thither, for Lady Longridge

kept her constantly in sight, and, contrary to custom, remained in her

own room all the day.

"I am not well enough to go down," she said. "That girl has upset me

with her talk about forgiving. As if I, an old woman of eighty-three,

now would ask her pardon. And to talk of Florence! I never could bear

the woman! Daughters-in-law and daughters are all alike—at any rate

mine were. They cared for themselves, and left me to shift for myself.

I am getting old. The girl told the truth there, and somebody must

have the money. If I could make a new will—but Melville is away, and I

will trust nobody else. He is weak; he wanted me to leave money to my

daughters, who had their share long since; but he is true, and can keep

his own counsel and my secrets. I wish—"

But the voice became tremulous and quavering, and for a time Lady

Longridge ceased to think aloud, and slept in her easy-chair by the

fire, while Thorley watched in silence, afraid to move, lest she should

arouse her mistress.

Lady Longridge awoke refreshed, but asked no questions about

Margaretta. She, however, later in the day gave Thorley the key of a

safe which occupied a corner of her bedroom and stood confessed as

such, without an attempt at concealment.

"Get out two papers for me," she said. "They are in large envelopes—one

blue, the other white, and both are marked alike, 'The last Will and

Testament of Dame Sophia Janet Longridge.'"

Thorley obeyed, and placed them by her side.

"Now undress me. I am tired, and will go to bed," said her mistress;

and as soon as her head touched the pillow she said, "Give me my two

last wills."

Clutching them tightly in her hand, Lady Longridge again began to

murmur to herself—

"The girl is a fine girl. She kept her temper better than I could have

done. Perhaps I have been hard; but it was Florence I disliked. She

would have turned me out of Northbrook, but she had to leave me here

at last. I always said I would live and die here, and I shall. I am

just a little glad the girl forgave me." Another pause. "I seem to

see differently to-day. I could almost see Florence if she came now.

Thorley, where is my granddaughter? Call her."

But Thorley knew she should call in vain, so she said she would send

and seek Miss Longridge, who was out somewhere.

"I wonder will she come in time?"

The words dropped more slowly from Lady Longridge's lips, and there

was a look in her face that startled Thorley. But once again she spoke

with comparative firmness, and the maid thought that her mistress was

battling against the drowsiness which was stealing over her, and had

made her so slow of utterance.

"I think Thorley shall settle it," she said. "I can take her opinion

first and act on it. Then if I like I can burn the other 'last will,'

and let them fight over the old woman's money."

Addressing her maid, she continued, "Here are two wills. This blue

one leaves much to you, little to Margaretta. The white, much to her,

little to you. Both cannot stand; which shall I burn?"

"Dear madam, burn the blue one!" cried the unselfish creature, true to

her love for dear Miss Meg. "Let the money go to your own flesh and

blood. I do not want it; I have saved what will serve my time, and I

shall be happy in seeing Miss Margaretta have it when you can enjoy it

no longer."

"Here, then, burn the blue one," and Lady Longridge relinquished her

hold of it. Thorley first tore it across, and then pushing it into the

midst of the fire saw it consumed to the last morsel.

"I almost wish you had burned the other," said her mistress. "You are

so unselfish you deserve the money; not that it has made me happy.

Margaretta is a long time in coming, and I must go to sleep. Say

'good-night' for me. I think you have made me feel as if I wanted to

forgive everybody. After all, blood is thicker than water."

Thorley heard unwonted words from the aged lips—"Forgive us our

trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us." Then a murmur

only, then sleep.

The message sent by Thorley was the means of bringing Margaretta back

to the Hall, though she had never intended to return thither. But a

talk with her humble little friend Nelly had so softened the heart,

that when summoned she was ready to go with the messenger. On tiptoe

she entered Lady Longridge's room and crept to the bedside, accompanied

by Thorley, who bent over her mistress to listen.

There was no sound of breathing, no sign of life. Those murmured words

had been her last, and in her hand, though the grasp on it had relaxed,

lay the white will, truly the last will and testament of Dame Sophia

Janet Longridge, the contents of which made Margaretta her heiress and

owner of wealth far beyond what those who thought they knew had counted

on her leaving behind.

The succession of shocks was too great for the girl to bear, and for

the first time in her life she fainted by the side of the bed whereon

lay all that remained of her whose rule had been so long and so

despotic.

It was a great and unforeseen blessing that Mrs. Moffat returned that

night sooner than she intended, and that on her way to Clough Cottage

she stopped to leave a message for Nelly Corry. From her she heard of

Margaretta's flight from the Hall and the summons back, and without

hesitating, she ordered her coachman to drive straight to Northbrook,

where her presence gave the greatest possible comfort.

Clasped in her kind arms, Margaretta sobbed out her story, and received

the best consolation she could have, until, only a couple of days

later, she found herself in those of her mother. Mr. and Mrs. Norland

had taken a shorter route home than they at first planned, to avoid

a district in which there had been cases of cholera; and on reaching

England saw the announcement of Lady Longridge's death in the "Times,"

so hastened to Northbrook.

No more separations to look forward to. Mother and daughter were

united, with no fear of being snatched from each other. Lady Longridge

would have wondered, if with mortal eyes she could have seen honest

tears falling from those of her daughter-in-law. But the account of

those last words, the fact that the old lady had left her wealth to

Margaretta, as if to make amends for past harshness, the memory of the

sick-bed from which, by God's goodness, she had been raised to renewed

health, and perhaps the knowledge that she herself might have been more

forbearing, all combined to produce softened feelings in her mind. She

was very glad of those words which Thorley repeated in a voice broken

by sobs, "You have made me feel as if I wanted to forgive everybody,"

and the divinely-taught prayer which followed, and which Mrs. Hugh

Norland herself said that night as she had never said it before.

No one knew what Thorley had done, or by what a noble act of

self-sacrifice she had secured the inheritance for her dear Miss Meg.

They are not parted, for though Thorley at first thought she would

have a little home of her own, the tears of her darling induced her to

forego her resolution. The same roof covers them, and she who might

have inherited Lady Longridge's wealth waits upon the heiress, and is

well contented with the legacy which came to her, or indeed would have

been content without it.

Margaretta is doubly happy in her present home, for her stepfather is

good and wise, and regards her as a sacred charge from his old friend,

because she is Sir Philip Longridge's daughter. The girl finds endless

pleasure in the little boy who calls her "Sister Meg," and tyrannises

over her in baby fashion.

Mrs. Moffat has left Clough Cottage, and resides near the Norlands, so

Margaretta, long deprived of her mother's presence, now declares she

has two mammas.

Little Nelly Corry's deft fingers are often employed on dear Miss Meg's

gowns still, for she, too, has left the neighbourhood of Northbrook

Hall, and has a better and prettier home with her mother, rent free, on

Mr. Norland's estate.

So we will leave Margaretta, loved and cared for, amid surroundings

suitable to her present fortunes, and finding happiness in giving it to

others. A holiday story hers is, without a holiday or a hero. But she

is young yet, and abundantly contented. Her hero will come in time, and

if I happen to know him, I will tell you when a love story begins with

dear Miss Meg for its heroine.

A TALE OF A PENNY

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTORY.

"Do be quiet, Jack. I wonder who can read, write, or think, with

any hope of satisfactory results, whilst you are turning everything

topsy-turvy and rummaging round in such a fashion. What restless

plagues lads are, to be sure!"

"And all because a penny is lost, stolen, strayed, or otherwise

mislaid. I am sure it is not worth all that fuss," said sister number

two, while the young gentleman addressed, no ways affected, continued

his search for the missing coin.

There were just the three of them in a cosy room, one of those

universally useful apartments which are not too grand for working,

studying, or playing in, as the case may be, but in which mothers and

their young folk love to congregate. Florence, mostly called Flossie,

on account of her lovely hair, which was just one mass of silken locks,

was the eldest, and a girl of sixteen. She was generally considered

"a little bit blue," being a hard worker at her books, and great in

various branches of study unknown to girls when our mothers were at

school.

One of the teachers had been heard to call Flossie the prop of her

class; whereupon Master Jack, who was very fond of having a sly poke

at girls in general, and his sisters in particular, said he had never

known such an appropriate name for anybody.

"Floss is not only a prop but a perfect clothes-prop in every

position," he said, in allusion to his sister's height, slimness, and

length of limb.

At this moment Flossie was studying for an "exam." And, though very

fond of her young brother, she did not like to be interrupted by Jack's

"rampage" for his lost penny.

Madge, the second girl, though nearly two years younger, was a born

housewife; full of motherly instincts, and doting on little children.

She was still a child, despite those graver employments and abstruse

studies which are supposed to promote the higher education of women

in these enlightened days. She had been a doll-worshipper always, and

now, at more than fourteen years of age, was the happy possessor of

an immense family in wax, wood, cloth, and porcelain. Amongst these

she was as busy as was Flossie at her books—furbishing up the whole

lot, washing faces, repairing garments, tidying dishevelled locks,

and otherwise making the multitude of dolls fit to be seen. Madge had

brought down a doll's house, relegated a year before to the garret, and

was setting it in order for the amusement of some very small cousins

who were expected on the following day.

At first Jack had been helping Madge, but the loss of that precious

penny—and a new one, too—had diverted his attention, and in the search

for it, he had upset chairs, unmade beds, brought down miniature

pictures, to the destruction of those works of art, and brought down

upon himself, in addition, the wrath of his younger sister and playmate.

It was amusing to see how the ten-year-old lad's nature seemed

compounded of the very opposite characteristics of the girls. At

lesson time, he plodded away beside Flossie, who helped him with his

declensions, gave him almost too-learned lectures on the beauties of

Euclid, and piloted him tenderly across the Pons Asinorum.

At playtime, he entered into Madge's pursuits, believed in the reality

of doll families and all their joys and sorrows. He even assisted

at their toilettes by dressing the boy juveniles, propriety being

duly considered, though under the roof of a doll's house. Madge was

playfellow, sister, friend, little mother and comforter to Jack from

and before the time he could toddle. Her great grief in those early

days was that he would grow, and often was she heard to say, when

remarking his progress upwards, "Oh, mamma, won't it be a pity when

Jack is grown out of a baby!" He being the youngest of the family, and

consequently the darling of all.

Father and mother both rejoiced in the close union among the children,

which helped, especially in Madge's case, to keep the girls young—alas!

A very difficult matter in these high-pressure days. And Jack had a

good deal of quiet humour for a lad of his age. He professed to read

Madge like a book, and declared that she made the coming of the little

visitors an excuse to have a turn at the dolls, of which she was as

fond as ever; moreover, that she still nursed them on the quiet, and

caressed them with all the old tenderness when nobody was by, though in

company she tried to look as grown-up as dear old Floss, who was, in

many ways, nearly as old as Methuselah and as wise as Solomon.

An extra crash amongst the small furniture, and a half-penitent apology

from Jack, and then Madge began to scold in earnest.

"I declare, you bad boy, you have undone nearly an afternoon's work,

and done many a pennyworth of damage. I'll bring an action against you,

Jack, and mamma shall be judge. And here's the porcelain doll that I

called after you, and you were pretending to wash, left at the bottom

of the bath. Of course it's drowned, for no person could be ten minutes

face downwards and under water without being finished off. However, the

little ones can play at burying him to-morrow—that's something."

This was too much even for Flossie's gravity. She and Jack burst

into a fit of laughing at the idea of the drowned doll and funeral

in prospective, in which Madge joined a moment after, despite her

endeavours to look aggrieved at the sad consequences of Jack's

negligence.

In removing the tin bath Madge discovered the new penny underneath it,

and then Jack remembered that he had put it there himself for safety,

because both his pockets were in an unsafe condition.

"And no wonder, Jack, considering the loads and loads of rubbish you

put in. One of your jackets came from the cleaner's only yesterday, and

mamma says it smells oily yet, and all through your carrying lumps of

putty in it for weeks together."

Jack pulled a long face, and held out his hand for the recovered coin,

which Madge at first refused to deliver up.

"Give me a kiss for it, and say you're sorry for all the fuss and the

mischief you have caused," said she.

Madge held out her rosy lip; Jack drew back, shrugged his shoulders,

and looked as if he were going to perform an act of penance. He gave

the pretty lips a very rapid salute, snatched the coin from Madge, then

pulled a wry face and polished his own mouth on the cuff of his coat.

"Is it such a terrible dose, Jack?" asked Madge, with just a suspicion

of moisture in the corner of her eye, for she could not bear the young

rebel even to pretend anything unloving towards her.

For answer she received a hug that would have been a credit to a

Greenland bear, and quite a little shower of kisses from the boy, who

added, "You knew it was only for fun, Madge. I would not vex you,

dear." And she did, know it.

At this moment mamma came in.

"My dear children, what an untidy room! What! Up to the eyes in dolls

and dolls' belongings, Madge. I suppose you are preparing for the small

cousins. But I thought by this time the whole establishment would be in

order. Flossie, how have you gone on working amid such a racket? What

has it been about?"

"Jack's new penny. He lost it, and would not be pacified until at

length it was discovered—but not without enough fuss and turmoil to

make the room in this state—in the very place where he had himself put

it. I offered him another, two others, but nothing save the particular

penny would do. As if the loss of a penny were of any consequence."

"It is of consequence," said Jack. "I did not want to lose it. I

never like to lose anything, if taking a little trouble will find it.

Besides, I don't believe in being beaten when I know the thing must be

somewhere about, so I was determined not to give in, until I got my

penny back again."

"Right, Jack," said mamma, "and I am very glad your perseverance was

rewarded by its recovery. Still, you had no occasion to make the whole

room and its contents look as though the place was the scene of a

recent earthquake. Flossie, dear, how have you managed to move your

elbows? You might be besieged. Let me say to you, dear, also, never

undervalue a penny. I once heard a story which told how the future of

two lives hung on a single penny."

Flossie's book was closed, and her pen wiped and put away in a moment.

"I have just finished my work, mamma, and am longing for a chat with

you by the fireside. Tell us the story about the penny. Do, there's a

darling."

Mamma's cosy chair was drawn forward, and a little fireside circle

formed instanter. But mamma protested that she never could tell a story

in the midst of a litter, so Madge and Jack began to clear away with

great rapidity. The girl, who was naturally methodical, put things

in their places; the boy made bad worse by the unceremonious fashion

in which he huddled the dolls, their clothing and furniture into the

miniature mansion, and closed the door upon them.

In her eagerness to hear her mother's story Madge forgot to find

fault with Jack, and soon the girls were seated at each side of the

family tale-teller, and the lad stretched on the rug at her feet, his

upturned, intelligent face lighted by the blaze of the cheerful fire,

gas having been vetoed by unanimous consent.

CHAPTER II.

TWENTY years ago two girls might have been seen approaching a London

railway-station. They had evidently been on a shopping expedition, for

they were quite laden with numbers of small parcels, besides which they

had one of considerable bulk, though not very weighty. A glance at

their fine, fresh faces and the lovely colour on their cheeks suggested

the idea that they were country girls on a visit to the metropolis.

Indeed, few persons could have met these girls without giving them a

second glance. One, the elder by several years, was unusually tall;

but her carriage was equally remarkable for grace and dignity, and her

features for almost faultless regularity. No wonder that she attracted

some attention amongst the many passers-by.

The younger, a girl of eighteen, was also above the middle height, and

although not a beauty like her sister, her face just possessed the

charm which was lacking in the other. It beamed with intelligence, and

seemed to be the reflection of an active mind, a cheerful temper, and a

warm, loving heart.

Even as they passed along, the unselfish character of the younger

was made manifest. She insisted on carrying the larger share of the

parcels, notably the largest of all, which was evidently a source of

considerable annoyance to her beautiful companion, who plainly deemed

these packages infra dig. Though surrounded by strangers, she glanced

round from time to time, to see if, by any chance, some acquaintance

were noticing her, and carried such parcels as she retained by their

loops of string and on the tips of her fingers, as if under constant

protest.

As they were nearing the station the elder girl said, "I am so glad we

are getting near the end of our tramp. You, Lizzie, scarcely seem to

care how many bundles you have about you, if you can only carry them;

but I hate to go along laden just like a pack-horse, and on a warm day,

too. This hot weather makes me look like a washerwoman."

"It would take a great deal to make you look like a washerwoman,

Edith," replied Lizzie, with a merry laugh. "I never saw you look

better than you do at this moment. I get as red as a peony all over

my face, and you are only rose-coloured, and in the proper places. Do

touch my face with your handkerchief; for mine is deep down in one

of my many pockets, each of which is crammed with odds and ends of

purchases."

Mollified by this tribute to her personal appearance, Edith did as she

was requested, and the girls, finding they had a quarter of an hour to

spare, seated themselves on a shady seat at one side of the platform,

on which Lizzie also placed her larger parcels; seeming thankful for

the rest.

They were not going home together after all. They were guests in the

same house; but they had other friends in the neighbourhood besides

those with whom they were staying. Edith, especially, had many

acquaintances, amongst whom she had often visited when in London on

former occasions, and she was going to spend the evening with an old

schoolfellow recently married.

Lizzie, in London for the first time; was a stranger to this married

friend of her sister. She had been invited to accompany Edith; but had

declined, because had she gone she must have disappointed some quite

little children, to whom she considered herself engaged.

"You might have gone with me, Lizzie," said Edith, in a tone of

annoyance. "Just as though it mattered for you to romp with those

little cousins to-night."

"I had promised the children before Mrs. Martin's invitation came, and

these little people feel a disappointment far more than elder ones do.

Besides, I know your friend does not really want me, and Sam and Nellie

do. She only asked me out of civility to you, and you will enjoy your

confab a great deal better by yourselves. Even if Mrs. Martin did want

me, a promise is a promise, and I must keep my word."

A slight look of contempt crossed Edith's fair face as Lizzie announced

her intention of keeping her appointment with the little people, but

she felt that, after all, her frank young sister might be rather in the

way than otherwise, on the principle that two are company, three none.

She was rather reckoning on an hour's tête-à-tête with Mrs. Martin,

who had been her chosen school friend, and as whose bridesmaid she had

officiated a few months before. Mr. Martin and his brother would be in

to dinner at six, and then there would be two couples for chatting,

and perhaps a stroll together, before she should have to return to her

temporary home, and rejoin Lizzie there.

Edith did not say aloud what was passing through her mind. Her reply

was, "Of course you cannot go with me now, as you have not dressed for

the purpose, and I was certain you would go back to those children in

any case. But you will have to take every one of the parcels and my

umbrella. It will not matter, as you take the train directly, and you

can have a cab from the station."

"Oh no, I can manage very well. But, Edith, you forget. I have no money

left. You must give me some."

"And I have very little; only five and sixpence. I cannot go to Mrs.

Martin's without anything in my pocket. If you had not persisted in

buying that Shetland shawl to-day we should have had plenty and to

spare, and if you had let the shop people send it, we need not have

gone about laden like two excursionists."

"We are excursionists," laughed Lizzie. "Haven't we got special tickets

for this very trip? As to the shawl, it was so exactly what mamma has

been trying to obtain, that I felt we ought not to risk losing it. I

care nothing about carrying it, for though it makes rather a large

parcel, it is very light, and I shall have the pleasure of forwarding

it to mamma at once. Besides, Edith, you bought several little things

for yourself after I had spoken for the shawl."

Lizzie felt just a little bit hurt at her sister's reproof, for Edith's

purchases, which had nearly drained her purse, were all for her own

personal adornment, and helped very considerably to increase the load

which she declined to share. The shawl would add greatly to the comfort

of their rather delicate mother, who needed one which would combine

warmth with extreme lightness, and who had begged the girls to send one

from London with as little delay as possible.

Edith insisted that in such roasting hot weather, the shawl could

not be of any consequence. Lizzie's great desire was to execute her

mother's commission, and to keep her promise.

Again the girl reminded her elder sister of her own moneyless

condition. "However the cash has gone, Edith, it is gone, and I suppose

the railway people will not give me a ticket for nothing. You must

spare me something in the shape of a coin. I will do with as little as

possible. I can pay the cabman from my money at home."

"The fare is only fourpence," said Edith, taking out her purse and

abstracting the only small coin in it. "I suppose this sixpence will

do. By the bye, it is my train that goes at the quarter; yours is at

the half-hour, so you will have to wait by yourself."

A moment after the first train glided in, and, after a brief pause,

carried Edith away with it.

In spite of the heat, Lizzie, who had only lunched after a very mild

fashion at a confectioner's, and who had the vigorous appetite of a

healthy girl, began to feel excessively hungry. It seemed impossible

for her to endure another quarter of an hour at the station and the

short railway journey and cab drive without having something in the

shape of food to sustain her.

So, taking up her load, she moved towards a refreshment room and

procured a bun. A wistful little face, with hollow eyes, was peering at

her through the open doorway and gazing longingly at the food.

Ever sensitive to the call of need, the warm-hearted girl rose and

handed the untasted bun to the famished-looking lad, who had hardly

time to make a rude nod and utter thank ye' before one of the porters

gave him a gentle push, and said, "Come, youngster, get out o' this. We

can't do with beggars in the station."

The child, only too glad to escape, was off like an arrow, and Lizzie

sat down to discuss another bun in the place of the one she had given

away. She then paid her twopence, and was going out of the refreshment

room with a very unsatisfied feeling when she suddenly remembered that

she had just another penny loose in a small outside jacket pocket.

This time she chose a different kind of bun, and when she had eaten it

found, to her horror, that the price of it was twopence, and that when

it was paid for she would not have sufficient money left to purchase

her railway-ticket.

Lizzie picked up her parcels and went out of the refreshment room,

feeling half-perplexed, half-amused at the position in which she found

herself. "What would mamma think if she knew that I was wandering about

here at a railway-station in London, and with only three-pence in my

pocket? Actually unable to go on my way for want of a penny. What shall

I do for two more halfpennies? Poor mamma! She would fancy all kinds of

horrors—that I should be kidnapped, perhaps, for she seemed to think

that Edith ought to keep me close at her side under all circumstances.

Five minutes to train time. Something must be done."

What Lizzie did was to indulge in a hearty laugh first of all, and

whilst these thoughts were passing through her mind. The next thing

was to go towards the window, at which a boy-clerk was giving out

tickets. The boy was looking excessively cross, and he did his work in

a morose fashion, without uttering a word, unless compelled to reply to

a question, which he did as briefly as possible. The fact was he had

made a mistake in giving change to a passenger early in the day, and

had been obliged to make up the deficiency out of his own pocket, in

accordance with rules.

Lizzie explained her position to this youngster, after peeping over his

shoulder to see if there was any older person in the office to whom she

might appeal.

"Can't help it. Ticket's fourpence," was the sullen reply.

"But I have told you I am just a penny short. If you will let me have a

ticket, I will leave something with you worth many shillings. This silk

umbrella, my silver pencil-case, or one of my parcels. You can look

inside."

For a moment the sullen face relaxed; but no, the young clerk was in

a savage mood, and determined to revenge himself on all the other

passengers who might come to him for the dishonesty of that one who had

gone off with more than his lawful change. He therefore shook his head,

and gruffly said, "Booking-offices are not pawnshops."

No other reply could Lizzie get, and she turned from the little window

with a slight quiver of the lip, which told of a little sinking of the

heart at the thought of her predicament. To add to her discomfort,

the train by which she should have gone on, came in and went without

her. There would be another in a few minutes; after that a very long

interval. She must make an effort to obtain a penny, if she even begged

for it. She was far too tired to walk the weary miles between her and

home, had she known the way, and it would be a very expensive cab ride.

Edith would certainly scold her roundly if she were to use that mode of

conveyance. She must not think of it.

Glancing along the platform, Lizzie saw a lady and a gentleman

sauntering slowly towards her, arm-in-arm. The thought crossed her mind

that a lady would be sure to help a girl like herself out of such an

unexpected dilemma, and she accordingly advanced towards the couple,

and, in as few words as possible, explained her position, and simply

asked for the gift of a penny.

To Lizzie's utter astonishment, the lady turned on her a hard,

searching glance. Then looking up at her husband she said, while her

lip was curled contemptuously, "Do you believe this absurd story?"

The gentleman did not answer, but Lizzie often remembered, in after

days, the deprecating glance which he cast on his wife, though he

seemed afraid to suggest that, after all, the "absurd story" might be

true.

His companion did not hesitate long.

"I do not believe a word of your tale," she said in a harsh voice. "It

is most unlikely that a person of your dress and appearance should

be really in need of a penny. I suspect there is some trick in this

application. Go away. I shall give you nothing."

After another searching look, first at Lizzie, then at her husband,

which seemed to ask if there were any acquaintance between them, she

turned away, the hard expression still on her face. Lizzie stood for a

moment, as if petrified with astonishment, and then, utterly overcome

with pain and mortification, she burst into tears, and once more took

her seat on the bench where she had rested before.

At this crisis of the story there was a unanimous burst of indignation

from mamma's three listeners. Flossie could hardly believe it possible

that a woman could be so horrid. Jack wished he could punch the boy

at the booking-office, and Madge lifted her sympathetic blue eyes,

all moist with tears, and asked "if the story were real, or only

make-believe?"

"Absolutely true," replied mamma.

"Were you the girl without a penny?" inquired Jack, who had a way of

connecting his mother with all her stories, and who insisted that she

was like all the nice heroines.

"No, Jack. I never was placed in such a strait. But I regret to say I

must leave Lizzie in it, for I hear your father's step. You must wait

till to-morrow for another chapter."

CHAPTER III.

THE young people were careful to have their room in a state of very

unusual order on the following afternoon when their mother entered to

spend the twilight hour with them and to continue her story. The small

cousins were too much occupied with the many treasures of the doll's

house to be much in the way.

"Go on as quickly as you can, mother," said Jack. "It seemed horrid

to leave poor Lizzie and her parcels at that station last night, and

crying, too, for want of a penny. I wish I had been there; I would

have carried all her biggest parcels, and given her my new penny that

Flossie thought of so little consequence last night."

"If it had not been lost past recovery, through the hole in your

pocket, Jack," remarked Madge, the housewife. "But there is this about

dear old Jack: his sympathy means something, and he will help as well

as talk if there is anything he can do."

"I am sure of that," said mamma.

We will go back twenty years, and to Lizzie Northcote. I think I only

told you her Christian name last night. Probably if she had spoken

to one of the porters, he would have helped her out of the trifling

difficulty; but the girl naturally spoke first to a lady, as the

least likely to refuse her request. She was wiping away the tears

which the coarse refusal had brought into her eyes, when, on looking

up, she noticed a stout, ruddy-faced country gentleman observing her

attentively. He had been about the station almost as long as herself,

and appeared to be waiting for someone. He was a man in the full vigour

of life and health, though his crisp hair was tinged with gray, and in

his face there was a fatherly expression that reminded Lizzie of her

own dear parent in their Lincolnshire home.

She was about making up her mind to speak to him, when he addressed

her. "What is your trouble, dear child?" said he. "Anything I can do

for you? You need not be afraid to speak; I have had children of my

own, and still have one dear lass about your age. I wish her cheeks

were half as rosy as yours."

There was a tinge of sadness about the last words, but there was no

mistaking the manly, sympathetic ring of that kindly voice. Lizzie felt

that she had found the friend she wanted, and she told her story in a

few words, but did not ask her listener for a penny. There was no need

to do that. Almost before she had finished, his hand was in his pocket,

as he asked the name of the station at which she wished to alight;

and, as soon as he knew it, he went to the booking-window, obtained a

ticket, and placed it in the girl's hand.

"I don't know how to thank you enough," she said, half-laughing,

half-crying. "It seemed so absurd to be kept here for want of a

penny—to become a beggar for it, and to be refused, when I had the

worth of so much money about me."

"Do not thank me at all, my child," said the gentleman. "But may I ask

whether you sought help from the lady to whom you spoke?"

Lizzie's face flushed as she told how rudely she had been repulsed.

"Poor thing!—I don't mean you, child; I mean the fossil in female

attire whom you mistook for a woman with a heart in her bosom. Depend

on it she never held a little prattling girl of her own in her arms,

as I have done. Now, will you take another shilling or two, in case of

further emergency?"

"No, thank you; indeed I want nothing more. I should like to send

back what you have lent me in stamps, if you will kindly give me your

address."

The gentleman laughed merrily at the idea of receiving the trifle back

again, and said, "Tell that handsome sister of yours I saw you both

long before you saw me; that she must never leave you again with such a

narrow margin of cash, especially if there is a refreshment stall close

at hand, and a ragged urchin to assist you in eating the buns."

[Illustration]

"I was very hungry," said Lizzie, with a good hearty laugh, "and my

second bun was the cause of all my trouble."

"Not the boy's share; eh?"

"Certainly not. If I had been contented with one bun, all would have

been well."

"Here is your train coming in," said the friend in need. "Let me hand

in your parcels."

He saw her comfortably placed, closed the door of the carriage, and

lifted his hat by way of farewell.

The train went slowly forward, and Lizzie, as she waved her hand in

reply, saw the kindly stranger extend his own to a tall young man

who was stepping eagerly towards him just as he turned away from the

carriage.

"No doubt," thought she, "he has been waiting all this time for that

new-comer who stepped up in such a hurry. A happy thing for me that he

did not come sooner, and carry off my kind gentleman before I had time

to receive his help. I wish I knew his name; I am sure papa would like

to thank him for his goodness to me."

At this moment Lizzie noticed what she at first thought was a letter

amongst her parcels. She snatched it hastily, fearing that the unknown

had left something of consequence behind him; but she found it was only

an empty envelope addressed, "Percival Long, Esq., Elin Crag, Belford

Regis." Naturally she did little else but wonder whether this could be

the name she wished so much to know. At any rate she resolved to take

care of the envelope, and deposited it at the very bottom of her pocket.

The brief railway journey was soon over, and a cab speedily landed

Lizzie at her cousin's house, where she received a rapturous welcome

from her smaller relatives, who were beginning to think their playmate

had forgotten her promise. As a matter of course, she had to obtain

money for her cab-fare before she could dismiss the man. Her cousin

supplied this at once, saying, "Do not trouble to go into your room to

fetch it, Lizzie. But, my dear girl, you should not run your purchases

within a shilling or two of your cash."

"I have done worse than that," said Lizzie. "I have not only been

within a penny, but without one this afternoon. It is lucky I escaped

being taken up for begging at a railway-station."

Without implicating Edith or letting her cousin Ellen know how scanty

was the margin over and above her railway-fare which her sister had

given her, Lizzie gave a ludicrous account of her recent troubles and

of the manner in which she had been relieved.

Helen was horrified, and began to concern herself about Edith's

pecuniary resources.

"Edith is all right. She has enough, and, besides, she is with an old

friend who would supply her wants. We are thorough country folk, Helen,

and we had so enjoyed the shops and the buying all sorts of nice little

things, without considering that unlimited expenditure was leading

us straight to bankruptcy. I should have done well enough but for my

greediness in eating two buns instead of making one do. However, I am

quite ready for that delightful meal—a knife and fork tea—which you

promised me. I ate the buns 'without prejudice,' as the lawyers say,

and beg you will not remember those items when you see me feeding. You

alluded to roast fowl, I think, and my nose suggests fried ham. I must

not lose another moment."

Gathering up her gloves and other minor belongings, the girl ran

up-stairs, and soon returned, bright, fresh, and smiling, in her pretty

cool muslin dress. But if anyone had peeped into her room they would

have seen that a portion of her time there had been spent on her knees.

She had knelt to acknowledge an answered prayer; for, in her brief

trouble, she had lifted up her heart to God to ask Him for help, and

she now thanked Him as heartily for having sent her just the assistance

and the friend she needed.

Lizzie's hostess had no occasion to complain that her young cousin

failed to appreciate the tea-table dainties, or the little people that

she was a less lively companion than usual. It was only when even they

confessed themselves too tired to play any longer that Lizzie at length

sat down to enjoy a much-needed rest.

The weary girl had forgotten self in her desire to keep her promise

and minister to the pleasure of the children, who little knew what the

effort cost her.

Edith returned sooner than was expected. Her cousin was not in the room

when she entered, so did not hear the exclamation, "Oh, Lizzie I am

most thankful to see you safe at home."

"Where did you expect to see me, Edie?"

"To say the truth I have been quite uncomfortable about you. I had

scarcely left the station and you on the platform when I thought how

little money I had just given you, and how selfish I had been all the

day through, as we had gone about together. You thought of mamma, of

me, of everybody but yourself; and I, Lizzie! I feel ashamed when I

remember that I considered no person's convenience but my own, and that

every purchase I made was a selfish one. I did not even care about

getting that shawl for dear mamma!"

"Well, dear, it was got, and Helen was kind enough to make it up in a

nice large pasteboard box, and send it off to the parcels office. I

hope mamma will receive it to-morrow."

"No thanks to me!" said Edith.

"It went as from both," replied Lizzie. "You may be sure of that, Edie.

Now, tell me, have you enjoyed your evening?"

"Nora—Mrs. Martin—was delighted to see me, and I found her husband

exceedingly kind and agreeable."

"And his brother, the young groomsman?" asked Lizzie, with an arch

smile.

Edith would not appear to understand the insinuation; but only replied

that all the Martins were as nice as usual.

"But," she added, "I must tell you, Lizzie, what spoiled the evening

for me. We had two other guests who came later than I did, and quite

unexpectedly. The gentleman is a distant relative of Mr. Martin's, and

is agreeable enough; but his wife is Nora's aversion. She is a dreadful

person: so cold, hard, unsympathetic, and besides so fond of saying

sharp things without the least regard to the feelings of others that

she spoils everybody's comfort. She told a story, and she looked, I

thought, only at me whilst she related it, about a well-dressed young

lady who had asked her for the gift of a penny at a railway-station.

'And fancy,' she said, 'I had seen the creature gorging herself with

sweets in the refreshment room only the moment before. I told her

plainly that she was an impostor, though I have no doubt George would

have opened his purse to her had he been alone.'"

"I could not get rid of the idea that you were the young lady, Lizzie;

and when she named the place and described the girl I felt sure of

it. All my selfishness flashed across my mind. I remembered how I had

hurried you about your lunch—far less substantial than my own; loaded

you with my parcels; and left you with not even money enough to obtain

proper refreshment, when you must have been both hungry and weary. I

thought, too, that I might grow to be like that hard, cold-hearted

woman who seemed so devoid of common feeling, and I could not endure

even the fancied picture. I was too unhappy to stay at Mrs. Martin's as

long as I intended, and nothing ever rejoiced me more than to find you

here safe and sound."

As Edith spoke she threw her arms round her sister's neck and kissed

her affectionately.

Lizzie returned the caress with all the warm sisterly love that was

part of her sweet feminine character. Further conversation was,

however, prevented by the entrance of Cousin Helen, who announced that

her lively little ones were at length sleeping peacefully, from the

baby upwards. She jestingly alluded to Lizzie's adventure, and was

surprised to observe the effect her joke had upon Edith, and to hear

the latter frankly acknowledge how much she had been to blame.

Lizzie turned the conversation as quickly as possible, and no more was

said about the matter. The cousins passed the last hour before bed-time

in talk about mutual friends and relatives, and the expected return of

Helen's husband on the morrow.

When the two sisters were in their own room, Edith had something more

to say.

"Does it not seem strange that so little a thing should make me feel so

differently, both about myself and you, Lizzie? I have always had an

idea that you, as younger sister, ought to give up your will to mine,

and as though things which mattered for me were of no consequence to

you; as though the best was my due always, and that—"

"Don't say another word, Edith. I have always been glad for you to have

the best. You set off pretty things far more than I do."

"Ah, Lizzie, darling! It was good in you to give up; but it was not

good in me to take the best. I can see to-night, as I never did before,

how much I may learn from you, little sister."

"I am certain your feeling in this way towards me is an answer to dear

mamma's prayers, Edie. People have always petted and admired you, dear,

and I'm sure I do, as much as anybody," said frank Lizzie, looking with

genuine admiration into the face of her tall, handsome sister, who had

probably never in her life looked so lovely and lovable as she did at

that moment. "And so much praise is not quite a help towards keeping

us humble. Luckily for me, I am never very much admired, except by old

women and little children."

"And that is because your kind heart and willing hands are always

devising and doing something for their happiness. You must help me to

deserve love; and let us work together."

"As a beginning, let us pray together, Edie, to fit us for our work."

If the mother of those two kneeling girls could have looked into their

room that summer night she would have been filled with joy and praise,

and would have thanked God for an answered prayer.

From that time a new bond existed between the sisters. They were united

by closer ties than that of kindred, being sisters in Christ.

CHAPTER IV.

"I SUPPOSE," said Flossie, when the story was resumed on the third

afternoon, "that the two lives influenced through the want of a penny

were those of Edith and Lizzie. I did not like Edith in the least when

she left her sister in such a way, but I do like her now."

Mamma smiled at her daughter's earnestness, and replied, "Those two

lives were lastingly influenced; but there is something more to be

told. You must not want to know the end of the story until it comes to

you in due course. There is no peeping at the last page or two when you

are listening to a tale-teller, as some impatient readers do when they

are professing to read a story, just to know how it ends. To continue

mine:"

The girls had a few more happy days with their relatives, during which

everyone noticed the increased unity between the sisters. Probably

the effect produced on Edith would have passed away, but for that

closer bond of which I spoke to you. The habit of united prayer and of

seeking counsel from God's Word together was not given up by the girls,

consequently there was spiritual growth, and each influenced the other

for good.

Edith had refined tastes and persevering industry. Lizzie, with all

her warm-heartedness and self-devoting disposition, was often too

impulsive, besides being far less orderly and methodical than her

elder sister. So each benefited the other, and was herself improved by

communion of work and interests.

Lizzie showed her sister the envelope which she had found amongst her

parcels, and the two after due deliberation decided on addressing a few

grateful lines to Percival Long, Esq., nothing doubting that he was

the fatherly gentleman who had been so kind. The letter did not come

back, and; on the other hand, there was no reply. So the sisters were

left in doubt as to whether it had reached the right person or had been

received by a stranger, to whom its contents would prove enigmatical.

Two or three days before the girls were to have returned to their

country home they received an unexpected summons which caused their

immediate departure.

Mrs. Northcote was again laid on a bed of sickness, and needed the

presence of her daughters.

Perhaps Edith's filial affection had never before been so severely

tested. Her "young groomsman," as Lizzie named Mr. Henry Martin, had

accompanied his sister-in-law when she called upon the Northcote

girls at "Cousin Helen's." Nothing loth, they had accepted the hearty

invitation to stay the evening, and during the remainder of the time

that Edith and Lizzie remained in London scarcely a day passed without

their seeing each other. Nora, the young wife, had as yet few household

cares, and could devote much of her time to the country sisters. She

was delighted to have the company of her own school friend, and charmed

with her bright, unaffected younger sister. Mr. Henry Martin managed,

probably through the sympathetic consideration of his elder brother

and partner, to be much less occupied than usual. So pleasant little

parties were formed for sight-seeing and little excursions in and about

London, which were thoroughly enjoyed by all the individual members

thereof.

And in the midst of all this enjoyment came the sorrowful summons

to call Edith and Lizzie home. There had been some talk of Lizzie's

returning alone before the news arrived telling of Mrs. Northcote's

illness. Nora was anxious for both the girls to spend a few days with

her at the termination of their visit to Cousin Helen. That Edith

wished to accept the invitation there could be no doubt; but Lizzie,

while equally anxious for her sister to enjoy a longer stay, had

herself decided to return home.

"I do not think we ought both to stay away from mamma," she said; "but

if she has one of us, that will suffice for the time, Edie. I will go.

You shall stay. The visit to Nora is more to you than it could possibly

be to me."

The rising flush on Edith's cheek told that she felt the truth of her

sister's words. She made no reply in words; but she bent lovingly

towards Lizzie and kissed the bright kind face, the expression of which

was one of the most hearty sympathy. The silent caress, the pressure

of hands, said more than words. It was in the evening of that day,

when Edith had decided, with her mother's consent, to accept Nora's

invitation, that the girls received the sorrowful news from home.

There was no doubt that Mr. Henry Martin had been greatly struck with

Edith from the time of his brother's marriage, when she officiated

as first bridesmaid, and he as groomsman. Her remarkable beauty,

her refined manners, her taste, combined with perfect neatness in

dress, had all struck him as far beyond what he had ever seen in

combination. But while these outside attractions were admirable in

their way, he felt they were not all that would be needed to ensure

domestic happiness. He feared that Edith prided herself too much on her

beauty, and was apt not only to expect homage on account of it, but to

undervalue others who did not possess it in the same degree.

"I could not endure a vain, selfish, and self-asserting woman," thought

he to himself; "one who would only value a man's honest affection in

accordance with the doses of flattery he might administer, or the means

which he might place at her disposal for the indulgence of taste in

dress or love of display. I want a helpmeet, such as God intended woman

to be when He gave her to the man whom He had formed. If only Edith

Northcote's inner qualities corresponded to her beautiful person, I

would endeavour to win her affections. But, whatever else I have in a

partner for life, I must try to choose one who will help and not hinder

me on the heavenward road."

Probably few persons knew the depth and earnestness of Henry Martin's

character, or guessed that what they did see and admire was only the

fruit of lessons learned at the feet of Jesus. In society everyone said

of him that he was a finished gentleman; so kind, so unselfish, so

modest, thinking for the comfort of all whilst regardless of his own.

As a lawyer, the clients who consulted the firm could never speak too

highly of the unflinching uprightness of the younger brother, though

one plain-spoken old gentleman, with a sad lack of the courtesy which

distinguished Henry Martin, told him to his face, "Sir, you are as

obstinate as a mule. You are not fit for a lawyer. Your business is to

win my case for me by using every weapon the law will allow, whether I

am right or wrong, provided I pay the bill."

"Then," replied Henry, "I fear I am not fit to be a lawyer, for I

cannot fight feeling that I ought to lose the battle, and that if it

were won it would be because your purse is long enough to carry the

case from court to court, whilst your antagonist, a poor man, would be

ruined at the end of the first stage. I could and did fight on your

side once, but then you were in the right."

The irascible old gentleman was won over by these words to reconsider

his intended action, and to see its injustice. More than that, his

really generous nature was stirred to seek a reconciliation with the

opponent, who had once been his friend, and a lasting reunion was the

result.

He still told Henry Martin in jest that he was not fit to be a lawyer,

but he never failed to throw business in the way of the firm, and in

the young man's ear a voice seemed to whisper the sweet words, "Blessed

are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God."

"Child of God." Yes, that was the title to which Henry Martin aspired,

and the fellow Christian who saw his daily life felt that such fruit

could only spring from the good seed which had taken root in an honest

and good heart through the influence of the Holy Spirit.

There were poor homes, too, in which Henry was a well-known visitor;

whose presence brought sunshine and comfort, both to soul and body.

He strove to live, not to himself, but for the good of others, and to

the glory of the Master whom he professed to serve. Many wondered that

at thirty years of age he was still unmarried, but this peep into his

inner life will sufficiently explain the reason. He sought one who

would be at least like-minded with himself, and at the same time his

habits and tastes were too refined to admit of companionship with a

partner who lacked these characteristics, however excellent in other

respects.

In Edith Northcote, he found every external charm, and he was now

watching closely, to discover if the still more important qualities

were also to be found in her. He was also watchful over his own

conduct, and, whilst kindness itself towards both the Northcotes, he

was most careful to conceal the deeper interest with which Edith had

inspired him.

Nora, with feminine quick-sightedness, guessed something of what was in

his mind, and joked him about her fair friend.

"You must not be an old bachelor, Henry," she said. "And where would

you find a handsomer wife than Edith?"

"If beauty were all," said he, laughing.

"Beauty is not all with Edith," she replied, warming in defence of her

friend. "She comes of a good stock; her father has abundant means, if

that mattered to you, and the whole family are deservedly respected.

And then how tasteful she is! Her appearance would adorn any home, even

with a master as fastidious as yourself. She has charming taste, and

would be as ornamental as any man could desire, provided his means were

sufficiently large to gratify her wishes in the way of dress, and Edith

is one of the least extravagant people I know. She combines economy

with taste. I only wish I looked half as well-dressed by spending twice

the money. Both she and Lizzie are splendid housekeepers, too. They

have given me many a hint since they came to London, which I hope to

profit by. What else could a man want?"

"There is still one thing needful, Nora, and I hope to find that in the

girl I ask to be my wife, or I must be an old bachelor."

"I know what you mean, Henry, and if you had asked me whether Edith

possessed it, I should have said, 'She is very dear to me; but I do

not think she is all you mean in that respect.' Lately, I have noticed

a great difference. Not that her words have told much; but there is a

softened manner, an increased thoughtfulness for others. I can hardly

express all I mean; but it seems to me that where Edith would once have

put herself before others, she now puts others before herself. She used

rather to snub Lizzie, too; now she loves to speak of her sister's good

qualities, and of all she, 'stately Edith,' owes to her influence and

example. Lizzie is a good girl all through; but for all that, Henry, I

should love to have Edith in the family."

"Because you like her better; but then you see, to me, it is of

consequence that I should like her better."

Henry left his sister-in-law still in the dark about his feelings

towards her friend; but he was looking forward to seeing Edith when

she should be Nora's guest. The letter from home, however, deranged

his plan. He saw the faces of the sisters pale at the news, and heard

Lizzie's prompt words, as she rose from her seat:

"I must prepare at once. Would it be possible to travel to-night?"

"We must prepare, dear," said Edith. "I do not think we can go

to-night. Indeed, Harold's letter expressly states that there is no

danger, and that papa does not wish us to leave London before the 9.15

train, which is express, and will arrive as soon as the one that starts

earlier. This is an attack similar to others which have tried mamma so

sadly for years, and we must be with her as soon as possible."

"Could I not go, Edie, and leave you to finish your visit to Nora, as

we had arranged? If there were the least sign of danger you should be

sent for."

"That is like you, Lizzie, to take the watching and anxiety, and wish

to leave me the pleasure. Of course, I had reckoned on my visit to

Nora; but it must not be thought of now. We must go together, dear;

though," she added, "Lizzie is worth twice as much in a sick-room as I

am."

The words were simply said, but they touched Henry Martin deeply; and

his sister replied to them: "We shall be very sorry to lose you both,

and are specially sorry for the cause of your going. But I trust Mrs.

Northcote may soon recover her strength, and then we shall look forward

to a still longer visit, and from Lizzie as well as yourself, Edith."

Henry himself added, "You are right to go with your sister, Miss

Northcote. Now, would you like to send a telegram to your brother?"

"I should indeed."

"Tell me the exact address and the message you wish conveyed, and I

will take it myself."

Edith did so, and Henry put it into few words, read it aloud, and then

took it to the office.

The girls lost no time in making their preparations, and on the

following morning were speeding on their homeward way. Early as it

was, Henry Martin was at the Great Northern station to see them start,

and to bring another farewell from Nora, and a request for immediate

intelligence of their arrival and frequent news of Mrs. Northcote.

It had cost Edith something to give up the visit to Mrs. Martin, on

which she had reckoned so much; for old habits, particularly selfish

ones, are not to be rooted out all at once. Only a very short time

before, she would have hesitated and considered if it were possible for

her to send Lizzie home alone, and for herself to follow a little later.

Happily, Lizzie's prompt example and the voice of conscience pointed

out the proper course; and the strength to do right for which she had

asked on her knees was given her. And now, as the train was carrying

her rapidly homeward, Edith felt happy, apart from the anxiety on

account of her mother; for conscience spoke approvingly, and the words

of one whose approbation she had learned to value, "You are right to go

with your sister," still seemed to sound in her ear.

Mamma paused, then added, "I shall finish my story to-morrow, children;

but I must leave you now."

"We can guess the ending," interposed Madge; and the others nodded, in

a confident fashion, as if they, too, knew all about it.

"And we know what two lives were influenced as regarded their future by

that penny."

Mamma only laughed, and saying, "Do not be too sure," retreated without

further comment.

CHAPTER V.

WHEN the sisters arrived at home they were doubly thankful that they

had lost no time in setting out. They found Mrs. Northcote's illness

was of a much more serious character than the letter had led them to

anticipate. The filial love and self-devotion of both the girls would

be tested to the utmost, and it must be owned that Mr. Northcote and

his sons doubted much whether these qualities in Edith's case would

stand the strain.

But soon all who were in the house, and none more than the invalid

mother, became sensible of the change that had begun in the elder

daughter. Perhaps nothing tries the mettle that the young are made

of more than sickness in a house. When not actually engaged in

attendance on the sufferer, there is the unnatural quiet in the home,

the necessity for excluding visitors, abstaining from outdoor social

intercourse, and the impossibility of indulging in the usual merry

games. The burst of song which springs to the young lips must be

hushed, the piano remain closed, for fear of disturbing the invalid.

Even the innocent jest, which might provoke a laugh, is suppressed;

because laughter has a heartless sound when pain shuts out those we

love from sharing in it.

At first Edith found all these things hard to bear with perfect

submission. But she loved her mother, and love is all-constraining.

Lizzie and she acted in a delightful concert, which none had ever

seen to exist between them before, and it astonished all to find how

willing the elder was to learn from the younger. When, at length, the

crisis had passed, and the minds of the watchers were relieved by the

invalid's gradual approach towards convalescence, Edith found how

great a blessing to herself had been the needful discipline of those

sorrowful weeks. How sweet it was to feel her mother's arm around her

neck and to hear her say:

"I can thank God for every day of pain and sickness, my darling; for

this illness has shown me that in you I have a treasure of which I

never before saw all the value."

"It was not there, dear mamma," was the girl's answer. "I have been

dreadfully selfish and careless of other people nearly all my life—even

of you—but lately I have been led to see myself in a new light. I do

long to be all that you think me, dear mamma; and if I am better,

Lizzie has been the instrument, in God's hands, of helping me."

What a precious confession was this! And when the mother knew yet more

of her child's inward struggles against evil, and the united daily

prayers of the sisters for blessing and strength from above, her cup of

happiness was filled to overflowing.

It must not be supposed that the girls had forgotten their promise

to keep Nora fully informed of all that passed during their mother's

illness. It is hardly needful to say that, through Mrs. Martin, her

brother-in-law shared in the correspondence. Generous-hearted Lizzie

did not know how to say enough of Edith's devotion to her mother, and

Edith let her friend into the secret of the change, and told what her

young sister's example had done for herself. The letters between the

friends had always been unrestrained, and now the correspondence was

not without its influence on the young wife in London, for through

it she was led to realise her responsibilities as she had never done

before. So true is it that "no man—" that is, no one of the human

race—"liveth to himself alone."

Nora often wondered whether, after all, anything would come of the

acquaintance between her brother-in-law and Edith; but during all Mrs.

Northcote's illness, he made no sign. When the better tidings came, he

received them with manifest pleasure, and that same evening he spent an

unusual time at his writing table in the library. When he joined Nora,

he held a single letter in his hand, and she jokingly told him, if that

were the extent of his correspondence, he must have been asleep, or the

letter of vast importance.

"It is of vast importance. I have been writing to Edith. A

love-letter—my first, Nora, and a very sober one; but I hope it will

bring much happiness."

Truly, the letter which, on the morrow, was placed in the hands of

Miss Northcote, The Manor House, Haltham, Lincolnshire, was, in one

sense, a sober one. Believing that he could do so with the certainty

of sympathy, he told Edith of the deep feelings of his heart, his

desire to find in the woman he loved one who would share his higher

aspirations, and join in his work for God's glory, and the good of

those around them. He acknowledged the feeling of admiration which she

had from the first inspired, and the reason why he had hesitated to let

this be seen. There was much more in the letter than can be related at

length.

Enough to say that, as Edith read it, a glad flush spread on

her cheeks—paler than usual through much watching—and, as happy tears

coursed down them, she murmured, "If I were only good enough to deserve

the affection of one like Henry Martin!"

The Northcote family generally were quite satisfied to believe

that Edith would now be a treasure to any good man. Henry Martin's

character, age, and position were all suitable, and the girl's blushing

face told the loving mother that his many excellences had won her

daughter's affection and respect. The answer to that "sober letter"

was evidently all that its writer desired, for he said to his sister,

"Congratulate me, Nora. I hope soon to call Edith my wife."

"And congratulate me," said lively Mrs. Martin, hardly knowing whether

to laugh or cry, to show her sympathy; "for my brother-in-law is giving

me my dearest friend as a sister."

There was, of course, further correspondence between Mr. Northcote and

his son-in-law elect, but all of a pleasant character. Henry was to

spend Christmas and New Year at the Manor House, for that season was

close at hand. Nora and her husband could not join the happy gathering,

for on Christmas Eve their first baby opened her blue eyes to the

light, and they were rejoicing in their tiny treasure.

No person who looked at Henry and Edith could help saying how well they

matched each other. They were naturally almost inseparable during that

happy holiday time, for, as Henry said, "their actual love-making was

terribly in arrears. In fact, it had all to be done. Did you ever think

I cared so much for you when we used to meet last summer, Edith?" he

asked.

"You did not show special regard for me, and you were so kind to

everybody. Sometimes I thought you liked me better than others, and

then, when I felt how little there really was in me for anyone to love,

I was just as certain that I was mistaken. Still, seeing you what you

were, Henry, made me wish to deserve a higher, better affection than

any external attractions could win or keep."

"Ah, dearest, you will find me just as much in need of improvement

as you deem yourself! But we will be learners together from the same

Divine Teacher. Do you remember the night when you received news of

your mother's illness?"

"Can I ever forget it?" said Edith, with deep feeling. "It was a

turning-point in my life."

"More than you knew. And in mine also; for, dear Edith, had you

then selfishly hesitated, or decided on sending your sister home to

undertake alone the work which it was alike your duty and privilege

to share, I should never have sought you as my wife. And," he added,

"neither should I have sought another; but my sister-in-law's

oft-repeated prophecy would have been fulfilled by my remaining a

hopeless bachelor."

Time went happily on, and the sisters, accompanied by their mother

and brother, were again in London, making preparations for Edith's

wedding. By the girl's own wish, the arrangements were to be simple,

but tasteful, as all to which she put her hand was sure to be. Still, a

great many purchases had to be made; and, above all, a home had to be

selected for the young couple within a few miles of London.

House-hunting is a most fatiguing business, and occupies a great deal

of time, especially near the great metropolis. Before starting on a

tour of inspection, Lizzie was running over the advertisements in the

paper.

"Here is one that sounds likely," she said, and she ran through the

particulars. "And at Belford Regis, too. How singular! Mamma, do let us

go and look at the place."

"Belford Regis," said Henry. "A delightful neighbourhood. Have you been

there, Lizzie?"

"No, but I have a particular wish to go." She looked at Edith, and the

intelligent glance she received in return showed Mrs. Northcote that

there must be some mental association with Belford Regis. Amid a good

deal of laughing, the story was told, and as Mrs. Northcote said, she

for the first time became aware that one of her daughters had once

begged for the gift of a penny at a railway-station.

"Let us go to Belford Regis by all means," echoed Henry and Harold

Northcote. "Perhaps we shall have a sequel to Lizzie's adventure, or

find out whether Mr. Percival Long was her unknown friend."

The proposition was carried unanimously, and the party set out. Arrived

at their journey's end, they first inquired the way to the house

they had come to examine. This one of the railway-porters told them,

and then Lizzie eagerly asked, "Is there a Mr. Long living in this

neighbourhood?"

"Yes, ma'am, and no better-known or better-liked gentleman anywhere,"

was the reply.

"What age is he, do you suppose? I want to find out if he is an

acquaintance of mine."

"About fifty-five, I should think. He has only one child living—a

daughter; such a one for age and height as you, miss, I should think,

and a sweet young lady. You will pass his place—Elfin Crag, they call

it—on your way to the house you have been asking about. You are likely

enough to meet him on the way, as he is often out walking with his

daughter. You see she has no ma living, and that makes them so much

together."

Lizzie popped a gratuity into the hand of her informant, which made

the man wonder what he had done to deserve it, and then hurried off at

such a speed that her mother was fain to plead her inability to follow

within any reasonable distance.

"I beg your pardon, mamma. I felt quite excited. We shall see that

dear, kind face, for I am sure this is my Mr. Long."

Harold begged that she would not be in such a hurry to appropriate the

elderly widower, and received a hint to be silent in the shape of a

little fist shaken threateningly. But, sure enough, they did meet the

porter's Mr. Long, who turned out to be also Lizzie's "Percival Long,

Esq.," with his daughter hanging on his arm. He opened his eyes very

wide as he caught sight of Lizzie, then saying, "Mildred, this is my

young friend, Miss Lizzie Northcote, whose acquaintance I made under

peculiar circumstances," he extended his hand to Lizzie, and shook hers

heartily.

"Can you forgive me, my dear, for not answering your little letter? It

came when this child, my Milly, was at death's door, and it got thrown

aside somehow, for when, after the danger was past, I sought for it

everywhere, it was nowhere to be found."

After this there was a grand introducing, hand-shaking, and laughing.

Mr. Long insisted on turning back with the party, and, taking Mrs.

Northcote on his arm, went with them to look at the house, which he

knew all about, and advised them to take.

They did so, and then they all went to Elin Crag to luncheon, where

they were hospitably entertained, Miss Milly presiding, while her

father called Lizzie's attention to the fact that his dear child's

cheeks were now as rosy as her own.

There is not so very much more to be told, except that Milly officiated

as a bridesmaid at Edith's wedding, and that the young couple became

the neighbours of Mr. Long, at Belford Regis. Also, that the union

proved, as might be expected, a very happy one.

Harold, like a dutiful brother, soon paid a visit to Edith, and did

not fail also to pay his respects at Elin Crag, having, he said, "been

greatly attracted by the character of Mr. Long." It turned out that

there was another attraction under the same roof, for the following

spring Lizzie had again to officiate as bridesmaid to Mildred Long, who

became the wife of her favourite brother, Harold.

* * * * *

"Well, I declare," shouted Jack, as his mother paused for a moment, "I

call this story of yours a sort of swindle. Whoever suspected such a

finish? And you have told us all about Lizzie's troubles and Edith's

courtship, and crammed Milly and Harold into a few words."

"Well, dear, you could not expect me to give such details twice over in

one story. But you shall have a little more."

"About Lizzie. I should like to know whom she married, and all

particulars, for she is still my favourite."

"Perhaps I may tell you Lizzie's special story some other time. But

I will just say that Mr. Northcote, having other sons, had to spare

Harold to his father-in-law, and that when they married, he and Milly

took up their abode at Belford Regis, at Elin Crag itself. Also that

they lived very happy ever after, that is, to this present time of

telling. Also," and here mamma's eyes sparkled with fun, "that I have

altered names of persons and places, to make my story a little more

mysterious. The truth is, Milly's name was not Milly at all; but

Florence, like yours, Flossie, and Harold's was John; and that two of

their children are called after them."

Mamma was here interrupted by a perfect shout. "Then you and papa were

the Harold and Mildred of the story."

"Yes, darlings; and you can testify to the truth of the statement that

they too lived happily ever after. It was most especially of your dear

father and myself I was thinking when I spoke of the two lives whose

future was influenced by a penny."

And mamma having thus finished her story, vanished by the open door

in order to greet her hero, who had just entered, and was rubbing his

shoes in the hall, and left her youngsters to digest as best they might

her "Tale of a Penny."

BORROWED FEATHERS

CHAPTER I.

"THAT dreadful bell again, and I am almost certain I heard wheels

on the gravel! If it should be one of mamma's grandee friends, and

only Cinderella to answer the door! I have a great mind to let the

individual ring on until he or she is tired. To-morrow I will have all

the front blinds down until evening, then no one will think there is

anybody at home. And," added the speaker, "as, socially speaking, I am

nobody, they will be right."

Annette Clifford was talking to herself. She had two good reasons

for doing it, the first being that she had nobody else to talk to at

the time. The second, that being a bright lively girl, possessed of

great intelligence, overflowing spirits, and a gregarious temperament,

she found it difficult to hold her tongue for hours together. During

most of the day she was all but alone in a large house, its only

other inmate being a make-shift servant, who, in addition to general

incapacity, was so deaf as to render any attempt at conversation

laborious.

Whilst Annette thus communed with herself, she was also moving swiftly

and noiselessly towards a window whence she could command a view of the

person who was demanding admittance at the hall door.

There was a vehicle standing opposite to it, but it was a humble cab

instead of the dreaded carriage. There was luggage on the top, and the

driver was in the act of ringing the door bell a second time.

"Mamma and Laura, come back before their month is over," was Annette's

first thought; but the sight of a lady's face which belonged to neither

of the relatives named sent the girl flying to the entrance with all

possible speed.

Rushing past the cabman, and opening the door of the vehicle, she had

her arms round the neck of the solitary passenger in a moment.

"Aunty," exclaimed the girl. "Is it really you? It seems quite too good

to be true that you are actually here, and with boxes which indicate a

possible stay."

The new arrival smiled at Annette's vehemence, and returned her embrace

in the most affectionate manner.

"My stay depends upon yourself, dear child," she replied. "I know you

are in sole charge at present, and, from a whisper which reached me, I

am inclined to think that your domestic staff is below the average."

"Domestic staff! Why, aunty, I have neither staff nor crutch. Nothing

but a broken reed, on which I cannot lean for a single instant.

Nevertheless, I am here, and I have a couple of fairly capable hands,

the work of which shall be devoted to insuring your comfort, whatever

else may be left undone."

Then turning to the cabman, Annette said, "Please get down the boxes

and bring them inside the hall."

The man obeyed, and then the girl seized some of the smaller matters

which were inside the vehicle, and saying, "Do come in, aunty, and let

me carry the rest," she tripped lightly into the house with her burden,

and soon returned for what remained.

"I suppose you will not want the larger things up-stairs just yet,

shall you?" she asked. "This old man is not strong enough to carry them

to your bedroom unassisted, but when the boys come home, the boxes will

be whisked up-stairs in a few seconds. Will you rest for a few minutes,

or go straight to your room? It is quite ready, though it would be

difficult for me to say what possessed me to see that it was kept so,

from day to day."

"I shall not want my boxes at present, dear; and I would rather go

straight to my room," replied Mrs. Worsley, the lady whom Annette

called "aunty," though she was no relation to the girl, only her

godmother. "But where is the 'reed' aforesaid? Surely she could

carry up my dressing-bag, and the odds and ends with which you are

overloading yourself."

"The 'reed,' 'Sarah Jane,' by names—and she insists on being called by

both—is at this moment engaged in what she calls 'cleaning herself.'

The operation occupies most of each afternoon, and is unsatisfactory as

regards results. She goes up-stairs with honest black patches about her

face, garments, and person generally. She comes down with an appearance

of profuse dinginess, which gives you the idea that the black patches

have been diluted by the application of water, and thus diffused over

a larger surface. Sarah Jane objects to soap, aunty—on her face, I

mean—as calculated to injure her complexion. The 'cleaning' process of

which she talks so much is, I think, done in chapters, and ought to be

continued."

The girl laughed merrily as she deposited her load in the bedroom. Then

she brought hot water, undid straps, and paid the welcome guest all the

little attentions which thoughtful love could suggest.

"Thank you, darling," said Mrs. Worsley. "You take care that I shall

not be conscious of any lack of servants." And drawing the girl's

glowing face to her own, she kissed it again and again.

Annette allowed her head to rest on her friend's breast for a few

moments. "It is very sweet to be petted now and then," she said, "but

I must not stay long now; that would be too selfish. Shalt we have our

afternoon tea in the drawing-room or the den?"

"The den, by all means, dear; I will be down in a quarter of an hour,"

replied Mrs. Worsley.

After glancing round, to convince herself that she had done all in her

power for the guest's comfort, Annette went down-stairs and removed

the pretty tea equipage from the state room to the smaller one, which

the younger members of the family usually occupied. Knowing that no

dependence was to be placed on Sarah Jane, Annette had taken care to

have everything ready for afternoon tea, in case of callers, and a very

few minutes sufficed to arrange a tempting little meal for the tired

traveller. Cake and bread-and-butter were already on the table; to

these Annette added two or three daintily-cut sandwiches, a couple of

peaches, and some cream.

The tea-table stood within a large bay window, one side or which was

open, and let in the sweet summer air, laden with the scent of roses. A

few flowers were in tiny vases up and down, just a bloom or two amid a

mass of variegated ivy leaves, like jewels in a setting of plain gold.

The tea equipage was pretty—a harlequin set made up from a collection

of fine old china. The kettle in which the water was boiling over a

spirit lamp was of massive silver, exquisitely chased, and everything

prepared for the visitor's entertainment suggested refinement and

loving thoughtfulness.

Yet the room and its furniture were emphatically shabby. Each article

had been good and handsome in its day, but the day was many a year

back. Even the fine engravings on the walls were in this room because

the frames had become too hopelessly dingy to permit of their remaining

in what Annette called the state apartments.

As Mrs. Worsley entered the den, she was first struck with its general

air of dilapidation, then charmed with the pretty picture presented by

that one little nook which held the tea equipage and Annette.

The girl's face was all aglow with happy anticipation, and she

exclaimed, "Come, aunty, dear, the tea is just in perfection, and

I hope you feel ready for it. Here are some sandwiches, which will

perhaps sustain nature until—I had nearly said dinner-time, but I must

own the truth. Having no cook, we have no formal dinners; the boys get

a substantial lunch in the middle of the day; I have something here,

and at seven we have a sort of mongrel meal, which combines dinner,

tea, and supper."

"I could wish nothing better than what you have prepared for me,

Nettie," said Mrs. Worsley. "Why, my dear, this is a meal for a

princess. How have you arranged and prepared all so quickly?"

"The tea things were in the drawing-room, and the water had boiled

once, and only required a renewed blaze to make it boil again. I

have to exercise a little diplomacy, seeing that I am at the head of

domestic affairs, but with nobody to obey orders."

"Not even the 'reed,' my dear?" asked Mrs. Worsley.

"Not even Sarah Jane, aunty. She hears, sometimes, in spite of her

deafness, but never obeys; and when she finds it inconvenient to hear,

her natural infirmity increases fourfold. There is always a possibility

of callers, in spite of mamma's absence, and I must be prepared to

entertain them thus far—" with a wave of the hand to indicate the tea

equipage. "Well, Sarah Jane and I are agreed on one subject, namely,

that she is unpresentable to any caller of higher degree than the

butcher's boy."

"Should there be a ring at the hall door, Sarah Jane's tousled head

is pushed in at this, and she says, 'Please, miss, there's that

door again, and I'm not fit to be seen.' I assent, for the fact is

self-evident, and I answer the door myself, trying the while to look as

if I had been accidentally crossing the hall, and recognised a friend

in the applicant for admission. During the afternoon matters are easily

managed. The tea things are in the drawing-room, the bread-and-butter

cut and covered with a second plate, so that it may not get dry, and

so placed that I can whisk away the upper plate unperceived; I do it

so cleverly, aunty, that the operation is like a conjuring trick.

Then I lie in wait, sometimes indoors, at others in the garden, the

hall door being kept hospitably open; and if people come, I meet them

quite naturally, bring them in for rest and tea, then stroll with them

to the entrance if they are driving, to the gate itself if they are

pedestrians. I had only to bring the tea things from the other room to

this, you see, aunty."

"And to cut the sandwiches, and gather the peaches, for I presume these

are not generally found on the tea-table. Well, my dear, you see how

thoroughly I appreciate these additions. I never felt more grateful for

a meal, or enjoyed one more than I am doing this. Now tell me how it is

I find you alone?"

"Mamma and Laura are at Scarborough, and the boys do not reach home

until nearly six. They still attend the Grammar School, and they have a

long walk home after the work is done."

"True, dear, but the servants—where are they? Your mamma keeps three

usually, does she not?"

"Two and a half. We have really only two efficient servants, and a girl

who does the most disagreeable items of household work, and waits upon

and is scolded by the other two," replied Annette, promptly.

"Where are the efficients?" asked Mrs. Worsley.

"Bolton, the housemaid-waitress, is at Scarborough with mamma and

Laura, promoted for a full month to the dignity of ladies' maid."

Mrs. Worsley looked perplexed.

"I do not understand," she said. "I thought you told me in a letter

that Mrs. Clifford and your sister were staying at the principal hotel."

"They are. Mamma said that Scarborough lodgings in the only part that

she could possibly elect to stay in were extremely expensive, and that,

by arranging to remain the whole time at the hotel, she would be able

to make favourable terms. That, in fact, the cost of staying there

would not be much greater than in private rooms, to say nothing of the

isolation of lodgings and housekeeping worries which would be avoided."

"Then is Bolton at the hotel too?"

"Of course, aunty. She would be useless anywhere else," said Nettie.

"But Mrs. Clifford and Laura have no maid when at home! It seems so

strange to take one for a month to an expensive hotel, when—"

Mrs. Worsley paused. She was very nearly adding, "when they are always

complaining of poverty and the difficulty of making ends meet." She

might have further said, "and borrowing without troubling much as to

how or when the money will be repaid." But she did not say this. She

only stopped, and Annette took up the subject.

"When there is not much money to spare, aunty, you would say. It

is quite true. There is none to spare, but mamma is rather fond of

appearing en granda dame when she is from home. Here, in spite of

narrow means and perpetual pinching, she is a great lady, you know. Was

she not Miss Heydon, of Heydon Hill, before she became Mrs. Clifford?

Everyone knows that in this neighbourhood, and knows, also, that she

was a great heiress before she married a handsome, penniless captain of

dragoons, who lived nearly long enough to leave his wife and children

in the same condition. Does it sound wicked to say so, aunty? I never

saw my father, you know, after I was three years old, and I have been

more accustomed to hear him blamed than lamented."

"Unfortunately this has been the case, dear," said Mrs. Worsley, "but I

presume you would not say this to any ordinary acquaintance?"

"Certainly not," replied Annette. "You are far better informed of all

these particulars than I am, and therefore I did not think my alluding

to them would matter in the least. Besides, you are a dear, true friend

to us all—best and dearest to me."

"I should like to prove myself one, Nettie," and the speaker laid her

hand caressingly on that of the girl. "Now tell me about Bolton. I

interrupted you."

"Mamma cannot quite forget what she was accustomed to have as a girl,

and she is unwilling to do without it still. When at the seaside, for

instance, she likes to see 'Mrs. and Miss Clifford and maid' in the

visitors' list. I sometimes wish she did not care so much for keeping

up appearances. She pays pretty dearly for that word 'maid,' and it is

but an empty sound after all. But I suppose it would be hard for her to

change," added Annette meditatively.

"Now you have accounted for the absence of one efficient servant. Where

is the cook?"

"Oh! Williams is gone home for her annual holiday."

"Does your mamma give her the whole month?"

"No, aunty, a fortnight. Then Williams will come back, and, with Sarah

Jane's assistance, do some cleaning down before mamma's return. Mamma

hates an upset house, and thinks it is better to have such work done

when she and Laura are absent, so that everything may be in apple-pie

order when they come. By letting cook take her holidays now, we have

our whole available staff when we settle down in winter quarters.

Bolton has no friends she cares to go and see, so her stay at the

seaside with mamma, as maid, gives her a double holiday."

"There is still the half—the girl—to be accounted for."

"She was not even half efficient, so as mamma would have parted with

her soon in any case, she said she might as well go before she and

Laura went away. Sarah Jane was sure she could manage by herself; and

mamma said she might try."

The girl gave a weary little sigh, though the expression of her

face was humorous enough. In fact, Sarah Jane's eccentricities and

incapacity served one good purpose. They kept Annette alive by

giving her food for fun. During the day she carefully garnered every

experience, and, despite her daily difficulties, met the boys with a

bright face, and furnished material for laughter with the evening meal.

"When do you expect Williams?" asked Mrs. Worsley.

"On Friday evening, and on that day the boys' vacation begins. They

hope to enjoy it, for Colonel Cracroft has invited them to spend the

whole time at Fox Howe, his charming country home in the Lake district.

The boys—ours and the two Cracrofts—are to take little walking tours

between Mondays and Saturdays, weather permitting, and their own

inclinations being in harmony with the plan. But anybody who chooses

may stay at home, as it is to be Liberty Hall for the young people. I

wish I were going on tramp for days together, aunty. Girls do it now

as well as boys, and the Cracrofts are so nice. But the colonel is a

widower with no daughters, or else, perhaps, he might have asked me,"

said Annette.

"Where are you going for your summer outing, dear?"

"Nowhere. When the boys are out of the way, I shall not be at home any

longer. The blinds will be down, and 'the family are away' will be the

reply, should anyone, undeterred by the desolate appearance of the

premises, be rash enough to call."

At this moment there was a knock at the door, and Annette asked to be

excused for a few minutes, and left the room.

CHAPTER II.

MRS. WORSLEY was not long alone. Annette soon returned, flushed and

panting with exercise.

"Sarah Jane and I carried up your boxes quite easily," she said. "I had

forgotten when I spoke of the boys that they are playing in a school

cricket match, and as there will be a supper afterwards, they will not

be home till late. Your eyes are wandering round the den, aunty. It is

so desolate. It did not matter when we were less, but it would be nice

to have it made into a really charming room. A few pounds and a good

deal of handiwork and contriving would make it lovely. But there are no

pounds to spare for what would give lasting home comfort."

There was a shade of bitterness in the girl's tone which told Mrs.

Worsley whither her thoughts were tending. If only Mrs. Clifford

had been content to do without a maid at Scarborough, her children

would have reaped the benefit of her abstinence in years of increased

comfort. Fresh prettiness would have taken the place of dingy finery,

and much that was good and handsome might have been utilised by

renovation.

Mrs. Worsley did not answer directly. She showed her sympathy by

drawing Annette to her side, and holding her in an affectionate

embrace. At length she said, "It does seem rather hard for you to be

left alone in this way, darling."

"I was not thinking of that. Indeed, I have now the most delightful

companion," and she lifted her honest face to Mrs. Worsley's for a

kiss. "And I mean to make the most of my privileges, before I assume my

role of Cinderella during the cleaning down season. Of course it would

be impossible for you to stay in the midst of a muddle, aunty."

"Quite, Nettie; I shall stay until Saturday, and when the boys' backs

are turned, I must turn mine."

Annette's countenance fell.

"Do you know," she said, "I was just wondering if it would be possible

to keep a little nook, a sort of small house in a large house,

comfortable enough to induce you to stay another week. Cinderella

grieves at the thought of so soon parting with her fairy godmother."

"I am afraid it would be as impossible for me to remain as to exercise

the powers of a fairy godmother, Nettie. Now if I could dress you in

all sorts of braveries with a mere touch of my wand, and send you out

to meet the prince, with the retinue of a princess, I might deserve the

name."

"I should not like you to do it if you could. I hate shams of every

kind, and I have already had too long an experience of them. Some

Cinderellas would ride with a light heart in a carriage that might

at any moment turn into a pumpkin again, but not your Cinderella,

godmother dear."

The young lips quivered, and Annette, while smiling bravely into Mrs.

Worsley's face, had to turn aside to brush away a rebellious tear.

To lead the girl's thoughts to something pleasanter, the visitor

suggested a stroll through the grounds. "I thought I had never seen

them look so beautiful," she said. "How you must revel amongst fruit

and flowers!"

"Shams again, aunty. Not the fruit and flowers; they are provokingly

real, but only to be revelled in by two senses—those of sight and

smell. The grounds are let out to a gardener and florist, who pays

a rent for them. It is true that fruit and vegetables, to a certain

weekly market value, are bargained for, and our table is fairly

supplied; but each article is sent in by mamma's tenant. We cannot

bestow a bouquet on a friend, or give one permission to cull blossom

or fruit for herself. The addition to the income is very useful, and

supplies more shams, but this state of things is dreadful when one

thinks of what used to be. Stay, though, aunty, I stood out for my own

garden—the plot I called mine when I was a tiny toddles, and mamma had

not the heart to take it from me. In it are some old-fashioned flowers,

a wealth of ivy on the wall, and some lovely yellow gooseberries with a

flavour better than that of half the grapes grown in the houses."

Towards this favourite corner Mrs. Worsley and Annette strolled

arm-in-arm, and the girl's eyes grew brighter as aunty fastened a rose

in her dress, and ate of the yellow champagnes with manifest enjoyment.

Bed-time brought the boys—victorious, noisy, and full of delight,

as they talked of the approaching holidays and the enjoyable visit

to which they were looking forward. They were not, however, wholly

self-absorbed. Mingled with these gleeful anticipations were regrets at

the thought of leaving their favourite sister behind them and alone.

"If we could only take Nettie, we should have nothing to wish for,"

said Lionel.

"Oh, Nettie, why were you not a boy?" cried Fred. "You would have been

such a jolly boy, and the Cracrofts could have asked the three of us."

"I am by no means sure of this. Two such boys must be quite enough to

have at once. Besides, you would not like me half so well if I were a

boy. You squabble almost daily about some nonsense or other; how would

you get friends again if you had each a second brother to quarrel with,

instead of a sister to reconcile your differences? Considering all I

do for you, it is very ungrateful to suggest that I could be improved

by a change of sex," said Nettie, with a little pout of the lip, which

deceived nobody.

"We should never get on without you, as you are, yet for your own

sake we cannot help wishing to have you with us. Is it not horrid to

think of her being left at home by herself?" said outspoken Lionel,

addressing Mrs. Worsley. "Why did not mamma take Nettie to Scarborough

instead of Bolton? She does all sorts of things both for her and Laura,

when they are at home."

"Hush, Lionel!" said Nettie.

"It is not for you boys to settle what your mother ought to do," said

Mrs. Worsley, "though I can well imagine that you would like to have

Nettie's enjoyment provided for as well as your own."

"And Laura's," interposed Fred. "It does not seem fair that Laura

should always be first and foremost, and Nettie left out in the cold."

"Mamma knows that I care less than Laura does; and besides, she is the

eldest of us all."

"Don't tell fibs, Nettie. At least, do not pretend to be better than

you are. You may not care about parties and balls, and finery, but

never say you do not mind about being left here to see to the turning

out of rooms, the shaking of carpets, and with only the society of

Williams and Sarah Jane, for a fortnight after next Saturday. Do not

tell me that you are not longing for a whiff of the sea breeze, and the

sound of the waves as they tumble in. Heydon Hill is very beautiful,

with its flowers that we must not pluck, and its fruit that we are

forbidden to taste; but just ask us, now, whether we would not rather

go scrambling across the fells or boating on the lakes than have Heydon

Hill all the year round, even with free run at everything? As to Laura,

of course she is the eldest. She likes to claim all the privileges of

her present age. But wait a year or two, and she will be only too glad

for people to think she is the younger."

Lionel nodded sagaciously as he finished his long speech.

Nettie made no answer until Sarah Jane left the room. Then she

remarked, with a little laugh, "I think the 'reed' must be less deaf

than usual. I am almost certain she heard you, Lionel, she looked so

knowing. Now, dear boys, understand that there are many reasons why I

should stay at home. As the maid, Bolton only counts for half in the

hotel bill; I might do a maid's duties, but I should cost the same as

mamma or Laura. I should have wanted some new gowns had I accompanied

them; my old ones are good enough for home use."

"Laura got new ones; so did mamma," said Fred.

"When I go away for a holiday I shall have them too," insisted Nettie.

"When? I should like to know when?" replied Lionel, in a tone of

disgust.

"And you shall know, my dear boy," said Mrs. Worsley. "Nettie's holiday

will begin on Saturday next. When she and I have seen you two safe off

these premises, we shall prepare for our own departure. If there had

been no other reason for her staying here until then, you boys would

have furnished two substantial ones. You are to blame for the fact that

one sister is gone to the seaside, the other left to take care of you."

The speaker's face expressed no little amusement as she observed the

effect of her words.

"Aunty, what do you mean?" asked Annette. "It cannot be true that I am

to go somewhere with you. What would mamma say?"

"She has said you may go, dear."

"But when? How did you hear from her? I do not understand," replied

Nettie, more bewildered than ever.

"I had a letter from your mother about a week ago, in which she told me

that she and Laura were at Scarborough, and you here with the boys. She

suggested my joining them on my way home, for I was then in Scotland.

I did spend a single night under the same roof, for I wanted to run

away with you, Nettie, and I thought I could negotiate for that purpose

more successfully in person than by letter. After a little talk it

was arranged that as soon as the boys were off I might have you. The

method of taking possession was left to myself. I might write for you

and enclose this, or do as I chose about communicating your mother's

consent to my plan."

Mrs. Worsley handed a note to Nettie, and the girl exclaimed, "How kind

of you, aunty! To think of you travelling so far out of your way on my

account, first to Scarborough, then to this place! How can I thank you?"

"Do not try, dear. Read your mother's note," said Mrs. Worsley. "But

please do not put me down as another sham, because I asked you so many

questions when I already knew the answer to some of them. I wanted to

have a peep into your mind. As to Bolton, I inquired after her in all

good faith, for neither your mother nor Laura told me that she was with

them, or how very much you had been left to yourself."

Nettie gave her godmother a girlish hug and a shower of kisses, then

applied herself to the letter, whilst the boys expressed their delight

at her improved prospects, after the manner of their kind.

They repeatedly embraced their sister, showered thanks on Mrs. Worsley

in rather slangy English, and finally gave relief to their exuberant

spirits by dancing round the den in a sort of wild Indian style, which

was not calculated to render the reading of the letter an easy task to

Nettie. The purport of it was, however, soon mastered. Mrs. Clifford

wrote warmly of Mrs. Worsley's kindness, and told her daughter that

she must consider herself at liberty to leave Hoyden Hill as soon as

Williams returned and the boys were gone. There were loving messages

and a promise of another letter to follow by post, and that was all.

Annette's dreams were pleasant ones for that night, but the waking was

less agreeable. The morning brought the promised letter, with detailed

instructions as to certain matters for the house and the boys, and a

cheque to meet the expenditure involved by their coming journey, and

the domestic supplies alluded to. But for Annette herself there was

nothing, not even a hint as to possible wants. The girl thought she

must be mistaken, that there must be another enclosure; but a further

examination revealed the fact that the envelope contained nothing more.

"How can I go?" she exclaimed. "Mamma knows that I need at least a

couple of new gowns to make me fairly presentable, and it would be

a dreadful scramble to get one in the short time there is. Besides,

Laura's last are unpaid for, and I will not go for more on credit,

though I suppose that is what she must have meant me to do. Mamma must

feel that I cannot go away without even the means to pay my travelling

expenses, or a spare pound in my pocket."

Annette's self-communings had reached this point when Mrs. Worsley

entered the den, where breakfast awaited her coming.

"I thought you were still asleep, aunty," said the girl. "I have been

twice to your door, but everything was so quiet that I stole softly

down again. The boys had to go, you know, to be in time for school, so

I shall have you all to myself. Have you rested well?"

"Delightfully, Nettie, and I am quite ready for breakfast, and work to

follow, for we must begin our preparations for the journey without an

hour's delay."

Annette's face flushed and paled as she turned her mother's letter

round in her fingers in an absent fashion. Then she said, "I am afraid

I can make none. Mamma has written about everyone but me. She must know

that I need more than her permission to go with you."

"My dear, I am sorry that you have had a moment's anxiety on that

score, which I might have prevented by a word. Your mother and I

arranged everything on your behalf when we met at Scarborough. This is

for you, Nettie, to meet any minor expenses, and after breakfast we

will see what sort of a substitute for the fairy godmother I shall make

in providing the more substantial portion of your outfit." Mrs. Worsley

handed Annette an envelope addressed in her mother's handwriting, and

on opening it she found, to her utter amazement, a ten-pound note.

"For me, aunty? How has mamma spared it? Did she really send it?" asked

Annette, half ashamed of her question.

"I saw Mrs. Clifford place the note in the envelope, which she

addressed, and then handed to me, for your sole use, my dear, if that

is what you mean. And she sent her love, and hoped you would spend it

judiciously."

The young face brightened again at these words.

"Mamma is very kind; I did not expect this," she said. "Now I can

manage quite nicely; but how disgracefully selfish I am to keep

you talking about my concerns when you must be famishing for your

breakfast!"

"Not famishing, dear, but with a good healthy appetite to enjoy this

tempting breakfast," replied Mrs. Worsley. "But, Nettie, you have not

asked whither we are bound when we leave Heydon Hill."

"I thought I was going home with you, aunty."

"Home, in one sense, dear, but not to the one I call my very own. We

are going to my brother's."

"To Broadlands! You cannot mean it?"

"I am quite in earnest. My brother and his wife have given you a warm

corner in their warm hearts, Nettie; your last year's visit established

you as first favourite with them and the children, and I believe if I

were to make my appearance alone, I should be sent back to fetch you.

The people at Ferndene are having a large party of young guests, too. I

believe almost the same who were there twelve months ago, so you will

meet a host of old young acquaintances."

Mrs. Worsley was looking straight at Nettie as she spoke, and, lo!

Across the girl's face stole a look of indescribable gladness, along

with a rich rosy glow that spread from cheek to brow; a sort of

dancing, happy light, the reflex of some deep-seated joy, brought to

the innocent young heart by her friend's words.

Nettie turned away quickly and shyly, as if afraid that secret of hers

should be read, and she could not have borne a significant look just

then, much less a jesting word. That expression, however, set Mrs.

Worsley thinking and wondering whether, amongst the guests at Ferndene,

Cinderella might have met her prince. Truly the girl was very young in

her ways and simple in her tastes, as innocent of flirting and coquetry

as the most loving mother could desire her child to be. But time had

not been standing still with Nettie any more than others; she would

keep her nineteenth birthday during the visit to Broadlands.

CHAPTER III.

BREAKFAST was over, and Nettie was standing in Mrs. Worsley's bedroom,

speechless and overwhelmed at the sight which met her view. Spread

around her were the contents of one of those large boxes which she

had assisted Sarah Jane to carry up-stairs on the preceding evening.

There were braveries of all kinds suited to a girl like herself, and

fit for wear in such a home as Broadlands. Nothing very costly, but

all beautiful, dainty, and suggestive of refined taste and a sweet,

pure-minded girl wearer.

It was not the first time that Mrs. Worsley had supplied deficiencies

in Nettie's wardrobe, and the measures taken a year before would, she

knew, still be near enough to go by. She shrewdly suspected that her

request for the girl's company would be cheerfully acceded to if no

demand were made on the mother's purse to furnish the needed outfit.

Even that ten-pound note which had called forth such fervent gratitude,

though nominally sent by her mother, had first been given to Mrs.

Clifford by Mrs. Worsley for the purpose.

"She is rich, and has neither chick nor child. All her own relatives

are richer still, so why should not Nettie be the better for having a

wealthy sponsor?" said Mrs. Clifford to her eldest daughter. "Besides,

by having nothing to buy for Nettie, I shall be able the better to

supply your wants."

So Laura, too, had cause to rejoice, for she benefited indirectly by

Mrs. Worsley's gifts, in having money spent upon her wardrobe, some of

which must otherwise have gone for Nettie's.

Standing amidst a wealth of pretty things, Nettie said—"These are all

far too handsome, and you are much too kind, aunty, darling. I cannot

thank you as I ought. I feel that I shall be a grand sham myself

amongst the dear friends at Broadlands—'a daw with borrowed feathers.'"

"Not borrowed, Nettie; these things are truly your own. Not shams any

more than you are, my dear, honest-hearted lassie. They are fashioned

by human fingers, not transformed by the touch of a fairy's wand, so

you can wear them without fear that they will resume some uncanny

shape. And they come from one who loves you dearly, Nettie, and who has

too much of this world's gear, and no kindred of her own who need to

share it. I settled about these trifles before I even saw your mother.

I never dreamed that I might find you too proud to accept at once, and

without misgivings, your godmother's little gift."

Nettie burst into tears, and flinging her arms round her friend's neck,

begged to be forgiven.