So, as soon as Milly had spoken, she said--

"Why shouldn't we go? The people won't hurt us. Come along, Milly,"

she added impatiently, as the latter drew back.

"But, Lena, Mama didn't give us leave. She said we might go to the

beach, and"----

"And so we are going. We can go down to it near the band, and Lucy can

hear it, as she wants to so much."

"Yes, I do want to," said Lucy, dropping Milly's hand and going forward

with Lena.

"We shall hear it just as well down here, and it will be much nicer on

the rocks than among all those people."

"It's because you are shy and afraid. You want Lucy not to hear it."

Now like many shy, sensitive people, Milly couldn't bear to be called

so. She felt as if it was wrong and a disgrace to be shy. So she said,

"I don't think Mama would like it. I should like it otherwise."

"I'm the eldest, and know that it's all right; so come along, it's no

good wasting all our time doing nothing." And she started off with

Lucy, who was delighted at the prospect of going to see, as well as

hear, the band.

It was a much longer walk than any of them had expected, and by the time

they got there, Lucy was rather tired; so they found a seat and sat and

listened to the music for some time. Milly's shyness at finding herself

among a number of people soon wore off, when she found that no one took

any notice of them; and Lena's assurance that she had often come, with

only a companion of her own age, reassured her as to the propriety of

the proceeding, so they all enjoyed themselves listening to the music

and watching the varied throng around them, until Lucy became tired of

sitting still and proposed that they should go to the rocks. It was no

use going back to those nearer home, so they ran down the first steps

they came to, and were soon close to the water's edge, hard at work with

spade and bucket.

Leaving Milly and Lucy to play on the sand, Lena wandered off to the

rocks. This was much more exciting work, and she went back in a very

short time to invite the others to come there also.

"Bring your bucket, Lucy, and we will try and catch you a dear little

crab," promised Lena, as they all went off together. But very soon the

rocks proved too difficult for poor little Lucy; they were rough and

slippery, and she slipped about in the most helpless manner. With the

aid of her sister's hand she managed for a little, then, emboldened by

her success, she tried to go alone, but alas! it was for a very little

way. Down she came on the sharp wet stones, cutting both hand and leg

in the fall, raising a loud cry of pain and terror as she did so. Her

sisters were beside her in a moment, consoling and lifting her on to

smoother ground. But some time elapsed before she was comforted

sufficiently to be left.

"You are all right now, Lucy, aren't you?" said Lena coaxingly.

"It hurts still," said Lucy mournfully.

"But, Lucy, if we don't go we shall not be able to catch you a crab,"

continued Lena.

This was too tempting an offer to be refused; even the injured hand was

forgotten before such an alluring prospect, and Lucy promised to stay

and amuse herself with her spade, until the others returned with the

promised crab.

"You will be sure and not leave this part until we come back," said

Milly.

"You are a good little girl, Lucy," said Lena, giving her a kiss.

"Now, Milly, we will have a grand scramble. Let us try and go out to

those quite far out, the big ones I mean, and let the water come all

round us."

And she started off, jumping from rock to rock with the confidence and

surefootedness gained by many a former scramble. Not so Milly, who was

new to the work, and only too glad to avail herself of Lena's hand and

help.

Soon they were both at the furthest point, proudly waving their

handkerchiefs back to Lucy, who, poor little body, sat quietly playing

for some time by herself, quite happy with her spade. For how long she

did not know, but it must have been for some time. She could see her

sisters at some distance off, evidently very busy about something,

"catching the crab" they had promised to bring her, she supposed. It

must be very interesting work, she thought, thus to engross their

attention, and keep them away so long. Why should not she try her hand

at it also? was the conclusion she arrived at ere long. Rising from

where she was seated, she wandered off, and very soon was searching in

the pools of water that lay, left by the receding tide, at the edge of

the rocks, quite happy, and delighted with all the beauties she descried

in their clear depths.

Is it any wonder that we, as well as the children, are enchanted, and

forget the passing hours as we search out "the treasures of the deep"

that are left by the receding waves, to give us a glimpse, as it were,

of the "wondrous things" that lie hidden in their depths? And above

all, what mysteries and beauties of God's love does the sea show forth

to the thoughtful mind; and who can help being thoughtful and awed as

they gaze on that mighty work of the Creator, and think how He who rules

the raging waters, and who said of old, "Hitherto shalt thou come, but

no further, and here shall thy proud waves be stayed," is the same

loving Father who watches over and guards the weakest and smallest of

His children, and without whose knowledge not "even a sparrow falleth to

the ground"? No wonder then that Lena and Milly became so absorbed and

interested as they searched among the pools, some of which were quite

large and deep, for the crab they had promised to catch and take back to

Lucy; though I fear this their original intention was soon forgotten

among all the new delights that they discovered, and the time slipped

away as if it were a thing of not the slightest consequence.

At first they often took a look to see if their little sister was safe,

and every time they did so, they saw her sitting in the same place, busy

with her spade. At last Milly exclaimed, "O Lena, I don't see Lucy; we

must go back and look for her."

Lena looked round, rather startled also. Then she answered, "How stupid

of us to be frightened! Of course she's hidden behind the rocks. We

have moved ever so far since the last time we looked."

"I will go back and see. I wish we had brought her on with us."

"She couldn't have managed to scramble along these rocks. She is all

right, I am sure."

"I won't be long going back to look. Mama trusted me to look after

her."

Lena flushed. This was her weak point, and as Milly spoke, an angry

feeling started up in Lena's mind at the thought, perhaps "Mama had

spoken to Milly privately, and told her to look after Lucy." "She

trusts her more than she trusts me," were the words she used to herself.

Out loud she said, "Mama said I was to take charge of you both. What did

she say to you, Milly?"

"To be careful of Lucy," said Milly, without looking at her sister. She

was gazing earnestly about to see if she could see Lucy, and so didn't

observe the changed expression on Lena's face. When she did turn round,

Lena was stooping down peering into the water.

"You can go back then if you like. I must get that bit of seaweed for

Auntie, and then I will follow you," she said without raising her head.

"Don't be long, will you, Lena?"

"No, and I will soon overtake you, if you go slipping and stumbling

about as you did coming." The words were not either kindly said or

meant.

Milly looked vexed. "I did not mean to put you out by asking you to

hurry, Lena."

Lena vouchsafed no answer to this; so Milly went on, "I know I can't

manage half so well as you do--come and help me."

Still silence. So after lingering for a minute or two, Milly started

off.

She had not gone very far when Lena heard a cry of pain, and looking up,

saw Milly raising herself and looking ruefully at her hand. She had

evidently hurt herself, and conscience gave Lena a sharp prick, that

recalled her to her better self. Alas! poor Lena little knew to what a

strong enemy she was opening her heart. She would have indignantly

denied that she was jealous of Milly,--no one ever does like to confess

that they are that of anybody,--but it was the truth, and twice that day

had she allowed it entrance "only just for a moment;" but it is quite

wonderful how a very little giving in to strengthens our faults. "Ill

weeds grow apace" is only too true. The sweet flowers want a great deal

of care and cultivation; but then when they do come to perfection, how

they repay us for all the toil and care, and what happiness they give,

not only to the owner, but to all around!

Lena sprang forward, and was soon beside her sister, whom she found

tying up her hand with her handkerchief and trying hard to keep back the

tears.

"Have you cut it much, Milly? let me look."

Milly undid the handkerchief, and showed a deep cut on the palm of her

hand. "The salt water makes it smart so," she explained, blinking her

eyes fast to get rid of the tell-tale tears.

"It is a deep one. Cover it up again; I will help you," and she tied

the handkerchief again.

"Thank you, Lena. I have cut my leg too; was not it stupid! I was

trying to hurry, and forgot how slippery it was."

Together they went on, jumping and scrambling from rock to rock.

"We ought to see her now. I am sure that is the place where we left

her."

Yes, there was the place, and plenty signs in the scattered sand, that

some small person had been at work; but no Lucy was to be seen.

They looked at one another in alarm. What could have become of her?

"Oh, I wish we had never left her!" burst out Milly.

"It's very naughty of her to Lave moved, when we told her not to," said

Lena.

There was no good standing there, wondering any longer, so they started

off to look for her.

"Let us ask those children near if they have seen her," proposed Lena;

and running down to where they were at play, they inquired of them if

they had seen their little sister. "She was sitting playing there close

to the rocks."

"Yes, they had seen her, but she had gone away some time ago in that

direction," pointing fortunately to the direction that led towards home.

"And I don't wonder either; it must have been jolly dull for her all by

herself," remarked a boy loud enough for the two girls to hear, as they

were hurrying off to look for Lucy.

They both blushed scarlet, as they heard these words, and knew that they

were meant to hear them. "What a horrid rude boy! But, Milly, I wish

we had not left her now."

"So do I," was the answer given with a sigh.

As they skirted the rocks, they came upon a long stretch of sand, now

well covered with children. Close to the water's edge were several of

them paddling, their bare legs gleaming in the water as they danced and

jumped about. And there among them, gazing with delight at their

antics, was the missing Lucy. So close was she to the water, that the

little waves not only crept up close to her feet, but rippled gently

over them, much to the child's delight, who clapped her hands and

screamed with pleasure at every wetting.

"You naughty child!" said Lena, as she rushed up to her, followed more

slowly by Milly, who was limping from the cut on her leg.

Lucy turned round, her rosy little face beaming with delight, not one

whit abashed by Lena's angry words.

"You naughty child! what made you leave and give us such a fright?"

Lena was like many other people who have been frightened; when once

their fears are removed, they give vent to their feelings by being

angry, and, strange to say, consider they have a right to be aggrieved.

"You are so wet, too; what will Mama say?"

"That you ought not to have left me," said Lucy, with a saucy laugh.

Lena was too much taken aback to answer this, and Lucy, seeing her

advantage, continued, "You and Milly are just as wet as I am;" and she

pointed to their feet and dresses, which certainly were both wet and

dirty.

Several of the paddlers had gathered round to listen to the

conversation, and as Lucy pointed triumphantly to her sister's wet feet,

they all raised a laugh. For a moment Lena looked very angry; but

catching Milly's eyes, which were dancing with suppressed laughter, the

absurdity of it all struck her also, and she joined in the laugh.

"I expect you will all catch it, when you go home," remarked one of the

small bystanders in a delighted tone.

"Come, Lucy, it is time to go home."

"Not yet; it's such fun here, I mean to stay," said Lucy, who was so

elated at having silenced Lena's scolding, that she thought she might do

what she chose.

A laugh from the listeners egged Lucy on in her naughtiness.

Milly's "O Lucy, how can you be so naughty!" was taken no notice of.

Lena, with heightened colour but in silence, walked off to where a lady

was sitting, reading, and asked politely, if she would "tell her the

time."

"Five-and-twenty minutes to seven," was the answer as she looked at her

watch.

As late as that, and they were told to be home by six! "Thank you," she

said to the lady, then hurried back to Milly and told her the hour.

"We must go home at once," she exclaimed.

"Will Mama be very angry?"

"Not when we tell her we did not mean to be naughty, and did not know

the time. She will be frightened though; I wish Lucy would be good and

come."

"She must," said Lena shortly. Going up to the child she took hold of

her by the arm and said, "We are going home now, Lucy; it's very late,

and Mama will be vexed."

Lucy looked up saucily--"That's to make me come, but I am not going

yet."

"Yes, you are; it's long after six." She pulled Lucy away from the

water, Milly took hold of her by the other hand, and together they

dragged her away, screaming lustily.

All eyes were fixed upon them, making both the elder girls very

uncomfortable. They knew they were right in going home, but still thus

having to drag their little sister away by main force made them, they

thought, appear very unkind in the eyes of the bystanders.

"O Lucy, do be good and come quietly," entreated Milly.

"You must come, Lucy, so there is no good making all this fuss," added

Lena.

"I am not going to obey Lena. I'll go with Milly, but I don't love

Lena; she's horrid." And pulling her arm away from Lena's restraining

grasp, she struck wildly at her, to push her away.

Lucy's words were but added fuel to Lena's wrath. Seizing the child

firmly by her shoulders she gave her a good shaking, saying as she did

so, "I don't care if you like me or not, but you must do what I tell

you."

"O Lena, don't be angry; she does not mean what she says, I know she

doesn't," said Milly.

The shaking so took Lucy by surprise, for she was unaccustomed to such

strong measures, that she stopped screaming, and gazed at Lena's angry

face in open-mouthed astonishment.

In the midst of this scene Hester's voice was heard exclaiming, "Miss

Lena, whatever is the matter? That's not the way to treat your little

sister. I wonder at you, that I do!"

At the sound of Hester's voice, Lena quickly removed her hands from

Lucy's shoulders, and turning to her said, "She has been so naughty,

Hester; she would not come home, though we told her it was late, and she

went on screaming."

"But you hurt me," sobbed the child. "I would have gone with Milly,

because she's kind and nice."

"That's a wicked story, Lucy. You know quite well Milly had to drag you

along as well as I; hadn't you, Milly?"

"Yes," she asserted; "but, Lucy, you will be good now?"

"You should not have been so rough with her, Miss Lena; you don't

understand how to manage children."

"No, she does not," agreed Lucy. "I will go home with you, Hester,"

clinging affectionately to her new ally, as she considered Hester.

"Your mother was so nervous at your being so late, that Miss Somerville

sent me to look for you."

"Come on, Lena," said Milly, and linking her arm into her elder

sister's, they hurried on first, followed by Hester and Lucy.

At first neither of the two girls spoke as they walked quickly along,

but soon the steep hill, they had to ascend, made them slacken their

pace.

"Lena," said Milly, "you are not still angry with Lucy; she is so

dreadfully passionate sometimes, but she does not mean all she says."

"Then she ought to be punished," was the short answer.

"So she always is. And she does not get into rages nearly as often as

she did, because she knows how wicked it is, and how it grieves the Lord

Jesus," said Milly reverently, adding, as a sort of apology for her

little sister, "And she is very young, you know."

The life of a child in India is very different to what it is in this

country; and Millicent, thoughtful and gentle by nature, had become more

so, from having been the constant companion of her parents; for in the

hill station, where their home was situated, she had no companion of her

own age. The few children that were near them were all quite little,

and looked upon Milly as "quite old" in comparison. Mrs. Graham had

been very far from well, the last two years of their stay, and when

Colonel Graham had to be away, as he often was obliged to be, on duty,

it was Milly's delight and privilege to be her mother's loving little

nurse and attendant. And Mama loved to have her gentle little daughter

beside her, during the long days of weakness that followed the attacks

of fever from which she suffered; and Milly would sit so quietly with

her work, or read out to her, but oftenest they spoke of the dear child

and sister in the English home. In this way, Mama soon began to depend

upon her little nurse, and even to consult her, when Papa was away, upon

many subjects; and she dearly liked to be consulted and trusted by Mama,

and would put on an air of wisdom, and answer quite gravely and sedately

on such occasions, and was beginning to think herself almost grown-up

compared to little Lucy, who was full of baby fun and frolic, and apt to

become so wild and noisy that she would disturb Mama, if Milly did not

amuse her and keep her good. "She was a pet and a darling, and didn't

know better," Milly would say at such times. It was only natural then,

that Milly considered it her duty to apologise for her little sister's

outburst of naughtiness. As Lena made no answer, she went on, "You

won't mind, Lena dear, will you?"

"It's very hard," burst out Lena. "Mama trusted her to me, so she ought

to have obeyed me; and Hester blames me, I know she does, from what she

said, and she takes her part, and she has been my nurse, and ought to

like me best; but nobody does love me but Auntie."

"O Lena, I do, and Papa and Mama, and Lucy."

"But they all love you best. Mama always asks you about things,

and"----

Here Milly interrupted, with a look of distress--it had never dawned

upon her before that Lena doubted her mother's love, or had what she

called such dreadful thoughts--"How can you say such things, Lena? It

is not kind and it is not true," she added with spirit.

They had nearly reached the gate of Scarsdale Villa by this time, and

there stood Mrs. Graham, looking out anxiously for them, and now hurried

to meet them, thus preventing any more conversation between the sisters.

"Here you are, my darlings; I was beginning to fear something had

happened. And there is Lucy lagging behind, I see." One look at her

children's faces, showed Mama that something had gone wrong. Milly

looked distressed, and Lena's usually bright open countenance was now

very clouded. Putting her arm round Lena, she drew her to her side, and

kissing her, said, "What has made you so late, dear?"

What power there is for good in the gentle word or the loving gesture!

The mere fact of her mother having put her arm round her, and having

spoken to her first, brushed away, for the moment, the hard jealous

thoughts, that had been finding room in Lena's heart.

"I am so sorry, Mama, we are late," she said, looking up with an altered

expression. "We were so interested and happy on the rocks, we did not

know how fast the time was going."

"How did you find out at last?"

"We asked a lady, and it was five-and-twenty minutes to seven; we were

so astonished."

"Now run and take off your wet things, and come down to tea. Milly

looks tired; are you, darling?"

"A little, Mama, not very."

"She has cut her hand, Mama, and her leg too, that is what makes her

walk like that. Fancy my forgetting it!"

"I will tell Hester to take Lucy to the nursery then. I will come and

see to you, dear," said Mrs. Graham to Milly, as she watched them go up

to their rooms; then went out again to meet Hester and Lucy, who by this

time had also reached the house.

*CHAPTER V.*

*AUNTIE'S LETTER.*

Wrong thoughts, when only sent away by a kind deed or loving word, are

not really rooted out; they are, as it were, but expelled for a short

time. When we only thus send them away, we are like the man in the

parable spoken of by our Divine Master. The evil spirit certainly goes,

but this is not enough; we cannot sit down with folded hands and say,

"It is done--we can rest." No, we have our work still to do. Now that

the place is empty, we must fill it anew, but this time with the good

and true, or else the evil thought will return, and alas! not alone, but

in the words of Holy Writ, "He taketh with him seven other spirits, more

wicked than himself"--that is, the wrong thought returns with sevenfold

strength, and "the last state of that man is worse than the first."

Thus it was with Lena Graham. The jealous thoughts, that had been

showing themselves, were put aside, as it were, for the time being, and

unfortunately she did not trouble herself any more about them; and

Milly, who was the only person whom she had spoken or even hinted to,

that she had such thoughts, was only too glad to dismiss it from her

mind, blaming herself for having even allowed the suspicion entrance.

"Lena," said her mother, later in the evening, when she and Aunt Mary

were sitting together with the two girls in the drawing-room.

"Yes, Mama," she answered, looking up from the book she was reading.

"What was the meaning of the scene that Hester saw, when she found you

on the beach this evening?"

Milly looked up hastily at these words, while Lena said, "I will tell

you about the whole afternoon Mama. It was this." And she gave a long

account of their doings, appealing often to Milly to confirm what she

said; and if she did gloss over the leaving little Lucy alone, it was

done almost unconsciously, so easy is it to see, when we wish it, a good

reason for our conduct.

When she had finished there was a pause for a moment or two, during

which the two girls looked anxiously at their mother.

"Well, Mama?" asked Lena, who was growing impatient.

"I was wondering if either of my girls saw how very selfishly they had

acted this afternoon."

"In leaving Lucy alone?" they both said slowly.

"Yes, dears; don't you think it was very hard for the child to be left

all by herself? and from your own account, you were away for some time."

"We didn't mean to be long."

"But that was not the first fault: disobedience was that. I gave you

leave to go down to the beach, but I did not give you leave to go and

hear the band play. I thought I could have trusted you both."

Milly's eyes filled with tears at these words, and her heart swelled at

the thought that she, "Mother's right-hand," as she had often been

called, could not be trusted; but she said nothing, while Lena, who was

both truthful and generous, hastened to explain, "It was not Milly's

fault, Mama; she didn't want to go, but I insisted on it."

"Ah, Lena, you see how one fault leads to another."

"But we were quite as safe there as at the beach."

"That has nothing to do with it. You did wrong, my child, and I am

afraid, continued doing so all the afternoon, for Hester tells me you

were very harsh and rough with your little sister."

"But Lucy was so naughty and cross, we could not help getting angry."

"I know we ought not to have left her, Mama," said Milly; "but she was

so provoking, screaming so loud, it made everybody look at us. Though

we told her it was late, she would not come home."

"And she hit me, and said all sorts of things."

"She was in one of her fits of passion," added Milly.

"I am very sorry to hear it," was Mrs. Graham's answer with a sigh, for

Lucy's fits of passion were a great sorrow to her.

"If you had been gentler and kinder, would you not have done more good?"

"I don't think so, for Milly didn't get into a passion. I did, Mama,

and I am very sorry. Oh dear, it is so hard to be good! And I wanted

to be so really, and now I have grieved you and Auntie too. I promised

I would show how good her child could be."

"O Lena dear, that is it: you forget what I said, and what you promised;

to try and be, not mine, but"----and she paused, while Lena finished the

sentence in a low voice--"The child of God. And I have not been good,

but I am so sorry, I really am."

"So am I," whispered Milly, nestling close to her mother. "Are you very

grieved? Will you forgive us?"

"Fully and freely, dear; but there is One, whose children you both are,

whom you have grieved more. I want you both to ask Him to forgive you

before you go to sleep to-night, never doubting that if you ask aright

He will do so."

As the two girls went upstairs together, later on that evening, Lena

gave a great sigh as she said, "Oh dear, I wish we had not taken Lucy

with us this afternoon; it quite spoiled all the pleasure."

"I wish we had not left her," said Milly, in her gravest tones.

"I believe you think we are most to blame."

"We are the eldest, and she is such a little thing; if we had stayed

with her she would have been good."

"Then I am most naughty, for I would go to the band. I wish one could

always be good; it is so horrible after being naughty."

When Lena was alone in her room, she went to the window, and pulling up

the blind, looked out, but her thoughts were not on what she saw, fair

as the scene was, on which her eyes rested. Beneath her window lay the

garden, now bathed in moonlight, and in the far distance was the sea,

shining like a band of silver in the moon's rays. How often had she

stood, as now, at this very window, thinking! Then, her thoughts had

been of the parents so dimly remembered. What would they be really

like? Ah, how good she would be to them, and show how much she loved

them. Now they had really come; and to-day, instead of all this

goodness, she had grieved her mother by her disobedience and

selfishness, and the little sister of whom she had said, "She would like

to give up her pleasures to,"--she had quarrelled with her, not only in

word, but in very deed. The tears filled her eyes as she thus thought.

She did love her mother just as much as she ever did, and--no, there was

no disappointment in her, but somehow things were not quite what she had

expected. She had pictured to herself a life with Mama, as something of

the same kind, she had led with her Aunt, being her constant companion,

and her one chief thought and care. Instead of that, she was more with

her sisters than her parents. Kind and loving as Mama was to her, she

was equally so to Milly and Lucy. Poor foolish child, surrounded as she

was with every earthly blessing, she was not content. Instead of a

happy, grateful love for all she had, she was groping after the

impossible, and raising up for herself all sorts of imaginary troubles,

that had no real existence but in her own wayward fancy. The opening of

the door roused her, and turning round, she saw that it was her mother

who had entered.

"Not in bed yet, dear?"

"No, Mama, I have been thinking," said Lena, in a very grave tone, as

she pulled down the blind.

"What were the thoughts that made you look so grave, and forget to go to

bed?"

"I was wondering why things are never so nice as we expect them to be."

"Shall I tell you why that is the case, dear?"

Lena only nodded in reply, and Mrs. Graham, looking down fondly on the

girl's upturned face, said, "Because we want things to be exactly as we

wish, instead of taking thankfully and contentedly what God sends. I

fear we are all too apt to think we know best what is good for us."

"Oh no, Mama," cried Lena in a shocked tone.

"We don't think or allow, even to ourselves, that we do so, dear; but

how is it that we so often say--'If it had only been different, it would

have been so much nicer and better?' I fancy that some such thoughts

were in my little girl's mind to-night."

"I did not know that it was so wrong. Auntie told me it would not be

good for me to have my own way too much; and I remember she once said,

'She was so glad she had not the ordering of her own life.' Are you

glad too?"

"Yes, darling, very, very glad. Ah, Lena dear, it is such peace and

happiness to know that all is done for us by that loving Father, who

gives us more than we can ask or desire."

When Lena said her prayers that night, she paused, in the Lord's Prayer,

at the words, "Thy will be done." How often she had repeated them

slowly and reverently as she had been taught to do, but to-night they

seemed to assume a new and deeper meaning; and when Mama had given her,

her good-night kiss, she repeated them over and over to herself ere she

fell asleep. No wonder that the next morning she rose bright and happy;

and when Lucy's voice was heard at the door saying, "I want to speak to

you, Lena," she opened the door and greeted her little sister with a

loving kiss.

"I am very sorry I was a naughty girl last night," she said gravely, as

if repeating a lesson.

"Oh, never mind, dear."

"Mama said I was to beg your pardon; and, Lena, I told a story, because

I do love you."

"I was naughty too and unkind," said Lena, who, when she was pleased and

happy, was always ready to be generous and kind.

In general, all Lena's troubles were self-made; she wanted to be first,

not so much in amusements, though she certainly liked to take the lead

there also, but in every one's opinions and affections. She wanted to be

Milly's and Lucy's favourite, as well as eldest sister. And she would

have also liked to be the first in her parent's confidence and

affections, as well as the first of their children.

Aunt Mary called the two elder girls to her after breakfast, and told

them that she meant them to do some lessons with her every morning. Too

much idle time was neither good nor pleasant for them; and she did not

want the governess, under whose care they were very soon to be placed,

to find her new pupils backward in their education.

The idea of a governess was quite new to them. They would have liked to

discuss the subject well over with Auntie; but this she at once

forbade--"Your Mama will tell you all about it herself."

"Do just tell us when she is to come?"

"Not till your parents are settled into their own house," said their

Auntie unguardedly.

"Going to leave here? O Auntie, you must tell us--please, please do,"

Lena added coaxingly.

"I thought we were always to live here; I do like this place. Where are

we to live?" said Milly, adding her entreaties to Lena's.

"Not a word more will you get out of me," said their Aunt laughing.

"What a foolish old woman I was to let so much out."

"You are not old, and you are not foolish, but a dear kind Auntie who is

going to tell us all about it."

"I am not quite so foolish as to be taken in by all these blandishments;

but, joking apart, dears, I ought not to tell you more; your parents

will do so when they think right."

At this, both the girls returned to their seats, and lessons went on

quietly. Milly was found not to be so very much behind Lena, for she

had been well and carefully taught by her mother, who had used the very

same books of instruction that Miss Somerville had taught Lena from. So

that the two sisters would be able to go on together with the same

governess; and both girls were quite pleased at the thought of doing the

same lessons. All was as it should be. Lena was a little advanced, but

not too much so to make it difficult for Milly to keep up with her, but

enough to spur Lena on to keep in advance.

"Is it true we are to have a governess? and are we going to another

house?" were the questions that were eagerly put to Mama on the very

first opportunity.

"I have been letting out secrets, I am afraid," said Miss Somerville.

"I meant to tell them what their Papa had decided upon. He has taken a

house in the country--a furnished one, near the friends with whom he is

now staying. The people to whom it belongs are anxious to leave as soon

as they can, so Papa says, he hopes we will be able to go there in a

fortnight."

"In a fortnight!" This sudden move quite took away Lena's breath; to

leave Aunt Mary and her own home! for Scarsdale Villa was the only home

Lena could remember. Then she gave a little laugh at this foolish

thought of hers. "Leave Aunt Mary! of course she would go with them."

Milly was busy asking questions about the new house--"Was it quite in

the country? had it a garden?"

All these questions were answered satisfactorily. "It was quite in the

country, with a nice garden, and some fields attached to it," Mama said.

"What is to be done with this house?" Lena asked.

"I am going to let this," said her Aunt quietly.

So it was all right. Aunt Mary was coming with them; and Lena eagerly

joined Milly in talking over their new home. How delightful it would be

to live quite in the country! And very soon they were both quite eager

to be there, and were planning about the gardens they were to have for

their very own.

"You will find nice neighbours in the Freelings," said Miss Somerville

to Mrs. Graham.

"Have they children?" was the eager question.

"Yes, six. Two are grown up. There are four at home, two girls and two

boys--at least not the boys; they are at school."

"I wonder what they will be like--the girls I mean."

"The eldest girl is fifteen. The youngest will be a nice companion for

you; she is only thirteen."

The prospect of the change gave the children plenty to think and talk

about for the next day or two. Lena went so far in preparation that she

went about collecting what she considered her own property from the

different rooms, and was rather aggrieved that she was not allowed to

pack them all up in readiness. Mama compromised the matter by allowing

her, with Milly's help, to fill one box with the many books and toys

that she had outgrown, and were too numerous to carry away; and this

box, when ready, was to be sent to the poor little suffering children in

the hospital How often that box was packed and unpacked I should be

sorry to say: it was a great amusement and occupation to them for the

next few days, as the weather had changed, and instead of bright

sunshine and warm breezes, the rain came down steadily; and Milly and

Lucy would look mournfully out of the window, thinking that here, as in

India, there was to be no more hot bright suns for some time now that

the rains had set in, though Lena assured them fifty times a day it

would be sure to be fine to-morrow. This was all very well the first

day; but when to-morrow came with clouded sky, Lucy grew very very angry

when she heard Lena begin the same story "of to-morrow being fine," and

accused her of being wicked and telling stories. A stormy scene was

fast brewing indoors as well as out, when Mama heard the cause of anger,

and Lucy had the matter explained to her, and hope once more "of seeing

fair weather to-morrow" sprang up in her small mind.

In the midst of this wet weather they were all cheered and enlivened by

Papa's return. Now they would be able to have all their questions

answered about Astbury, as their new home was called. They had to curb

their curiosity till after Papa had had dinner. Lena had still a little

lingering awe of her father; and when he told them that they must keep

all their questions until after he had finished his dinner, she did not

dare to disobey him, as I fear her eagerness and curiosity would have

tempted her to do if it had been her aunt or mother who had given the

order.

As they were all seated round the fire listening to his account of

Astbury and its neighbourhood, Aunt Mary, seeing her nieces' attention

devoted to their father, quietly drew a letter from her pocket. Taking

it out of the envelope, she began to read it. Soon after the

conversation turned upon some matter that Lena did not think

interesting, so she turned to her Aunt to ask some question. Instead of

receiving the answer she had expected, Aunt Mary went on with her

reading, evidently not having heard what she had said. "The letter

seemed to interest her very much," Lena thought. She wondered who it

could be from, and why had not Auntie told her of it, for during the

time that aunt and niece had lived alone together Miss Somerville had

got into the way of reading her letters aloud before her niece. It was

a habit that she had got into during the years when she was quite alone

and before she had taken charge of Lena: gradually she had not only read

out the letters before the child, but as she grew older and more

companionable, had spoken and discussed things that were in them before

and with her. It was not a good thing for any child, especially for one

like Lena Graham. Still it had been done in all love and with good

intention. Rising from her seat, Lena went and perched herself on the

arm of her Aunt's chair, so that she could read the letter over her

shoulder. We must do Lena the justice to say, that though it was a

wrong thing to do, it was not done with a wrong intention. She had

always heard Auntie's letters, she would have told you, so there could

not be the slightest harm in reading them. It was a very interesting

one she saw at once; the handwriting was perfectly familiar to her as

being that of a great friend of her Aunt's, who had often stayed with

them--Miss Howard was her name. The contents puzzled Lena, for Miss

Howard wrote as if she and Aunt Mary were going together somewhere, to a

place called "Lucerne." Lena knew the name well, but for the moment she

was confused as to its locality. As she tried to make out what it meant,

she leant forward to see more easily. At that moment Colonel Graham

looked up and saw Lena doing what he considered, and what certainly is,

a most dishonourable action, reading what is not meant for one to see.

"Lena!" was all he said, but the tone in which it was said startled them

all.

Lena looked up. Never before had she heard her name so spoken.

Startled and confused at the suddenness with which she had been called,

she answered hastily and nervously, "Yes, Papa."

"What is it, dear?" asked Mrs. Graham.

"Lena knows," was the short reply.

Poor Lena was frightened, not only at the sternness of the voice, but by

her father's face. It seemed to her that it had the same look that she

had remarked in the photograph and had hoped never to see shown towards

her. Her fear and nervousness brought the colour to her looks and gave

her the conscious look of guilt.

"I don't know, Papa. What is it?" she faltered out.

"You must know what a dishonourable thing you were doing, reading your

Aunt's letter over her shoulder."

"Oh!" she said with a great sigh of relief, "is that all, Papa? Why, I

always do it."

Here Aunt Mary interposed hastily, and said, before Colonel Graham could

speak the astonishment he certainly felt at Lena's answer, "It is my

fault, Henry. Lena always sees my letters. I may have been wrong; but

remember she has been niece and child and companion to me all in one. I

may have spoilt her in many ways, but I am sure she would not do a

dishonourable thing;" and as she spoke, she pulled Lena on to her knee

and kissed the troubled little face. "I ought to have told her I did

not wish her to read this quite yet, and I am sure she would not have

done it."

At her Aunt's kind words Lena burst out crying. The child had been

frightened, and the burst of tears relieved her feelings.--"No, Auntie

dear, indeed, indeed I would not," she sobbed out.

"I think you have made a mistake about it, Mary. And I hope Lena will

remember that though you have allowed her to see yours, letters are

sacred, and she must never look at any without leave that are not

addressed to her."

"No, Papa, indeed I never will," she said earnestly.

"Come and give Papa a kiss," said her mother, leading the still sobbing

child to her father.

"You are not afraid of me, Lena?" he asked kindly, as she shrunk from

him, without lifting her eyes from the ground. "Come, look up, and give

me a kiss."

Lena looked up as bidden, and seeing nothing in his face but love and

kindness, summoned back her courage as she said, "You looked so angry

before, and so stern."

"I am only angry when you do wrong and act dishonourably; and you need

not be afraid to look even a stern man in the face if you have done

nothing to be ashamed of, my child."

As Lena returned to her chair she thought, "Oh dear, I hope he will

never speak to me again like that. Even if I was ever so naughty, I

don't think I could tell him, and ask him to forgive me."

Aunt Mary said quietly to Lena, "I will read you all that Miss Howard

says to-morrow, dear; it will interest you, I am sure, and I meant you

to hear it soon."

"Where is Lucerne?" she asked in a low voice.

"In Switzerland," answered her Aunt. And not another word would she say

that night on the subject of the letter and its contents.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*LEAVING MEADENHAM.*

"Switzerland! O Auntie, that is such a long way off! You don't mean

really that you are going all that way from me," and Lena as she spoke

these words burst into tears, and clung tightly to her Aunt, as if to

prevent her leaving her.

"I am not going away to-day, dear," said Miss Somerville, trying to

speak cheerfully and brightly as she fondly stroked the little head that

was buried on her shoulder. "And, my child," she went on more gravely,

"this is no new thought to you; we both knew this parting must come."

"But not so soon, and such a long way."

"You have Papa and Mama and your sisters, and will be so happy with

them, and will often write to me. And I shall hope for such good

accounts of my pet."

"You won't get them," said Lena in a most doleful tone; "I shan't be

able to be good without you, I know I shan't."

"Lena, dear, that is not a right way to speak. I shall think that I have

taught you what is wrong if you say such things."

"No, no, I did not mean that; but why can't you always live with us?

What do you want to go to that horrid place for?"

"It is not at all a horrid place, but a very nice one. Why I am going

is this"----

Lena lifted her head to listen with such an injured expression that her

Aunt laughed. "I believe you are glad to go!" (indignantly).

"Yes, dear, I am glad, though very very sorry to leave you. I am glad

because Miss Howard has to go, and wants a companion; and you know,

dear, it is always pleasant to be able to do anything for your friends."

"But I want you too."

"Not now. You have wanted me, but now you have Mama and Papa; and,

Lena, you love them both very dearly, I know."

"Yes, but I want you too."

"We none of us can have all we want in this world. Ask God, my little

one, to make you grateful and thankful for all the blessings He has so

liberally bestowed on you, instead of murmuring for what you cannot

have."

Before Lena had time to reply, Mrs. Graham opened the door, asking, as

she did so, if she might come in.

"O Mama, why does Auntie want to go away from us? Mayn't she stay with

us?"

"Of course she may, dear; but Aunt Mary thinks Miss Howard requires her.

We want her, and she requires her. Now don't you see why Auntie has

decided on going abroad?"

"Yes, because she thinks it right;" adding, "but couldn't Miss Howard

come and live with her here?"

"Why do you wish that, Lena?"

"Because it's so much nearer, and we could come and see her sometimes."

"Oh, so you don't want it for Aunt Mary's pleasure, but your own," was

the quiet rebuke.

Lena's face flushed scarlet as she murmured some words in too low a tone

for her mother to hear.

"Listen, my child; do you not think that a change would do Auntie good?

Think how much more she would miss the little niece she has been so good

to, and has learned to love so dearly, if she remained on here, than if

she goes abroad, and sees new sights and beautiful scenery."

"Yes, I see; but, Mama, I can't help being sorry, and wishing changes

would not come--at least not nasty changes."

"I should be very much astonished and very grieved too, if you were not

sorry at parting with Auntie, who has been so good and kind to you and

to me too. Changes must come in this world, my child; but we know that

if we love our Saviour, every one that comes is sent in love and for

some good purpose."

"I can't see why Auntie's going away can do us good."

"That is what the disciples said when their Divine Master told them of

His ascension: they, like you, thought they knew best." Mama spoke the

words so significantly that they at once recalled to her the

conversation they had held together some evenings before, and when Lena

had expressed herself as so shocked at the idea of any one thinking they

knew better than God. Humbled and abashed, Lena promised to try and

bear whatever was sent for her, though she was quite sure it would be

dreadfully hard to bear parting with Auntie, forgetting that it was

harder for Auntie than herself. It was a great comfort to both Colonel

and Mrs. Graham, since Aunt Mary had decided not to go and live with

them, that she was going abroad with her friend Miss Howard for a few

months. It was very easy to let her house for the summer, as West

Meadenham was a favourite resort for summer visitors, and Lena was

comforted by hearing that before Miss Somerville settled down for the

winter, she had promised to pay a visit to her brother and sister at

Astbury.

"We shall spend our first Christmas at home altogether," said Colonel

Graham cheerfully, as Aunt Mary's plans were being discussed one day

openly, now that all was arranged.

Lena expected, and Milly also, that the former would be quite

heart-broken at the prospect of parting from her Aunt. Milly was of

rather a sentimental character, and had secret visions of herself

comforting and consoling poor Lena; and felt rather disappointed, to say

the least of it, when she saw her sister interested and busy in the

preparations for their departure, and talking brightly and hopefully of

what was to be done at Astbury. Not that Lena was unkind or unloving.

She did love her Aunt very very dearly, and felt really sorry and

unhappy at the prospect of losing her; but with the buoyancy and

cheerfulness of youth, she soon learned to look on the bright and

hopeful side of things. She had never written to Auntie in all her

life, and she talked much of the long letters she would write to her,

and then how nice it would be to show her the new home when she came to

see them at Christmas. So very soon she was the same bright, lively

little Lena of old. Occasionally, however, some little thought or

action would cause her to sigh, and wish that changes would not come--at

least she would add, "I wish people had not to go away from one another.

I like going to new places."

There were other changes in store also, for an invitation came for Milly

from her godmother, who lived in London. Mrs. Clifford wanted to see

and know her little namesake and godchild. Would Colonel Graham, who

was going to Astbury a few days earlier than the rest of the family,

bring Milly and leave her with Mrs. Clifford on his way through London?

So ran the invitation.

"I wish she had asked me!" exclaimed Lena, when she heard of the letter.

"O Lena, and leave Aunt Mary the last few days!" said Milly

reproachfully.

"No, of course not--I did not think of that--but I should like to see

London and all the sights."

Milly was not at all of this opinion. She shrank from the very thought

of going away to a strange house without Mama. She had never left her

before; and although she was called after Mrs. Clifford, she had only

seen her once when they were in town, on first arriving from India. She

begged very hard not to go, but her parents thought it was right for her

to do so. Lena alternately teased and laughed at her for being shy and

stupid for not wanting to go, and envied her for being invited, and

wished she was going, for she was quite sure that Mrs. Clifford would

take her to see all sorts of things and be ever so kind to her. If this

invitation had come to Milly at any other time, I am afraid Lena would

have been terribly disappointed at not being invited also; but these

last few days at Aunt Mary's were too full of interest and occupation to

allow much time for regrets of any sort. There were so many people and

places to take farewell of, and so much to be seen to in the house, that

Lena was what she called "deliciously busy." Hester was to go with them

as nurse to Lucy, so she also was very busy, and also went away for a

day or two to say good-bye to her parents, who lived in the

neighbourhood of Meadenham. During those days Lucy was Lena's constant

companion, and on the whole they got on capitally together. They were

very much alike in disposition; and although Lucy was very fond of Lena,

she found she was quite a different sort of sister in authority than

Millicent.

Time slipped away very fast, as it always does when there is much to be

done. It is only with the idle and lazy that time lags and creeps

slowly along. How the minutes crawl while one is waiting without

anything to do--they seem to lengthen themselves out in the most

extraordinary manner. Let one of my little readers remark the length of

five minutes when she or he, as the case may be, is busy and interested,

and five minutes when they are standing idle, wondering what they shall

do next, or perhaps grumbling because they are prevented doing something

on which they had set their heart. Once a very small child, who was told

to wait ten minutes for some reason, was seen to give the clock a great

push and call it "a stupid, tiresome thing"--she was quite sure it had

stopped just to tease her. She was too small to be able to tell the

time herself, but nurse had shown her where the big hand would point

when the ten minutes were up, and, oh dear! they were so long to that

impatient little mortal who stood gazing up at it with such interest and

anxiety. The last day came, and they all--that is, Mama, Auntie, Lena,

Lucy, and Hester--all started for London, at which place they were to

meet Milly. Mrs. Clifford was to meet them with her at the station, and

there also Aunt Mary was to part from them.

On reaching London, they drove from the station at which they arrived

from Meadenham to one on the other side of the town, from which they

were to go to the town near which their future home was situated. Aunt

Mary was to drive with them and see them off. At first Lena and Lucy

were in the wildest of spirits, everything was new and pleasant; but

before they reached London they both became tired of the monotony of

being shut up in one place; and as the train was a fast one, it whirled

along too rapidly for them to get more than a passing glimpse of the

different places on the road.

Most children delight in going away, but I never yet met with one that

liked being in the train. The Grahams were no exception to this rule.

Lucy first became restless and inclined to be cross, then Mama seated

her on her knee, to look out, and very soon the rapid motion wearied the

little frame, the blue eyes began to blink, then close, the head fell

back on Mama's shoulder, and Lucy was sound asleep, to the relief and

comfort of her fellow-passengers. Lena nestled up against Aunt Mary,

and as she thus sat with the kind arm round her, the remembrance came to

her with startling distinctness, that this would be the last time for

many months that she would feel the pressure of that kind hand; and then

thought after thought came thronging into her mind of all the love and

goodness that Aunt Mary had showered upon her during the last six years.

Her whole life, as it seemed to the child, had been passed with Auntie,

and now that they were to be separated, she wished, oh so much, that she

had been a better and more obedient girl. When she came to them at

Christmas she would show her how much she loved her by being so good,

and all that she could wish. And she crept closer to her Aunt as she

thus thought of the past and of the future. She would have liked to

throw her arms round her neck, and tell her how much she loved her, and

how sorry she was to part with her; but there were strangers in the

compartment with them, and Lena did not like any one but her own people

to see her in tears, so she only crept close, and squeezed the hand that

clasped hers very tight. Lena's thoughts were good and loving, but

mingled with all the goodness was the one thing that was so seldom

wanting from her good resolutions, and was the invariable cause of their

failure, self-confidence--she would be good she was determined. How

often and often had Auntie shown this to Lena, and now Mama was trying

to teach her the same lesson of humility and trust in God. If Lena had

said to her own heart, "I will try, by God's help, to be good and do

what I know will please Auntie," she would certainly have succeeded.

But fortunately for Lena, both Mama and Auntie were asking for her what

she forgot to ask for herself--the grace of humility.

When the train reached its destination, it was a very sobered, quiet

Lena that got out of it; she was so gentle, and waited so quietly,

holding Lucy's hand, while the luggage was being collected and placed on

a cab, that Mama said, "Why, Lena, what a capital little traveller you

are! I shall tell Papa that he need not be afraid of my travelling

without him when I have you."

Lena blushed with pleasure at her mother's words, and when they were

settling how to divide their party--for they were obliged to have two

cabs--and Lucy said she wanted Lena to come with her and Hester, she

complied at once, determining that from that very moment she would carry

out her good intentions of doing everything that Aunt Mary would approve

of; and that both aunt and mother were pleased with her present conduct,

she saw at once.

It was a long drive from one station to the other. The streets were so

crowded that it took them a much longer time than they expected, not

that either Lena or her little sister thought it too long, for they were

delighted with all the bustle and noise around them, and especially with

the passing glimpse they had at the shops that they drove past. So long

had been their drive across London, that there was but little time to

spare on arrival at the station, where Millicent and Mrs. Clifford were

waiting for them--Milly all smiles and beaming with pleasure at sight of

the dear home faces. Though so glad to see them, she had evidently been

very happy with Mrs. Clifford, to judge from her friendly attitude

towards that lady, and the warm kiss and grateful words of farewell when

the time came for saying good-bye.

There was no opportunity for any private last words between Aunt Mary

and Lena in all the fuss of starting: a fond kiss and a whispered "God

bless you, my darling," was all Auntie said as she parted from her

little niece.

"Good-bye, Auntie, darling; you will come back soon, won't you? and I

will be so good I promise you."

"Promise me to try, dear," laying a stress on the word try, as she

returned the kisses that the now weeping Lena was pressing on her cheek.

Auntie's eyes were full of tears also as she stood watching them all

take their places in the train.

"You will let Milly come to me again, I hope," said Mrs. Clifford. "She

has been such a good girl, I have quite enjoyed having her. And Lena

must come too," she added, kindly laying her hand on the girl's shoulder

as she spoke, seeing her struggling bravely to check her sobs, "Won't

you, dear?"

A nod was all Lena could manage; speaking was out of the question at

that moment; but the nod and grateful look showed Mrs. Clifford that her

kindness was appreciated.

"I won't forget your parcel, Milly," called out Mrs. Clifford as the

train began to move, slowly at first, then quicker and quicker.

Lena stooped forward to take a last loving look at Auntie, who stood

waving her hand in farewell. Then the train glided out of the station,

and they were fairly on their way to their new home. Mama drew Lena down

beside her, and with loving words cheered and consoled the poor girl,

who, now that the excitement was all over, broke down utterly, and

laying her head on Mama's shoulder, wept bitterly. The tears came from

many mingled sources: first was sorrow from parting with Auntie, and

that sorrow was real and deep, but she had the hope of seeing her again

very soon, and she was with the dear mother she loved so dearly, and had

so often and often longed to be with; fatigue and over-excitement helped

to cause the sobs, which were in great part hysterical. Lena had lived

such a quiet regular life with her Aunt, that she was now feeling all

the excitement and bustle of the last week or two. There had been all

the packing and good-byes, and the journey, and now, to crown it all,

was the parting from Auntie.

Mrs. Graham let her cry on quietly for some time as she sat encircled by

her arm, until the first violence of her tears was over. Then she spoke

to her a few caressing words, which helped to soothe the weary child;

gradually, as the sobs ceased, the poor tear-swollen eyes closed, from

sheer "weariness of grief," and Lena fell asleep on Mama's arm, while

Milly, with frequent looks of sympathy towards her sister, helped Hester

to amuse Lucy at the opposite window.

Thus they journeyed quietly on, until the train stopping roused Lena.

"Have we arrived?" she asked in a sleepy voice.

"No, dear, we are not half-way yet. Edgerley is a very small place,

which this is certainly not."

By the time Mama had done speaking Lena was wide awake, and the three

girls crowded to the window to look out, and also, as they said, in

hopes of preventing any one coming in. Several people peeped into the

carriage, but whether it was the sight of the small fellow-travellers,

who, however charming they may be, are certainly not appreciated by the

travelling public, or from some other reason, they left our party to

themselves, so that, when they once more started off, it was in quite a

lively tone Lena exclaimed, "Oh, I am glad no one came in, I was in such

a fright they would!" Her sleep had done Lena good, although the ready

tears sprang to her eyes whenever the thought of Aunt Mary was recalled.

She was calmer and happier, and as the time wore on she soon recovered

her spirits, and was busy helping her sisters with the buns and

sandwiches that were in Mama's basket, and eagerly talking about what

they were to see at their country home, and also listening to Milly's

account of her visit to Mrs. Clifford.

"I am to go next time with you, am I not, Mama?" she asked.

"Perhaps Milly won't want you to," said Lucy in a very grave tone.

"O Lucy, of course I shall. It will be ever so much nicer. And there

are such lots of things to see and do." And here she launched into an

animated account of all her doings.

"What is the parcel she is going to send?" Mrs. Graham with a smile

asked.

"I don't know, Mama, what it will be--it's a present. She said she

would take me to the Bazaar and buy me something; but we had not time

yesterday, so she said she would send it to me."

"I wonder what it will be!" said Lena, and they all fell to conjecturing

what Milly's present would be, guessing all the probable and improbable

things they could think off. Not satisfied with this, they--that is the

two who were not included--actually talked themselves into the belief

that Mrs. Clifford, now she had seen them, would very likely send them

something also: in fact, it was not only a probable thing, but "almost

sure to be the case."

Thus they whiled away the time of their journey, until Mama announced

that the next station would be Edgerley.

When the train drew up there, three little heads were out of the window,

and three shrill young voices were shouting out words of welcome to

Papa, whom they at once caught sight of standing waiting for them.

It was a very small station, as Mrs. Graham had told them. She had been

to it before when she had paid a visit, many years ago, to Colonel and

Mrs. Freeling, who were now to be their near neighbours. They were the

only passengers who alighted, and until their luggage was taken out

there was no time to speak with Papa; for, as it appeared to the

children, "the train seemed to be in a hurry to rush off again;" and it

certainly looked as if they were right, for directly their luggage was

taken out of the van and safely deposited on the platform, the guard

waved his arm, the engine gave what sounded like a very impatient

shriek, and the train rushed off again with its living freight, and left

our young people standing gazing after it, in a sort of bewilderment,

from which their father's cheery voice roused them as he exclaimed,

"Now, children, come along; while you are being packed into the

carriage, I will give orders for the luggage to be sent up in a cart."

"A carriage!" exclaimed Lena, as she caught sight of a handsome carriage

and pair of horses standing outside the station. "Is that ours? how

nice! I am glad." She asked the question of no one in particular, and

no one answered it, all being busy and their attention occupied at the

moment. Milly did not feel the same feeling of pleasure as her sister at

the sight of the carriage, for during their stay in India her parents

had kept their carriage, not as a luxury as in this country, and one

only to be indulged in by rich people, but as a matter of necessity. So

she took her seat next Lena without a word or sign of wonder. "This is

nice," began Lena directly they started, though this was not done for a

little while, during which she had been picturing to herself all sorts

of wonderful visions of a large house and future drives in this

comfortable equipage. It was very strange why Aunt Mary had always been

so particular in making her so careful of her things, and teaching her

to do so much for herself if her Papa was so rich.

"So you are pleased, little woman," said her father. "It was very kind

of Colonel Freeling to send his carriage and bring you home in state

like this," he added with a laugh.

"Colonel Freeling!" said Lena in a tone of surprise. "Is it not our

carriage, Papa?"

"No, dear, of course not. What put such an idea into your head?" At

sight of Lena's crestfallen looks at his answer, Colonel Graham burst

out laughing, in which the others joined, much to Lena's secret

annoyance. Then he added gravely, "I thought you knew, dear, that I was

not a rich man, only"--this with a laugh--"a poor soldier."

"But Colonel Freeling was a soldier too; you said so," she persisted.

"Yes, with a private fortune, which makes all the difference."

"Riches do not make happiness, darling," said Mama kindly. "We shall be

very happy in our quiet little country home without a grand carriage

like this, and we ought all to be very much obliged to Colonel Freeling

for having been so kind in lending it to us to-day."

"Here we are," said Colonel Graham, as turning the corner they came in

sight of a small but very pretty house standing within iron gates which

opened into the road.

*CHAPTER VII.*

*THE NEW HOUSE.*

As Mama had said, Astbury was a very small house, but for all that it

was a very pretty one, and looked so homelike and inviting this fine

spring evening. The windows shone out, lit up by the rays of the setting

sun, from amid the green leaves with which the house was covered, like

friendly eyes of welcome to the new-corners. Roses and wisteria seemed

to vie with one another in beauty and luxuriance on the walls.

They all exclaimed with pleasure and delight at this first sight of

their new home. All Lena's visions faded away of a stately mansion, and

she agreed with the others that nothing could be prettier or nicer than

their new home appeared to be, and although it was small, how could they

help being happy in such a pretty place? There was not much garden in

the front, but behind, as they soon discovered, was quite a large one,

and to the side was a kitchen-garden, and beyond, stretching far away on

every side of them, was field after field. The children were so

impatient to explore the garden and shrubberies, and to wander forth

into this delicious green world around them, that it was with extreme

unwillingness that they received the summons to tea, which ought to have

been a welcome one to such young travellers. Lena and Milly were to

share a room together in their new home, while Lucy still occupied one

with Hester, who had come as nurse. There was no fear of their getting

into trouble or difficulties here, Mama thought, so they were allowed to

ramble off at their own sweet will the next morning; and what wonderful

discoveries they made, to be sure; everything was new and delightful to

them. Although Lena had never lived quite in the country before like

this, she had been so many country rambles with Auntie, that most of the

wild flowers that grew in such profusion round Astbury were known to her

by sight and name. Milly and Lucy considered her as quite an authority

on the subject, and consulted her about every new floral treasure they

acquired. Returning home with hands full of bluebells and anemones, they

met the first living human creature they had come across in their

rambles. Cows and sheep they had seen in plenty--almost too many of the

former for their perfect comfort--but none of their own species till

this young girl, who returned their looks of curiosity with one equally

as curious. She was taller and bigger than either of the elder Graham

girls, with short curly hair and sun-browned face, dressed very plainly

in blue serge with a plain sailor-hat perched on the top of her curls,

rather, Milly thought, because it was necessary to wear a hat than to

shelter her face from the sun, for it was pushed well back, which quite

accounted for the young face being so sun-burnt and rosy. She hesitated

as she met our young people as if about to speak, then drew back with a

sort of cold shyness and hurried on. Not so a little dog she had with

her. At sight of the Graham girls, he stood still and set up a series

of shrill barks. Lena and Milly hesitated whether to attempt to pass

him or not. Lucy settled the matter by retreating backwards into the

hedge, dragging Milly with her and screaming with terror. At the noise

the girl turned. Seizing the dog in her arms, she exclaimed, "Don't be

frightened, he won't hurt you." Then giving the dog a good hard slap,

added, "Be quiet, you stupid little thing." And without another word

she hurried on again.

Lucy soon recovered from her terror, and the incident of the dog and the

unknown girl was an engrossing subject of conversation for the remainder

of the walk, and was eagerly related to their parents at dinner.

"It must have been Bessie Freeling, I fancy," said Colonel Graham; "she

answers to your description."

"Would not she be afraid to go about by herself?" asked Milly.

"No, I fancy from what I have seen of her that she is only too fond of

roaming about in the fields; likes it better, I suspect, than staying in

the schoolroom and learning her lessons," said their father with a

smile.

"I don't wonder, Papa," was Lena's emphatic remark; "I could be out in

the fields all day long."

"You must be careful what fields you go into, children, for some of them

are set aside for hay, and you would be doing sad mischief if you went

wandering about there."

"Had not you better go with them and show them where they may go and

where not?" said their mother.

"Yes," said Colonel Graham, "we will all go together this afternoon,

Mama and all, later in the day, I mean when it is cooler."

"May not we go out now?" asked Milly.

"No, dear, it is too hot; besides, you have not put your books and

things away tidily in your room. I thought you both had decided on

making your room pretty and keeping it so."

"So we did. Let us go and do it now, Lena, while Lucy has her sleep."

For little Lucy always required a sleep in the middle of the day, for

however much she wished to be running about, her eyes would grow heavy,

and her little feet weary after spending the morning trotting about.

Lena and Milly were very busy in their room when they received a summons

to the drawing-room to see Mrs. Freeling, who, with her two girls, had

come to call. It was Hester who had come to tell them, and on seeing

Lena jump down from the chair she was standing on, so as to enable her

to reach the bookcase, where hers and Milly's books were to be kept, she

exclaimed--

"Why, Miss Lena, you are not going to leave your work unfinished, now it

is so nearly done, are you?"

"We can do that afterwards; I do so want to see Bessie Freeling."

"There are so few books left, you had better put them all tidy; I know

you will forget afterwards."

"Well, give them to me, Milly. We will stick them up anyhow now, and

put them right by and by."

"It is as easy to put them in tidily as untidily," said Hester; "and I

don't mean to let you go down till you have done it, and seen that you

are tidy also."

So, very unwillingly, Lena had to wait till Hester considered they were

fit to go down, for both children's hands showed they had been at work.

When they were ready Lena said, "Come, Milly; how slow you are! I don't

believe you want to go," and she turned to Milly, who was still

lingering at the table.

"I do hate going down to see new people. I never know what to say to

them first."

"I like it when there are children, and I do want to know if Bessie is

the same girl we saw this morning. Come on, Milly."

"Curiosity" gained the day, and overcame Milly's shyness, for she too

wanted to see if Bessie and their unknown friend were the same.

Yes, Papa had been quite right in his surmise, for when they entered the

room, they at once recognised the young girl sitting so quietly and

demurely beside Mrs. Freeling to be the same one they had met in the

morning. Gertrude, the elder sister, was there also. Much taller than

Bessie, with long fair hair, and a quiet self-possessed manner, that

made both our little friends decide that she was almost grown up, though

Milly thought she must be very nice, she had such a sweet gentle look.

Lena did not trouble very much about her, as she saw she was so

"grown-up looking;" all her looks and interest were centered upon

Bessie, who looked very rosy and uncomfortable, for she was as shy

nearly as Milly, and only answered Lena's friendly advances with short

low monosyllables, until the door opened and Lucy entered. At first she

did not recognise Bessie as the owner of the little dog that had so

frightened her, but the moment she did so she ran to her with

outstretched hand, asking, "Where is your little dog? haven't you

brought him, 'cause he was naughty?"

Bessie's eyes brightened as she greeted the child, and very soon Lucy

was on her knee chattering away quite at her ease, and Bessie soon

forgot her shyness also in the delight of the little one's company.

"How nice for you to have a little sister!" she said, looking at Lena.

"Yes, she is a dear little thing. Are you so fond of little children?"

"Yes, I love them. I hate dolls; they can't speak or anything, just

pieces of wood. I would rather have Dash than any doll; but Lucy is

better than Dash," she added with a low laugh.

Lena looked rather disgusted at her words, and said in an aggrieved

tone, "We all love dolls; don't we, Milly?"

"Love dolls," said Gertrude, joining them, "so used I; and I am not sure

that I don't still, at any rate I like dressing them."

"Gerty has got a whole drawerful at home. I think it is so silly to like

them," said Bessie scornfully.

Mrs. Freeling rising at that moment to leave, there was nothing more

said about the dolls.

"Bessie, we must ask Miss Gifford to give you a half-holiday to-morrow."

"It is Wednesday, Mama, so I have one," interrupted Bessie hastily.

"Ah yes, so it is, I had forgotten. Mrs. Graham has promised to bring

her children to-morrow to spend the day with you and Gertrude."

"How nice! And, Mama, mayn't Lucy come too?"

"Of course, dear, she was included;" then she added, turning to Mrs.

Graham, "We will expect you by one o'clock. You are sure you prefer to

walk up?"

"Yes, we shall all enjoy the walk across the fields." And she looked at

her children, whose beaming faces showed they were delighted at all

Mama's arrangements for them.

As the carriage drove away, the three children all began a chorus of

remarks upon their late visitors. Lucy was unqualified in her praises,

but not so Lena and Milly; they were neither of them sure whether they

liked Bessie quite so much as they expected.

"Gertrude was very nice," said Milly.

"What fault have you to find with poor Bessie?" said Mrs. Graham.

"Why, Mama, she turned up her nose at our liking dolls, called them

pieces of wood, and spoke as if she thought we were silly," said Lena

indignantly.

"Well, dear, you cannot expect to find everybody with exactly the same

tastes as yourselves. I daresay you will find she is really very nice;

she looks a bright frank girl, and she must be kind, judging from the

way she treated Lucy."

"She loves little girls," said Lucy with a toss of her small head. "She

likes me better than Dash; she said so."

Mrs. Graham was right. The girls found out the next day that they had

very many tastes in common with Bessie. Although she did not like

dolls, there were a great many things she did like, especially playing

in the garden and the fields, and before they separated that evening

they were all the closest of friends. But Lucy was prime favourite with

Bessie; everything that the child wanted was done at once, nothing was

too much to give the little one pleasure. Bessie had spoken the truth

when she had said that Gertrude had a drawer full of dolls, and as they

were looking at them--for Bessie condescended to be one of the party, as

Lucy expressed a wish to see the "dear dollies"--she exclaimed, "Don't

you think it silly of Gerty keeping those dolls when she is so old? And

then she is so fond of books, she is always at them. Miss Gifford says

she knows three times as much as I do."

"That is your own fault, Bessie, you know; for you won't try to learn,

so how can you get on?"

"How can one think of lessons when one wants to be out of doors? I

don't mind them on wet days, but on fine ones I cannot bear the sight of

a book. I envy you," looking at her friends as she spoke, "for you have

holidays and no governess."

"But only for a week longer. Our new governess is coming then, and we

are not to have any more holidays this summer, except a fortnight in

August."

"What a shame!"

"Mama says we have had so many lately; but we shall have the same

half-holidays as you."

"Then we can be out together, and the summer evenings are lovely for the

fields."

"Don't you like your lessons at all, Bessie?" asked Milly.

"No. How can I, when I feel I am such a long way behind Gerty? It's no

good my trying to get on--I can't," and a shade passed over the bright

face as she sighed. Bessie was in fact disheartened and disappointed.

She had been, when younger, considered quicker at her work than

Gertrude, and when she found she could learn so much sooner the lessons

set them, she had become idle and careless, thinking she could easily

catch up Gerty, though she did work so hard and was so fond of her

books. But Bessie soon found she had made a mistake, for the careless

roving habits she had given way to grew fast upon her, and soon her

sister outdistanced her on the path of learning. So Bessie grew

disgusted and disheartened. Instead of trying to make up for lost time,

she said "It was of no use," and grew fonder, or said she did, of

shirking her work. The Graham girls often wondered that Mrs. Freeling

allowed her so much liberty, for not only on the summer evenings, but

every spare hour she could get, Bessie made her way to the Grahams, and

would coax Mrs. Graham to let her carry off little Lucy to the garden,

much to the child's delight. The reason of this was that Mrs. Freeling

had come to the decision that Bessie must go to a boarding-school. She

had watched with sorrow how the girl's idle habits were increasing, and

she also saw that a good deal of it was caused by her being so

thoroughly put out of heart about her own doings and work. It would be

better for her, Mrs. Freeling knew, to have a change, and she hoped that

being with other girls, with whom she had not lost ground, would give

her courage to make a fresh start. Little did Bessie guess, as she

played with Lucy or her sisters, that very soon all this wild free life

was to be exchanged for the routine and discipline of a school.

Gertrude knew of it, and over and over again would she try and persuade

Bessie to settle down more steadily to her lessons; but argument and

persuasion were alike in vain. She was always unprepared and in

trouble. "You will be sorry for it," Gertrude would many a time say;

but Bessie's answer was always the same, "It is no good trying; I can't

get on." Thus the next week or two slipped away. Miss Marshall had

arrived, and lessons were begun regularly, when one morning Lucy rushed

in, throwing the door wide open, and forgetting in her excitement that

she was breaking through all rules by thus disturbing her sisters during

working hours.

"O Miss Marshall, Lena, Milly, what do you think?" she exclaimed

eagerly, her eyes sparkling with delight. Then without waiting for an

answer she went on, "We are all to have tea in the hayfield. Mrs.

Freeling has asked us, and Mama says we may go, and this afternoon

Bessie is going to buy me a little rake, and I shall make hay." Here

the child stopped for sheer want of breath, while Lena and Milly both

exclaimed in tones of delight at the proposed treat.

Fortunately lessons were nearly over for the morning, for Miss Marshall

found it very difficult to restrain her pupils' eagerness to get them

finished, and go and hear all about the treat in store. Bessie, who had

brought the news to Lucy, was quite ready and able to give them all

particulars. And the two elder girls looked wistfully after the

carriage that conveyed Mrs. Graham and Lucy with Mrs. Freeling to the

neighbouring town when they began afternoon lessons.

"Lucy gets all the treats," murmured Lena crossly, while Milly added

with a little sigh, "I wish I was her."

This was to be a day of surprises for them, for when Mama returned she

told them she had heard from Mrs. Clifford, who wrote she had that day

sent off a box. "It is addressed to you, Milly dear," she continued.

"When do you think it will come?" asked Milly.

"It has arrived at the station, dear. Mrs. Freeling kindly called,

meaning to bring it back with her; but we heard then that it had been

sent by the carrier, so I expect it will soon be here."

After tea and lessons were over, the three girls went down the road to

look if they could see the carrier's cart coming. Lena and Lucy were

both as excited about the expected parcel as Milly herself, for they had

quite talked themselves into the belief that Mrs. Clifford would be sure

to send them something. Mrs. Graham had repeatedly told them that it

was not at all probable; but they thought otherwise, and as they wished

to think so, Mama's warnings were all thrown away upon them. Bessie,

too, had helped to increase Lucy's confidence, for she had said, "Of

course she would not forget to send such a little darling as you

something nice." So all three were in a state of great delight when

they saw the cart coming towards the house. They all scampered back to

call to Mama that the precious parcel would very soon arrive, and to

entreat her to come and see it opened."

"You can bring it into the dining-room and open it there," said Mrs.

Graham to the eager party.

"Such a nice big one, Mama," said Milly, appearing with a box in her

arms, done up in brown paper, and addressed to "Miss Millicent Graham."

"It must have more than one thing in it," said Lena anxiously. Then the

string was undone and the paper taken off, and a square card-board box

was displayed to view.

"I see two parcels," said Milly excitedly as she opened it.

"Mine will be in the corner or underneath!" cried Lucy, as she danced

about in her excitement.

Milly took out the first thing, and taking off the paper coverings that

were round it, held up a very pretty white hat, trimmed with lace and a

large white ostrich feather.

"Oh, how lovely! I hope mine is the same," said Lena, putting down the

hat on the table.

Milly took out the other thing. It was not a hat she felt at once.

Uncovering it, she saw a white straw work-basket, and opening it they

further saw that it was lined with blue satin, and filled with all the

necessary things for working with. Laying that on the table beside the

hat, she dived again into the box. A look of disappointment crept over

her face as she felt, for nothing more was there but the paper which had

been placed in it to keep the hat from being hurt by the basket.