THE RACE
The Flower Show, they found, was being held in the Rectory meadow,
and thither, after someone had shown them the direction, they bent
their steps.
"I wish you could have come in with me," Mavis said wistfully, when
they reached the gate.
"So do I," Nancy replied, "but I can't as we've only one sixpence,
but I'll stay quite near."
She turned to the man at the entrance and asked whether he could tell
her about what time the race for little girl visitors would take
place. The man looked at his watch.
"In about half an hour," he replied.
Nancy thanked him and drew Mavis away from the fast-gathering crowd
at the gate.
"Let's walk round the outside of the meadow," she whispered, "and see
if there's a hole in the hedge that I can watch through. Then you'll
know just where I am, and it will be nicer for you."
The meadow was a large one. Presently, along the further side of it
they found a small opening where it was possible to see all that was
happening. Here they stayed till the half-hour was nearly up,
watching the crowds round the swings and roundabouts, and thinking
how, at any other time, they would have loved to be in the thick of
all the fun.
When it was time for Mavis to go, Nancy took her as far as the gate.
She watched the lonely little figure--with the sixpence clasped tight
in her hand--advance timidly towards the race-course and then ran
back to her opening on the other side of the meadow.
The next five minutes were five of the longest Nancy had ever known.
Far across the race-course she could just see her little sister
waiting with a group of other girls. Mavis would be wearing that
dear little smile that made everybody love her and nobody would know
how bad she was feeling inside. But Nancy knew. And as she waited
her conscience began to trouble her. _Ought_ she to have let a
little girl of seven, the pet of the family, do this thing? To let
her be there alone in that crowd of strangers--what would Mother say?
Nancy pressed her hands tight together, and if it had been possible
would have called the child back.
"Oh, I didn't think! I didn't think!" she cried with passionate
regret. "Oh, why didn't Billy and I think?"
Suddenly, the whistle sounded, and the race started. Nancy scrambled
further up the bank, and almost pushed herself through the hedge in
her anxiety to see. About a dozen girls were running, all of them
but Mavis wearing garden-party frocks. Most of them seemed to be
about Mavis' own age, but three of them were almost as tall as Nancy
herself. _Could_ Mavis possibly beat them? After the first
breathless second or so Nancy knew there was no need to fear, for
Mavis was skimming over the ground so swiftly that the other girls,
though some of them, apparently, were using far more energy, were
left far behind. Nancy saw people craning forward to watch her
little sister; she almost _felt_ their admiration as the small figure
skimmed bird-like over the ground. The applause when Mavis reached
the rope was deafening. Nancy's heart swelled with pride as she
listened to it and for the moment self-reproach slipped into the
background.
She scrambled down into the road again and waited eagerly for Mavis
to come to her. A few minutes later she saw her coming round the
bend in the road and ran forward to meet her. Then she paused in
consternation, for in that little figure coming slowly towards her,
in the drooping head there was nothing of the conqueror. What could
possibly have happened? With outstretched arms she flew towards the
sad little figure that advanced so reluctantly.
"Mavis dear, what is the matter? Tell me," she cried, as she held
her close. "You won the race--I saw you. Are you hurt? Do tell me,
dear!"
Mavis clung passionately to her.
"Oh," she sobbed, "that horrid Margaret Seaton was there--I saw her
just as I was coming away. And she saw me and she looked at my dirty
frock and she'd got on her best knitted mauve silk. An' she'll tell
everybody I ran for seven-and-sixpence! Oh, Nancy, let's go
away--let's go home! I _can't_ wait and take the prize in front of
everybody looking like a tramp!"
Margaret Seaton, the most snobbish girl in Nestley, here in the
hills! And only just before the race they had been comforted by the
thought that forest people did not go to the hill Flower Shows. What
could possibly have brought her here? Oh, of course! It was the
holidays, and she was probably visiting friends in the neighbourhood.
But that of all people it should have been Margaret Seaton! Nancy,
knowing the girl, and knowing Mavis, was overwhelmed now with the
remorse that had been tugging at her conscience while she waited for
the race to begin. She hugged Mavis close and stroked her hair.
"No, dear, you shan't wait to take the prize. We ought never to have
let you go in for the race. Mummy would say it was a dreadful thing
for us to let our baby earn the money. Billy and I ought to have
thought. If we can't earn it some other way we must go home."
"Oh, but are you sure you and Billy won't hate me? Billy will be so
disappointed."
"Yes, but he'll understand--you know he will. I'll explain to him.
Don't worry any more, dear. See, we'll sit down here together till
your eyes are dry, 'cos you won't want people to see you've been
crying; then we'll go."
And so together they sat down on the bank till the storm of tears
should have subsided.
What was to happen now, Nancy wondered? The seven-and-sixpence
belonged to Mavis, but even if the child should presently change her
mind and be willing to go up to receive it, she was determined not to
allow her to make the sacrifice. Poor old Billy, how disappointed he
would be! She must call him aside and talk things over with him
before anything could be decided.
"Look!" whispered Mavis, her voice trembling with agitation, "there's
Billy coming along the road! Oh, Nancy, you _will_ explain, won't
you?"
Nancy re-assured her and stood up to wave to Billy, who had not yet
seen them. He ran forward eagerly, and then he, too, paused as Nancy
had done. No need to ask questions; he knew at once that they were
still penniless. Poor little Mavis, how sorry she seemed. Ah, but
she mustn't be--he must pretend that he, at least, did not care!
"Hullo!" he said. "No go, eh, old girl? Well, never mind--you were
a little brick to try; you've been jolly sporty!"
"Oh, but I haven't!" Mavis wailed, her tears starting afresh. "I'm
not a tiny bit sporty! I won the prize an'----"
"_I'll_ tell him," Nancy interrupted.
And then she explained everything to Billy, telling also of her own
remorse.
"Say something to cheer her up," she whispered. "She's feeling so
bad about it."
For answer Billy slipped down on to the bank by Mavis and put his
arms round her.
"It's all my fault," he said contritely. "I--I never thought till a
little while ago up in the wood, at least, not properly. That's why
I came to find you."
"Are Mr. Frampton and Monty still there?" Nancy asked, seating
herself on the other side of Mavis.
"Yes. I said we'd be back to tea, but--but don't let's hurry. Let's
sit here together a bit, just the three of us, shall we?"
Just the three of them in a fellowship that even Dick or Monty could
not quite enter into yet because it required more even than the
intimacy of the last few days to belong fully to the comradeship that
existed between these three.
For a long while they sat there, saying nothing, but with
understanding between them. Nobody passed them. Once a lady and a
little girl came towards a house on the other side of the road. They
watched them idly, noticing the daintiness of the child and the
youngness of her mother, yet none of them was really interested,
though at any other time they would have been struck by the music in
the child's laugh.
"Billy," Mavis whispered presently, "p'raps I _will_ go and take the
prize. I--I could shut my eyes tight and not see anybody. P'raps
Margaret Seaton will have gone."
"You'll do nothing of the land," Billy replied emphatically. "I'd
rather starve than let you do it No! I've been thinking, and I can't
see any way out but to go home. I left Mont cutting down wood for
his frames, but he'd never sell enough to keep us all. 'Sides----"
He broke off abruptly, not liking to remind Mavis that the sixpence
for her entrance fee had left them with only a halfpenny. "So shall
I ask Mr. Frampton to take us home or send the telegram to the Prior?"
They couldn't send the wire, Nancy said, for she had noticed that it
was early closing day when they passed through the village.
"Then we must ask Mr. Frampton to take us home, and we'll have to
have poor old Ladybird sent on somehow. We shall have to tell
everything to Mr. Frampton 'cos we can't borrow money from him
without letting him know that we can pay him back. We shall have to
take it out of the Savings Bank."
"Yes," Nancy replied thoughtfully. "But need we go to-night, Billy?"
For herself the glamour had gone out of the hills, for the time
being, at least, but she knew what giving in would mean to Billy.
"Couldn't we wait till to-morrow and just see if we can think of some
plan?"
Billy shook his head.
"No, we can't. We can't sponge on Mr. Frampton. To-day was
different, 'cos we thought--I mean--oh, it's difficult to explain."
Though he found it difficult to express his idea he knew quite well
where the difference lay. To-day was not sponging, but to-morrow, if
they stayed, would be. No, it would not be "cricket" to keep their
penniless condition hidden any longer from Mr. Frampton. He must
know everything.
"Shall we go and tell him now?" he asked. The explanation was not
going to be easy, and the sooner it was over the better.
Three sad and forlorn little people set off dejectedly down the road.
Sounds of merriment came from the meadow. The children heard them,
but they would not turn their heads in the direction of a place that
was now so hateful to them; as long as they lived, Flower Shows and
all the jolly things attached to them that they had used to love
would recall the bitterness of this day.
And so they walked along with their eyes fixed on the dusty road
until a gurgle of laughter caused them to look up. Instinctively
they paused, arrested by what they saw. Instinctively, too, they
crept towards the fence that stood between them and that which had
attracted them and stood with their noses pressed to it, their
troubles for the moment forgotten, their interest thoroughly aroused.
"Oh, the darling!" Nancy whispered. "See! It's the little girl we
saw go into this house this afternoon. Isn't she sweet?"
In a paddock at the side of the house was a pond with a willow tree
drooping over it, and near the pond, with her back to the road was
the little girl they had seen earlier in the afternoon. She was
dancing, and as she danced she crooned a little song. Indeed, it was
the song that seemed to suggest the dance. She sang of the "p'itty
ripple" in the water, and as she danced her arms rippled through the
air. She sang of the slow fluttering of leaves from the willow into
the pond--again her fingers moved lightly as though she were
scattering leaves. She sang of the "p'itty, p'itty sunshine that
makes 'ittle girls happy," and as she sang she became the very
embodiment of joy--as joyous as the swallows that had splashed their
happiness about the Prior's garden. And then she paused for a moment
and seemed lost in thought. With a nod of satisfaction she again
took up the song and dance. She was a little mother now singing her
dolly to sleep--a troublesome dolly who needed much crooning to
before she would sink to rest on the grass by the pond.
The children watched with breathless interest. They were spellbound,
fascinated. Never before had they even imagined anything like the
dancing of this fairy of five. A grown-up person would have said
that the child was the embodiment of poetry, that she spilt it from
her beautiful little fingers. They would have said, too, if they
happened to be gifted with artistic perception, that rhythm was
perfected in the movements and crooning of the tiny person.
Something of the kind Nancy herself would have said had she had the
words at her command to express what she felt. As it was, she could
only stand there with the other two children, each of them absorbed
in the entrancing picture that certainly did not belong to the
everyday world.
Time passed unheeded while they stood with their faces pressed to the
fence and the child danced. Presently, however, she paused and
seemed to be considering. Then a little gurgle of delight escaped
her, and, clapping her hands, she ran swiftly towards the tree that
hung over the pond. She stood by the edge of the water watching with
delight something that evidently fascinated her.
"Is it a dragon-fly?" Mavis whispered.
Billy nodded.
"B'lieve there are lots of them, but I can't quite see. Wish she
wouldn't get so near the water!"
The child talked and crooned to the dragon-flies. Stray words
reached the children.
"P'itty sky things! Dear dancy things! Nonie loves 'oo--Nonie not
hurt 'ittle sparkly things. Nonie dance like 'oo."
They saw her poise herself tiptoe with arms outspread, then, with a
gurgle of laughter, skim with light flitting movements along the edge
of the pond.
"Nonie sky thing, too, now," she gurgled. "But, oh, so sad, Nonie
can't dance on water like 'oo."
Now, a root of the willow tree hung over the pond on a level with the
bank like a great arm. The child saw the root and, in her desire to
get closer to the fascinating dragon-flies, she tip-toed along it and
stood, with hands clasped together, on the very edge of the arm.
The children gazed in horror.
"She'll fall! Oh, she'll fall!" Mavis whispered.
"Hush! We mustn't frighten her," Nancy replied. "But, oh, I wish
she'd come off it! If we call her she'd fall in, I 'spect."
Billy said nothing, but his face went white with the tension of
watching. He dared not move lest he should scare the child, but he
was ready to vault the fence at the first hint of real danger.
For five long minutes they stood gripping the palings, while Nonie,
regardless of her danger, crooned low and tenderly her delight in the
flashes of blue life at her feet.
Suddenly, a dog entered the paddock from the garden and barking with
joy rushed towards his little mistress. So absorbed was the child
that she did not hear him until he reached the tree.
"Nikko!" she cried, "go back! Naughty--go back!"
The dog, however, was so delighted to see her that he ran along the
root of the tree barking joyously, and then, reaching his beloved
little mistress, jumped up to lick her face. Just a touch of his
paw, just a touch of love, and with a frightened scream Nonie fell,
her dress catching on the root of the tree and holding her just above
the water.
Billy, however, had not waited to see the end. Before the dog had
reached the tree he had vaulted the fence and was running towards the
pond. He saw the child fall, he saw the little muslin garments catch
on the jagged roots and hoped passionately that they would not give
way before he could reach the suspended, frightened little girl.
"I'm coming!" he yelled. "Don't be frightened, Nonie!"
Pushing the excited dog out of the way he ran along the arm of the
tree, and, kneeling down, reached for the screaming child. Then,
regardless of the damage to her pretty clothes, he slipped his hands
under her and dragged her away from the roots that had proved her
salvation.
"Don't cry, dear," he panted. "You're safe now; wait just a minute
and I'll crawl along to the bank with you. It's going to be jolly
awkward, though!" he added to himself.
His arms ached from the strain of lifting the child, and his legs
were cramped, for there was very little room for a big boy on the
narrow ledge. Exactly how he should crawl back without dropping his
precious burden he did not know, but Nancy solved the problem.
"Billy, wait a moment," she cried, as she and Mavis came running
towards the tree. "I'll slither along sideways towards you, then I
can take her from you and pass her on to Mavis. Now, are you ready?"
It was no easy matter for Billy to twist himself round and pass the
frightened little girl to Nancy, but somehow or other he managed it.
Nancy held the child tenderly a moment before passing her on to
Mavis, and did her best to quieten her sobs.
"Oh, see!" Mavis cried, relief in her voice, "here's her mother
running across the meadow. She'd better take her, hadn't she--she's
stronger than me."
Nonie's mother reached the scene a moment later. Nancy smiled
re-assuringly when she saw the alarm and agitation in her face.
"She's all right," she said. "But will you get where Mavis is,
please, an' hold out your arms so I can pass her to you?"
Nonie's mother did not wait to be enlightened as to the cause of the
tear-stained face and torn clothes, or the presence of the three
little strangers, but simply held out her arms at Nancy's request,
assured by her comforting smile that they, at least, were not
responsible for the accident.
Nonie, when she saw that she was once more on firm ground, clasped
her arms round her mother's neck.
"Nonie naughty 'ittle girl," she wailed repentantly.
"I rather think she is," her mother replied, holding her very, very
close. "What is the naughty thing that my little girl has done this
time?"
The children, who had scrambled to the bank, stood round watching the
mother and child with undisguised interest. Nancy interrupted.
"It was really the dog," she explained. "He was so pleased to see
Nonie an' he jumped up and pawed her and she fell, and, oh, wasn't it
a good thing her dress got caught? Billy _might_ not have got her
out of the water in time if he'd had to jump in for her. He had to
tear her clothes fearfully when he pulled her up, but he couldn't
help it."
Couldn't help it? As though torn clothes mattered a scrap when Nonie
was safe! Nonie's mother had listened gravely to Nancy's
explanation, but now her hazel eyes lit up with a lovely smile as she
looked at Billy over Nonie's head. Such a wonderful smile that
Billy's young heart went out to her in worship. Again she turned to
Nonie.
"I am still afraid that Nonie was right when she said she had been
naughty. What, I wonder, was she doing on that narrow root? I seem
to remember telling a little girl not to go near the water!"
Nonie looked up fearlessly into her mother's eyes and nodded.
"Yes, Nonie very naughty girl. It was the bits of sky things, they
were _ever_ pretty, an' I just wanted to know how to dance like them,
an' so I forgotted, Mummy."
"I see. But now what is going to happen about it? How am I to
punish you?"
"Oh!"
The cry broke involuntarily from the three children. _Must_ this
fairy-like little dancer who had held them so enthralled suffer
ordinary, everyday punishment? Must she perhaps be _smacked_? It
was unthinkable.
Nonie's mother seemed to take them into her confidence as she looked
up at them with a sorry smile.
"You see," she explained, "little girls of five are not too young to
learn to obey. Nonie has been told not to go near the pond."
Nonie suddenly looked up hopefully.
"But 'oo never said 'pwomiss,' did 'oo? Could honour do 'stead of
punis'ment?"
The children listened incredulously. What could this baby thing
possibly know of honour?
Nonie's mother remained thoughtful for a moment. The children
fancied they saw relief in her eyes.
"Very well," she replied. "We will try."
She put Nonie down on the ground and immediately the baby thing
straightened herself like a soldier and stood with head erect gazing
fearlessly at her mother, who looked down at her gravely and tenderly.
"Nonie Brimscombe," she said solemnly, "do you know what honour is?"
"Yes, Mummy."
"And truth?"
"Yes, Mummy."
"Can you promise on your word of honour never to go near the pond
alone again--not even to see a dragonfly?"
"_Yes_, Mummy."
"Can I rely on you to keep this promise?"
"Yes, Mummy, Nonie'll not bweak her word." Then she relaxed and held
out her arms to her mother with a winning smile. "Are I forgived,
Mummy dear? I are ever, ever sorry."
Mrs. Brimscombe stooped and kissed the child.
"Yes, and now we must go and change that frock. But we haven't yet
thanked these little people for rescuing you, have we?"
She turned towards the children, who, during the little scene between
Nonie and her mother, had been listening and watching intently. Was
it a kind of "make-believe"? Ah, yes, it was that surely, and yet
behind the "make-believe" they felt something real and big, something
that made them each instinctively straighten themselves just as Nonie
had done. Whether it was the words or the way in which Mrs.
Brimscombe spoke them they hardly knew, yet all that was best in them
responded to the little scene. If Flower Shows were henceforth to
have a sting behind them the word "honour" was always to awaken the
memory of this poignant little scene in the paddock. Yet _why_ had
Mrs. Brimscombe played this "make-believe" with Nonie and _what_ was
behind it? And again, why did the name "Brimscombe" seem, well, not
familiar perhaps, but to stir up some memory? Suddenly, Billy
remembered. This was the Mrs. Brimscombe whose husband had been
drowned in a boating accident at Gleambridge the previous summer. He
recollected it all; a friend of Aunt Letty's knew her and had told
them all about it, how splendid she had been about it, how she had
never forgotten the creed of the Guides to smile bravely through
trouble. Ah, of course, she was the head of the Girl Guides in that
district, Aunt Letty's friend had told them; and though Nonie was too
young to belong to the Guides her mother evidently was training her
to be one--that, of course, accounted for what they had just
witnessed.
But Mrs. Brimscombe was speaking.
"I am wondering," she said, and her voice was tremulous with emotion,
"how I am ever going to thank you. It is--difficult," she added, and
her smile as she glanced from them to Nonie was so unspeakably
tender, so alight with something that came from her very soul that
not only Billy's, but the girls' hearts, too, went out to her. Then
she pushed emotion from her and turned to Nonie. "I wonder, if we
asked them very nicely, if our little friends would stay and have tea
with us?" Now, so far Mavis had been somewhat in the background, and
it was Billy, her Nonie's rescuer, of whom Mrs. Brimscombe had taken
special notice. Suddenly, however, she looked at Mavis with eyes of
recognition. "Why!" she exclaimed, "aren't you the little girl who
won the Visitors' Race?"
Mavis, looking flushed and uncomfortable, hardly knew what to reply.
"Yes, I _did_ win it," she began. "But--but----" She paused and
threw an appealing glance at Nancy and Billy.
"Ah, then you certainly _must_ stay and have tea with Nonie. The
prizes won't be distributed until about six o'clock. Stay and play
with Nonie till then, will you, dears? That is, if you can," she
added.
"Thank you very much," Billy began bravely, "but--but I don't think
Mavis is going back to the Flower Show. We--we don't need the money
very much."
"And we promised Mr. Frampton and Montague we'd be back for tea,"
Nancy added. "But we _would_ like to have been able to play with
Nonie," she added regretfully.
Mrs. Brimscombe looked at the children thoughtfully. Now what, she
wondered, lay behind their reluctance to take the prize? Mavis had
won it fairly, she was entitled to it. Yet the child's instinctive
glance at her soiled frock had not escaped her or the tear-stains
round her eyes. Something clearly was wrong. What were they doing
here alone and where were the Mr. Frampton and Montague they had
mentioned? Not at the Flower Show apparently, else they themselves
would have been returning there. No, evidently they were alone in
Barsdon. Was it possible they had come specially for the race? For
Billy's denial of their need of the money set her wondering. Could
it be that they needed it, and that some hurt to their young pride
(for she knew from her wide experience the sensitiveness of a child's
heart) prevented them from taking it? The children's growing
embarrassment troubled her. In some way or other she must help them
out of their difficulty.
"You know," she said, turning to Nancy confidentially, "I think your
little sister ought to have that money. The Committee simply won't
know what to do with it if it's left on their hands. They get rather
fuddled, poor dears, if things don't go just by clockwork. You see,
it's a great day with them, _lots_ of preparation beforehand, and
to-day hard work since before seven o'clock. I've got a prize for
Table Decoration, and I simply daren't not take it. I wonder if you
would let me take yours at the same time, as you have to rejoin your
friends for tea? I'll give you the money now, and you can give me a
receipt for it that I can show the Committee. Just in case," she
added, with a laugh, "they think I'm trying to get it unlawfully.
Come along into the house and I'll get it for you," and she moved
across the paddock without waiting for a reply.
"Boy, give Nonie pick-a-back," demanded Nonie, who had been making
overtures of friendship to the responsive children. "Nonie like 'oo!"
Billy stooped and picked up the child very readily, yet still his
conscience troubled him as he galloped towards the house with her.
It seemed so mean to take the money when they hadn't the courage to
go up and receive it themselves. When they reached the house he put
Nonie down and stood in the porch, hesitating uncomfortably. _What_
should he do? What ought he to do? The money would make such a
difference--just exactly how hard it would be to give up the
adventure he had not realized until Mrs. Brimscombe's suggestion had
seemed to make it possible to go on. And yet that the money should
come so easily----
"Won't it--won't it bother you?" he asked awkwardly, looking up at
Mrs. Brimscombe, who, seeing his indecision, had waited behind while
Nonie took the girls into the house. "If you'd rather, I'll go and
get it if the Committee would give it to me. The others could go on
and tell Mr. Frampton I'm coming later. You see, we _can't_ let
Mavis take it herself 'cos, well, 'cos it was mean of us to let her
go in for the race--only, we didn't think. And--and it wasn't true
that we don't want it, least not quite true. We needn't be poor,
it's not anybody's fault but our own--only----"
Billy paused, hardly knowing how to proceed without telling the whole
story, and this he could not do, not even to this lovely lady. And
yet----
Mrs. Brimscombe had listened with interest and sympathy to Billy's
half-confession, filling in with ready intuition the gaps in his
story. _Why_ they needed the money, she hardly felt it necessary to
enquire. Probably it was for some little private purpose, some
secret between the three of them. From their conversation they were
evidently in the care of some responsible person, and their
appearance, except for the stain on Mavis's frock, gave no indication
of poverty. Nevertheless, knowing so well the hearts of children,
she was now more anxious than ever to help them in their difficulty.
She put both her hands on Billy's shoulders and looked down into his
eyes. For a moment she did not speak, and in that silent communion
each read the truth and honesty in the other, oh, and a whole world
of other things besides.
"Won't you let me do this for you?" she pleaded. "You saved my Nonie
and--she is all I have."
How could Billy resist such an appeal? That smile that could conquer
tragedy, a smile that with most people would have been tears, was in
her eyes, and, because of it and the restrained sadness in her voice,
all that was chivalrous in Billy went out to her. And there was a
good deal of chivalry in Billy. A boy who has grown to ten years of
age with a Raleigh for his hero, who has walked with that noble
gentleman in imagination not once but hundreds of times under stately
trees that have probably swayed above the real Raleigh, who has felt
his influence all around him, such a boy could not fail to have
something chivalrous in his own composition. Raleigh had spread his
cloak for a queen to tread on; Billy's whole soul was at the service
of his Queen. Nevertheless, being a normal, healthy-minded boy he
found it difficult to express what was passing in his mind.
"Her dress is spoilt though, an' all her other clothes."
That was all he could find to say.
Mrs. Brimscombe laughed (she had read the surrender in his eyes, and
that protective sympathy for her that he found it impossible to
express did not escape her). "Yes, and I ought to go and put her
into something respectable, oughtn't I? It's her _best_ frock, too."
Again a low rich gurgle that was so like Nonie's escaped her. What
were a few torn clothes when your one earthly treasure was safe, her
laughter seemed to say. "And so," she added, pressing Billy's
shoulder affectionately, "it's a bargain, isn't it?"
Billy nodded.
"An'--an' thank you awfully." He hesitated, and she waited, knowing
that he had more to say. "Could I some day write and tell you what
we wanted it for?" he asked, looking up into her face. "I can't tell
you now but--but I'd like you to know. It's awfully important and
interesting, and it means not having to give in about something."
"Yes, write and tell me all you can, and be very sure I shall be
interested in anything that concerns you--always. Tell me just one
thing," she added, looking straight into his eyes, "are you more than
seven-and-sixpence poor?"
Billy returned her look squarely. He could not possibly resent the
implied suggestion behind her words, and he thought the matter out
carefully before replying. Sleeping out of doors had become a
fascination, therefore nothing would be required for lodgings.
Surely seven-and-sixpence should feed them for three or four days
longer?
"No," he replied, "I think we're not, but--thank you very much."
Mrs. Brimscombe was satisfied that he spoke the truth.
"Come in for a moment," she said; "I must have that receipt, you
know!"
Nonie, regardless of her rags, was playing hostess to Nancy and Mavis
in the drawing-room.
"Oh, she's sweet!" Nancy whispered to Mrs. Brimscombe, when she and
Billy entered the room. "She's pretending to be you, talking
'grown-up afternoon-tea talk'--so funny and quaint! I wish we could
see her again some day."
"You are going to," Mrs. Brimscombe replied simply. "Nonie and I are
not going to lose sight of you, are we, Nonie? Shall we ask them if
they will come and stay with us some day?"
To come and stay here with Nonie's mother? Billy, as he watched
Mavis sign the receipt and drink the milk Mrs. Brimscombe insisted on
them having before leaving, thrilled with pride at the thought of it.
Aunt Letty's friend had said that it was a privilege to serve under
her (she herself was a captain in the Guides). Well, what of the
privilege of staying in her house and perhaps being allowed to be her
protector, since she had no one now to look after her? Oh, this hill
country, what endless wonders it held? Who could possibly prefer an
everyday garden to adventuring here?