"Ah," said Miss Crabingway. "Yes, I'm glad I sent Joseph Sigglesthorne
that telegram. He never can remember dates--especially after the 8th of
each month. They always send him in two rashers of bacon every morning
for his breakfast during the first week in each month--after that they
give him boiled eggs every day until the end of the month, and it
becomes so monotonous that he can't distinguish one day from another.
It's certainly rather confusing, isn't it? I've told him I'd change the
restaurant or coffee-house, or whatever it is that supplies him with
breakfast; but he's used to it, and he doesn't like change--so it's no
good my talking or giving him calendars--I just send him a telegram."
Miss Crabingway seated herself and began rustling and sorting the papers
on the little table in front of her.
"And now," she continued in her decisive voice, flashing a glance round
her puzzled audience, and once again looking last and longest at Beryl,
"I didn't ask you to come up here in order to discuss Joseph
Sigglesthorne's breakfast--as you will doubtless guess. I asked you
here to tell you a true story, and, if you please, don't speak to me
until I've finished."
Without more ado Miss Crabingway gave a dry little cough and began
hurriedly:
"There was an elderly person who was rich, and lonely--" she paused for
a second, then added with emphasis, "and crotchety! Yes, that's what
she was, though most of her acquaintances called her eccentric, and
quaint--out of politeness.... As she grew older she grew more and more
lonely; and realizing one day (when she was feeling ill and depressed)
that she couldn't take her money with her when she died, she determined
that she would make use of it now and give some benefit and enjoyment to
herself, and, if possible, to others.... She--she had taken a great
fancy to a young girl she had come across recently--the daughter of a
very old and valued friend who died some years back.... And what made
her particularly--crotchety, was that she had wanted to adopt this girl,
and the girl's relatives had refused. For what reason, it is impossible
to say! For the relatives were not over-rich, nor over-fond of the
girl.... Probably it was because the relatives were not offered enough
money.... Anyway, the elderly person had a quarrel with the relatives,
and the elderly person went off in a huff, which she afterward
regretted--and would have gone back and said so, only about this time
some urgent business affairs called her away from home. Before she went
she thought of a plan whereby she could give the young girl she liked a
rest from her relatives, and at the same time help her to develop her
character. For the elderly person had long cherished a belief that most
young girls in their early teens would do better in after life if they
had a chance to develop their characters, for a time, away from the
influence of their parents or guardians.... Having heard of three other
young girls whom she thought it would be interesting to try the
experiment on, the elderly person sent out invitations to all four,
adding a little inducement, in the shape of a sum of money, to each."
Miss Crabingway, having now touched on a subject in which she was
evidently greatly interested, went on to express her ideas about
character development at some length, adding that when she was a girl
herself she had suffered from character-suppression, and had been
cramped and moulded by her own parents so that she had not an idea nor
opinion of her own all the years she lived under their influence.
"I was merely an echo," she said, "and all my thoughts and opinions were
second-hand."
Miss Crabingway's roman nose seemed to be contradicting these words even
as they were uttered, but her keen, earnest eyes assured one that she
was speaking the truth.
"I think there comes a time," she went on, "when it is best for every
girl to think and act for herself--to get used to relying on herself,
and not on others. This does not mean being rebellious, you know--it
means just clear thinking, and acting self-reliantly."
So absorbed did Miss Crabingway become in her theory that she forgot all
about the 'elderly person' and slipped unconsciously into the first
person, mentioning the little girl she had wanted to adopt by name.
Even before she mentioned the name the other three girls had guessed who
it was, and several quiet and curious glances had been cast in the
direction of Beryl as she sat, silent and pale, her eyes on the ground.
The girls had expected that Miss Crabingway was going to say something
special about Beryl by the way her glance kept wandering to Beryl's
face, studying it affectionately, yet anxiously.
"You see, I was anxious to try the experiment, but most of all I was
anxious to obtain congenial companions for--for Beryl," Miss Crabingway
continued. "I induced Beryl's relatives to allow her to come and stop
at the house while I was away--it doesn't matter how I induced them....
And then I made a few rules; one for the purpose of keeping these
relatives from worrying Beryl--of course it was a little hard on you
other girls, perhaps..."
("I should think it was," thought Isobel to herself.)
"... But it was only for a short while, and it would help to develop
character--and, after all, elderly people _will_ have their little fads
and whims--especially if they're eccentric," she said the last word a
little bitterly, as if recalling some one's opinion of her. "Well, the
plan has worked out fairly successfully, I hope.... Whether your visit
here has strengthened your characters--only the future can show. I
shall never know--because I did not know you before--but you will each
be able to judge for yourself.... I hope very much that it has helped
you all, and done you all good.... Of one thing I feel sure--it has done
this old house good to have fresh young people about the rooms and up
and down the stairs. The place had grown old and grave and silent
through long association with old and silent people. It needed some
laughter and young voices..." Miss Crabingway paused. "I have had
constant news of you all, from Martha ... and Martha says everything has
gone along all right?"
There was a questioning note in Miss Crabingway's voice as she paused
again and scanned the intent young faces before her; so that presently
Pamela, catching the inquiring gaze directed on herself, said:
"I--I think it has--I hope it has--anyway, I have enjoyed being here
very much, and it has done me good--in many ways. Though being cut off
from home was awfully hard to get used to...."
She had scarcely realized yet that her feelings, or in fact the feelings
of any of them excepting Beryl, were a matter of secondary importance to
Miss Crabingway. Beryl was the chief reason for the invitation to stay
at Chequertrees, for the rules drawn up for them to observe during their
stay, for the offer of fifty pounds each. It was all done for Beryl's
sake, for Beryl's happiness. It was difficult at first to readjust
one's outlook and see things from this new point of view.... But why
had Miss Crabingway chosen Pamela to act as hostess? Possibly because
when she saw Beryl and 'took a fancy to her' she recognized that Beryl
was not the sort of girl to like the position, and so had relieved her
of the responsibility and left her free to devote herself to whatever
work she preferred and to develop her character unfettered. To Pamela,
Isobel, and Caroline it seemed an elaborate yet simple explanation of
their invitation to Chequertrees. In order to achieve her ends Miss
Crabingway seemed to have taken unnecessary trouble, the three girls
thought; but, of course, they were not acquainted with Miss Crabingway's
'eccentric' ways, neither did they know the nature of one of the
relatives of the little girl Miss Crabingway had wished to adopt.
There were still some questions that the girls wanted answered. What
had the locked door got to do with the story? And how did Miss
Crabingway know that they would prove 'congenial' companions for
Beryl?--as a matter of fact all of them had not. It was surely rather
risky to invite them without seeing them?
"I should like to say that I think Pamela has been a splendid hostess,"
remarked Caroline, suddenly and unexpectedly.
This was echoed at once by Isobel and Beryl.
"I'm glad to hear you say that," said Miss Crabingway, smiling. "I knew
Pamela's mother, and I knew her grandmother--and I felt sure I was safe
in choosing Pamela. Of course there was a risk--a great risk; you might
have turned out a dreadful set of girls! ... But Martha would have told
me if anything had been going wrong--and I should have managed to come
down from Scotland for a week-end to see for myself.... I--I want to
hear now what you think of my plan?"
She looked across at Beryl; but Beryl's eyes were on the ground and she
was silent.
Isobel and Caroline both said they considered it a great success; they
had enjoyed themselves immensely. And then Isobel went on to tell Miss
Crabingway about Sir Henry and Lady Prior, and how the rule about
relatives had placed her in an awkward predicament--at which Miss
Crabingway seemed much amused, to Isobel's concealed annoyance.
"Ah, well, never mind," said Miss Crabingway, "you can soon put matters
right. Lady Prior is coming here this afternoon."
"This afternoon!" echoed Isobel.
"Yes. I have sent out invitations to a few friends I thought you might
all like to meet to-day--that's why I thought we would have this little
'business' talk this morning.... And so you--you have had a happy time
here--have you, Beryl?" Miss Crabingway put the direct question looking
earnestly across at Beryl, who was still sitting motionless, her face
very pale.
"I--I think you planned everything very well," stammered Beryl. She
said no more, but sat gazing miserably before her at the opposite wall.
A tremendous struggle was going on in Beryl's mind; she was working
herself up to do a thing she shrank from with all her might. "I must do
it _now--now_. I owe it to her," the thought pricked her conscience.
"Why not tell Pamela, and get her to explain to Miss Crabingway--or ask
to speak to Miss Crabingway alone," urged another thought. "But the
other girls are sure to hear in the end--and get the story a roundabout
way--probably exaggerated," she argued to herself. "Oh, but it is so
hateful--telling it before them all--and it will hurt _her_ to hear that
I am the only one of the four of us who has failed her... Much better
speak out now--it'll be much the best in the end.... Oh, but I
can't.... I haven't got the courage...." And so the struggle went on.
"And now we come to the real business of the day," said Miss Crabingway.
"I must just ask you each a question or so about the rules I drew up,
and then we shall know what to do when Mr Sigglesthorne arrives this
afternoon."
She then went on to ask each girl if she had tried to find out what was
in the locked-up room. And one after the other each gave her word of
honour that she had not.
A smile flickered across Miss Crabingway's face. "Then Joseph
Sigglesthorne has lost," she said. "And I'm very glad. You can see what
the room contains--only my personal belongings and papers. When I locked
them up I had a small wager with Joseph Sigglesthorne regarding the
curiosity of girls. He said one or more of you _would_ look through the
keyhole, in spite of everything--I said you would _not_ ... and I have
won. He now owes me a photograph of himself," Miss Crabingway laughed
to herself. "He has never been taken before, and hates the idea--but
the loser pays, and go to the photographer he must. I'm sure it will be
a dreadful likeness--and I shall frame it and hang it on the wall as his
punishment.... I suppose you wonder why I chose Joseph Sigglesthorne as
my deputy--to bring my invitation to each of you. Eh?"
"Well, we did rather wonder," admitted Pamela.
"I couldn't come myself, being so rushed for time, and so I chose the
shrewdest person I knew. I knew I could trust him to see what kind of
girls you were--but had I known for certain how wrong he would be about
'girls' curiosity' I don't think I should have trusted him.... I knew
he would appear a bit singular, but I didn't mind that.... What did it
matter? The whole idea was just an eccentric old woman's whim--and your
parents allowed you to humour me, as I hoped they would." And here Miss
Crabingway began to chuckle, and she went on chuckling until she was
obliged to get out her handkerchief and dry her eyes. The girls
meanwhile sat looking on, uncomfortable, and not knowing whether it
would be more polite to laugh also or keep serious. Miss Crabingway
puzzled them; one minute she was quite business-like and sensible, and
the next she was talking in an apparently inconsequent way. When she
had dried her eyes and become serious again, Miss Crabingway went on to
question them about the other rule she had made, and said she supposed
that none of them had seen, spoken, or written more than post-cards to
their various relatives.
"I have seen Lady Prior--but not spoken; I've told you all about that,
haven't I?" said Isobel.
"Yes--yes--oh, that's all right," replied Miss Crabingway.
And Isobel knew that her Wishing Well wish had come true, and that she
had not done anything to forfeit her fifty pounds.
Both Pamela and Caroline said they had strictly observed the rule,
Pamela mentioning, at the same time, how she had caught sight of her
father in London.
"Oh, of course, that's all right. Quite unavoidable--quite. That's
good then, so far...." She turned to Beryl, but before she could speak,
Beryl, who looked ghastly white, stood up suddenly.
"There's something I want to tell you all," she said.
*CHAPTER XIX*
*BERYL CONFESSES*
Beryl looked down at the surprised and inquiring faces gazing up at her,
and her new-found courage flickered for a moment--and she had thought
the struggle for courage was over; but only for a moment did she pause
and twist her fingers nervously together. Now she had burnt her boats
she must go through with it.
"I--I--oh, Miss Crabingway--I didn't know--I never guessed you wanted
me--but I can see things clearly now. You thought out such a kind plan
to help me a bit and give me happiness--and I have been happy here--in
spite of everything. But--oh, how can I tell you--I have failed you, the
only one of the four of us who has failed you. Instead of growing
stronger in character I have grown weaker--I know I have.... I have
been so afraid to tell the truth. I thought--I thought Isobel would
despise me if she knew I'd been to a Council school..."
Isobel started.
"... if she knew my Aunt Laura kept a small and shabby shop and served
behind the counter; if she knew," her voice dropped, "where my father
died.... I felt out of place in this house at first among these others
who had nice clothes and manners--my clothes were all wrong....
Pamela--Pamela has been a brick--I told her something about all this,
and she helped me not to mind. But I've said so many things that were
not true since I've been here--I'm telling the truth now, though, I am
indeed. And, oh, I'm so sorry--I couldn't help it--but I--I have seen
and spoken to my Aunt Laura several times since I've been here."
"What!" exclaimed Miss Crabingway. Had, then, the thing that she had
taken such trouble to avoid happened after all?
"Yes," said Beryl. "A few weeks ago I came suddenly face to face with
her one dark night--the night we returned from London, in the rain--you
remember?" She half turned toward Pamela, then went on quickly: "I
didn't speak to her then. I was frightened, and ran on quickly to join
the others who were a little way ahead. When I got home I discovered
that while we had all been out my Aunt Laura must have got into the
house and made her way to my bedroom, where she had left a note for me."
Caroline leant forward at this point.
"You were quite right in thinking some one had been in your room that
night, Caroline. She mistook it for mine, and in rummaging about to see
if she could find any indication to show that it was my room she
disarranged some of your things. I'm so thankful she didn't take
anything from your room--she might have done, you know, but luckily you
hadn't left any money lying about. It was money she wanted. In the note
which she was afraid to send through the post, but left in my room
instead, she told me that I must let her have five pounds immediately,
or she would be summoned--and might have to go to prison. And then what
would people think of me, she said, living in luxury and letting my
aunt, who had brought me up like her own daughter, go to prison! The
money was very urgently needed, she said, and she told me where and when
I could meet her outside the village and hand her the money.... So I met
her," Beryl went on in a dreary voice, "and handed her the money I had
recently received as pocket-money--but it wasn't enough.... Afterward
she wanted more money--and at last I had to borrow a pound from
Pamela--who was good enough to trust me and ask no questions--and I lent
this to my aunt as well. She made me promise, on my honour, never to
tell a soul about this money-lending, or about her speaking to me, as if
I did I should lose the fifty pounds, and it was very important that I
should not do this, she said; no one would ever know about her coming to
see me--for, of course, no one knew her in the village. When she came
down to Barrowfield she would generally stop the night, sometimes two
nights, at that little cottage opposite--so that she could watch me, and
wait her opportunity to get money. She knew she could frighten me into
doing what she wanted--and she did frighten me--shadowed me--followed me
about.... It was she who was up at the Wishing Well that night,
Pamela--do you remember? Aunt Laura only came down here
occasionally--whenever she wanted more money. For a long time after I
was here I never dreamt she was anywhere near the village.... I--I
think, from what she has said to me, that she thought it very unfair for
me to have anything that Cousin Laura couldn't share--and was awfully
angry because I couldn't give her more money; she had got it into her
head that there was a lot of money to be had here, and she hated the
idea of Pamela, Isobel, and Caroline having any money that might have
come to me--and so to her, and Cousin Laura.... Oh, Miss Crabingway, I
never knew the truth about you wanting to adopt me." Beryl had hard
work to keep her voice steady. "She never told me you had wanted to
adopt me.... But it's a good job you didn't--now that you know what I
am.... Oh, I hate myself," she burst out passionately, and the tears
which she had kept back for so long sprang to her eyes and began
rolling, unheeded, down her cheeks. "It's all been such a muddle of
little deceitful things--and all for a few wretched sovereigns.... I've
broken my word to you, and I've broken my promise to my aunt, and told
you everything now--and may this be the last promise I shall ever
break."
Poor Beryl had been so long in fear of her Aunt Laura and what she might
do, and had brooded on the whole matter so much, that she had
exaggerated everything in her own mind until it had assumed giant
proportions; she felt she had forfeited all right to respect from the
others, and had spoilt the great chance of her life--the chance of being
adopted by Miss Crabingway. Beryl had certainly been weak, and had told
stories, and had broken her word to Miss Crabingway and to her
aunt--still, that was the extent of her misdoings.
Miss Crabingway, looking at her, thought that things had been made too
hard for Beryl. If only there had been somebody to stand by her and
help her--Miss Crabingway pulled herself up sharply. Had she made a
mistake in thinking that all girls need to develop their character
without any outside help and control? It might answer in three cases
out of four; but there was always the fourth case--the girl who had not
had the advantages of a happy, fearless childhood. It was fear, fear of
some one or something, that made people deceitful and made them tell
untruths. Miss Crabingway felt a rush of keen disappointment that her
plans had been spoilt, that the one girl for whom she had taken so much
trouble had failed her. And yet Miss Crabingway felt that she herself
was more to blame than Beryl. She might have known that Beryl's aunt
would try to obtain money from the child, if she thought she had any.
She might have known that Beryl would not have had an upbringing that
would have taught her to be frank and fearless if it came to keeping her
word to Miss Crabingway and facing the consequences of her aunt's wrath,
had Beryl refused to answer her request for money.... Beryl had been
outspoken enough now that the end had come ... and the consequences...?
Meanwhile the silence which had followed her last words had become
unbearable to Beryl. Burying her face in her hands--she was crying in
earnest now--she passed quickly out of the room, and the door clicked
sharply behind her.
Pamela half rose, as if to follow her.
"Yes, do," said Miss Crabingway huskily, and stood up herself. "Tell
her--everything will be all right. Poor child! She's not to
blame--it's I--I might have known her Aunt Laura wouldn't leave her
alone.... Where did she say the woman stayed? ... I wonder if she's
there now by any chance? ... I'm going to see."
And while Pamela went in search of Beryl Miss Crabingway strode hatless
across the green in search of the woman with the limp, leaving Caroline
and Isobel to discuss the whole affair in detail.
What Miss Crabingway said to Beryl's aunt, whom she found on the verge
of departure from the little white cottage with the green shutters, it
is not necessary to record. It is sufficient that she gave Aunt Laura
so stern a dressing-down that at the end of half an hour Aunt Laura was
reduced to a meek acceptance of Miss Crabingway's terms. The aunt
confessed to Miss Crabingway how, when Beryl had come to Barrowfield,
she had followed her down by the next train, and by good fortune had
discovered the little house opposite Chequertrees where apartments were
to be had. And so she had put up there from time to time while her
daughter Laura looked after the shop at Enfield, so that she could watch
what Beryl was doing 'playing the lady' while her poor Cousin Laura
served bacon and rice and currants in the stuffy little shop. On Cousin
Laura's account, "poor, dear, good girl," she seemed to resent greatly
Miss Crabingway's choice of Beryl, and thought she was justified in
getting all she could from Beryl, considering that she had brought her
up like her own daughter ever since Beryl's mother had died.
"And now she's spoilt all her chances--and mine as well," said Aunt
Laura. "Tell her to pack up her things and come home with me in half an
hour. I was just about to start off myself, not knowing----"
"That I would be back sooner than you expected--you didn't wish to meet
me, I presume?" said Miss Crabingway.
"You bet," said Aunt Laura, inelegantly. "My poor little Laura's worked
to death in the shop, so you go and tell that haughty miss to pack up
quick and come along home with me."
But nothing was further from Miss Crabingway's mind. She was determined
to give Beryl another chance. And so she told Aunt Laura, much to the
latter's surprise. They talked the matter over again, and after much
haggling on Aunt Laura's part, and threats on Miss Crabingway's part,
and arguments on both sides, they at length came to a hard and fast
agreement.
The result of which was that Miss Crabingway returned to Chequertrees to
greet Beryl as her newly-adopted niece, while Aunt Laura limped away to
the station with her purse a little heavier than when she came, and took
the train back to Enfield and Cousin Laura. She limped away out of
Beryl's life and out of this story once and for all.
And so Beryl's Wishing Well wish came true.
*CHAPTER XX*
*A NEW BEGINNING*
That same day, in the afternoon, a group of happy people were gathered
on the lawn chatting together in Miss Crabingway's garden--for the
guests she had invited were no others than Pamela's mother and Michael
and Doris; Isobel's mater and brother Gerald, and Lady Prior and her two
daughters; and Caroline's mother--a plump, placid little soul,
remarkably like her daughter in appearance. Miss Crabingway had thought
this little surprise would please the girls--and it would be nicer for
them to travel home with their own people.
Miss Crabingway admitted to herself that she would have liked all the
girls to stay a few days longer, so that she could get to know them
better, but all arrangements had been made and she could not upset them
at the last moment.
The only person, of course, who had no relatives to meet her at the
garden party was Beryl. But to judge from her happy, smiling face as
she helped to hand round the tea she did not regret this fact. Her
gratitude to Miss Crabingway was deep and sincere, and she meant to do
all in her power to live up to the best that was in her. She and Miss
Crabingway had had a long and serious talk together in the early
afternoon, which ended in mutual expectations of a happier future for
both of them. Though Beryl had lost her fifty pounds, she had gained far
more in Miss Crabingway's friendship; and, although she did not know
this at present, Miss Crabingway had made up her mind to give Beryl a
fairly substantial pocket-money allowance now that she was her properly
adopted niece. Beryl was to continue her musical studies--that had
already been arranged.
Freed from the shadow of Aunt Laura, and the bullying and the secret
threats, Beryl felt a different girl--and looked it too. Her only tinge
of sorrow was the parting with Pamela--but even that was to be only for
a time. Later on Pamela was to come and stop with her for a holiday,
and she and Miss Crabingway were to visit Pamela's home.
As for Pamela, she was in a real 'beamy' mood this afternoon at having
mother and Michael and Doris with her again. She showed them all over
the place, pointing out her favourite spots. She even found an
opportunity of introducing them to Elizabeth Bagg.
"I'm so glad you've seen everything and everybody," she said. "Now you
will be able to see things in your mind's eye when I talk about them."
During the afternoon Michael tried to get into conversation with
Isobel's brother Gerald, who was about his age, but found it difficult
work, as Gerald was far more interested in his own immaculate clothes,
and smooth hair, his cigarette, and the various girls present, than he
was in Michael or anything Michael had to say.
Isobel and her mater hung delightedly on Lady Prior's words, and as they
sat in the shade of the trees at the end of the lawn, an invitation to
come and stay at the Manor House sometime in the near future was given
to Isobel, and accepted eagerly.
Caroline methodically piloted her mother round the house and garden, and
presently left her talking to Mrs Heath while she went indoors at a
signal from Pamela, who whispered, "Miss Crabingway wants us a minute."
In the drawing-room Pamela, Caroline, and Isobel found awaiting them
Miss Crabingway and Mr Joseph Sigglesthorne (who had just arrived).
With due solemnity the girls were each presented with a cheque for fifty
pounds, and the news was broken to Mr Sigglesthorne that he was to go
and have his photograph taken, at which he looked very crestfallen.
There was just one other little incident that took place before the
afternoon came to a close--it had been crowded out of the morning's
events.
The girls gave Miss Crabingway the small gifts they had made for her:
Pamela, a sketch of Chequertrees; Caroline, a hand-embroidered
tray-cloth; Beryl, a waltz which she had composed herself, and had
copied out in a manuscript music-book. She offered it to Miss
Crabingway very shyly and with much diffidence. "It's the only thing I
could do myself," she said apologetically. Isobel presented her
photographs, enlarged and handsomely framed; they were photographs of
the other three girls in the garden. Miss Crabingway was immensely
pleased and touched by the girls' thought for her. Something of their
own work; she could not have wished for anything better, she said, and
thanked them warmly.
To Martha and Ellen each of the girls gave a little gift, such as a pair
of gloves, and handkerchiefs, and bottles of eau-de-Cologne, and in
addition each gave a photograph of herself (having overheard Martha
express a wish for the photographs).
"Just in case you forget what I look like and don't recognize me next
time I knock at the front door," said Pamela laughingly to Martha.
"Oh, Miss Pamela, just as if I'd forget you," said Martha. "But you
couldn't have thought of a better present, or one that would please me
more, and I thank you and I shall value it greatly. What _is_ nicer than
a nice photograph, I always say."
And now dusk has fallen and all is silent in Miss Crabingway's garden.
The laughter and voices have died away, and far away through the night
rushes a train bearing Pamela, her mother, and Michael and Doris,
homeward. Mr Heath is waiting at Marylebone Station to meet them, and
Olive and John have been allowed to stay up an hour later than usual in
order to welcome home their long-absent sister.
In another train Caroline and her mother journey back to the busy little
provincial town where they live. While Isobel, seated beside her mater,
with a cosy coat wrapped round her, whirls along the country lanes in
the motor which brother Gerald is driving.
An old gentleman climbs into a crowded bus at Charing Cross; he has a
remarkably high, bald forehead, which becomes visible when he removes
his hat; he stands holding on to a strap in the bus, his thoughts far
away. He is thinking of a little country village, and in the midst of
all the bustle and life of London he feels suddenly lonely. The bus
rattles on toward the Temple--and he thinks of his deserted,
paper-strewn room in Fig Tree Court, and he is overcome by a great wave
of pity for himself; he begins to feel exceedingly sorry for himself.
Suddenly his expression changes to one of dismay and exasperation--he
has remembered that he must visit a photographer to-morrow.
At the same moment, far away down at Barrowfield, there is a light in
the drawing-room of Chequertrees, and some one is playing softly on the
piano. Miss Crabingway sits on the couch by the fire, a book in her
hands--but she is not reading. She is looking across at the girl who is
playing the piano and her eyes are full of dreams.
The red blind in the dining-room, where supper is being laid for two,
shines warmly out from among the rustling leaves that are whispering
round the house--just as it did six months ago. But to-night the window
of the little white cottage opposite is dark, and there is no one
watching the red blind.
* * * * * * * *
_Uniform with this Volume_
*ROCK BOTTOM*
By QUEENIE SCOTT-HOPPER. Illustrated in Colour by A. A. NASH.
*ANGEL UNAWARES*
By QUEENIE SCOTT-HOPPER. Illustrated in Colour and Half-tone by PERCY
TARRANT.
*THE MYSTERY OF BARWOOD HALL*
By OLIVIA FOWELL. Illustrated in Colour by SAVILE LUMLEY.
*WINIFRED AVON*
By MABEL MARLOWE. Illustrated in Colour by SAVILE LUMLEY.
*THE TAMING OF TAMZIN*
By ESME STUART. Illustrated in Colour by HELEN JACOBS.
*A COTTAGE ROSE*
By MABEL QUILLER-COUCH. Illustrated in Colour by PERCY TARRANT.
*LITTLE MOTHER*
By RUTH MACARTHUR. Illustrated in Colour and Half-tone.