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THE SCHOOL QUEENS

BY

L T. MEADE

Author of "Polly, a New-Fashioned Girl," "Sue, a Little Heroine,"
"Daddy's Girl," "A Sweet Girl Graduate," etc.

NEW YORK

THE NEW YORK BOOK COMPANY

1910




                      BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY

L. T. Meade (Mrs. Elizabeth Thomasina Smith), English novelist, was
born at Bandon, County Cork, Ireland, 1854, the daughter of Rev. R. T.
Meade, Rector of Novohal, County Cork, and married Toulmin Smith in
1879. She wrote her first book, _Lettie's Last Home_, at the age of
seventeen and since then has been an unusually prolific writer, her
stories attaining wide popularity on both sides of the Atlantic.

She worked in the British Museum, living in Bishopsgate Without,
making special studies of East London life which she incorporated in
her stories. She edited _Atlanta_ for six years. Her pictures of
girls, especially in the influence they exert on their elders, are
drawn with intuitive fidelity; pathos, love, and humor, as in _Daddy's
Girl_, flowing easily from her pen. She has traveled extensively,
being devoted to motoring and other outdoor sports.

Among more than fifty novels she has written, dealing largely with
questions of home life, are: _David's Little Lad; Great St.
Benedict's; A Knight of To-day (1877); Miss Toosey's Mission;
Bel-Marjory (1878); Laddie; Outcast Robbin: or, Your Brother and Mine;
A Cry from the Great City; White Lillie and Other Tales; Scamp and I;
The Floating Light of Ringfinnan; Dot and Her Treasures; The
Children's Kingdom: the Story of Great Endeavor; The Water Gipsies; A
Dweller in Tents; Andrew Harvey's Wife; Mou-setse: A Negro Hero
(1880); Mother Herring's Chickens (1881); A London Baby: the Story of
King Roy (1883); Hermie's Rose-Buds and Other Stories; How it all Came
Round; Two Sisters (1884); Autocrat of the Nursery; Tip Cat; Scarlet
Anemones; The Band of Three; A Little Silver Trumpet; Our Little Ann;
The Angel of Love (1885); A World of Girls (1886); Beforehand; Daddy's
Boy; The O'Donnells of Inchfawn; The Palace Beautiful; Sweet Nancy
(1887); Deb and the Duchess (1888); Nobody's Neighbors; Pen (1888); A
Girl from America (1907)._




THE SCHOOL QUEENS

CHAPTER I

THE FASCINATING MAGGIE


Cicely Cardew and her sister Merry were twins. At the time when this
story opens they were between fifteen and sixteen years of age. They
were bright, amiable, pretty young girls, who had never wanted for any
pleasure or luxury during their lives. Their home was a happy one.
Their parents were affectionate and lived solely for them. They were
the only children, and were treated--as only children often are--with
a considerable amount of attention. They were surrounded by all the
appliances of wealth. They had ponies to ride and carriages to drive
in, and each had her own luxurious and beautifully furnished bedroom.

It was Mr. Cardew's wish that his daughters should be educated at
home. In consequence they were not sent to any school, but had daily
masters and governesses to instruct them in the usual curriculum of
knowledge. It might be truly said that for them the sun always shone,
and that they were carefully guarded from the east wind. They were
naturally bright and amiable. They had their share of good looks,
without being quite beautiful. They had not the slightest knowledge of
what the world meant, of what sorrow meant, or pain. They were brought
up in such a sheltered way that it seemed to them that there were no
storms in life. They were not discontented, for no one ever breathed
the word in their presence. Their requests were reasonable, for they
knew of no very big things to ask for. Even their books were carefully
selected for them, and their amusements were of a mild and orderly
character.

Such were the girls when this story opens on a bright day towards the
end of a certain July. Their home was called Meredith Manor, and Merry
was called after an old ancestor on their mother's side to whom the
house had at one time belonged.

Mr. Cardew was a merchant-prince. Mrs. Cardew belonged to an old
county family. If there was one thing in the world that Cicely and
Merry thought nothing whatever about, it was money. They could
understand neither poverty nor the absence of gold.

The little village near Meredith Manor was a model place, for Mr.
Cardew, to whom it belonged, devoted himself absolutely to it. The
houses were well drained and taken great care of. Prizes were offered
for the best gardens; consequently each cottager vied with the other
in producing the most lovely flowers and the most tempting fruits. The
village consisted entirely of Mr. Cardew's laborers and the different
servants on his estate. There were, therefore, no hardships for the
girls to witness at Meredith village. They were fond of popping in and
out of the cottages and talking to the young wives and mothers, and
playing with the babies; and they particularly enjoyed that great
annual day when Mr. Cardew threw open the grounds of Meredith to the
entire neighborhood, and when games and fun and all sorts of
amusements were the order of the hour.

Besides the people who lived in the village, there was, of course, the
rector, who had a pretty, picturesque, old brown house, with a nice
garden in one corner of the grounds. He had a good-natured,
round-faced, happy wife, and a family of four stalwart sons and
daughters. He was known as the Reverend William Tristram; and, as the
living was in the gift of the Meredith family, he was a distant
connection of Mrs. Cardew, and had been appointed by her husband to
the living of Meredith at her request.

The only playfellows the girls had ever enjoyed were the young
Tristrams. There were two boys and two girls. The boys were the
younger, the girls the elder. The boys were not yet in their teens,
but Molly and Isabel Tristram were about the same age as the young
Cardews. Molly was, in fact, a year older, and was a very sympathetic,
strong-minded, determined girl. She and her sister Isabel had not been
educated at home, but had been sent to foreign schools both in France
and Germany; and Molly, in her heart of hearts, rather looked down
upon what she considered the meager attainments of the young Cardews
and their want of knowledge of the world.

"It is ridiculous!" she was heard to say to Isabel on that very July
morning when this story opens. "Of course they are nice girls, and
would be splendid if they could do anything or knew what to do; but,
as it is, they are nothing whatever but half-grown-up children, with
no more idea of the world than has that baby-kitten disporting itself
at the present moment on the lawn."

"Oh, they're right enough," said Isabel. "They will learn by-and-by. I
don't suppose Mr. and Mrs. Cardew mean to keep them always shut up in
a nutshell."

"I don't know," replied Molly. "Mr. and Mrs. Cardew are like no other
people. I have heard father say that he thinks it a great pity that
girls should be so terribly isolated."

"Well, as to that," replied Isabel, "I wouldn't be in their shoes for
creation. I have so enjoyed my time at Hanover and in France; and now
that we are to have two years at Aylmer House, in Kensington, I
cannot tell you how I look forward to it."

"Yes, won't it be fine?" replied Molly. "But now we had better go up
at once to Meredith Manor and ask the girls if we may bring Maggie
Howland with us this afternoon. Father has sent the pony-trap to the
station to meet her, and she may arrive any moment."

"All right," said Isabel; "but one of us had better stay at home to
receive her. You, Molly, can run up to the Manor and ask the girls if
we may bring our visitor."

"All right," replied Molly. Then she added "I wonder if Maggie is as
fascinating as ever. Don't you remember, Belle, what a spell she cast
over us at our school at Hanover? She was like no one else I ever met.
She seems to do what she likes with people. I shall be deeply
interested to know what she thinks of Cicely and Merry."

"Thinks of them!" replied Isabel. "It's my opinion she won't tolerate
them for a minute; and we are bound to take her with us, for of course
they will give permission."

"Well," said Molly, "I'll be off at once and secure that permission.
You' look after Maggie--won't you, Isabel?--and see that her bedroom
is all right." As Molly spoke she waved her hand to her sister, then
departed on her errand.

She was a bright, fairly good-looking girl, with exceedingly handsome
eyes and curling dark-brown hair. She was somewhat square in build and
athletic in all her movements. In short, she was as great a contrast
to the twin Cardew girls as could be found. Nevertheless she liked
them, and was interested in them; for were not the Cardews the great
people of the place? There was nothing of the snob about Molly; but it
is difficult even for the most independent English girl to spend the
greater part of her life in a village where one family reigns as
sovereign without being more or less under its influence.

Mr. Tristram, too, was a very great friend of Mr. Cardew's; and
Molly's fat, round, good-natured mother, although a little afraid of
Mrs. Cardew, who was a very stately lady in her way, nevertheless held
her in the greatest respect and admiration. It was one of the rules of
the house of Tristram that no invitation sent to them from Meredith
Manor should be refused. They must accept that invitation as though it
were the command of a king.

The girls, brought up mostly at foreign schools, had in some ways
wider ideas of life than had their parents. But even they were more or
less influenced by the fact that the Cardews were the great people of
the place.

The day was a very hot one; rather oppressive too, with thunder-clouds
in the distance. But Molly was very strong, and did not feel the heat
in the least. The distance from the rectory to the Manor was a little
over a mile. In addition, it was all uphill. But when you passed the
village--so exquisitely neat, such a model in its way--you found
yourself entering a road shaded by overhanging elm-trees. Here it was
cool even on the hottest summer day. There were deep pine-woods at
each side of the road, and the road itself had been cut right through
a part of the forest, which belonged to the Meredith estate. After
going uphill for nearly three-quarters of a mile you arrived at the
handsome wrought-iron gates which led to the avenue that brought you
to the great front door of Meredith Manor.

Molly often took this walk, but she generally did so in the company of
her sister Isabel. Isabel's light chatter, her gay, infectious
laughter, her merry manner, soothed the tedium of the road. To-day
Molly was alone; but by no means on this account did she feel a sense
of weariness; her mind was very busy. She was greatly excited at the
thought of seeing Maggie Howland again. Maggie had made a remarkable
impression on her. She made that impression on all her friends.
Wherever she went she was a leader, and no one could quite discover
where her special charm or magnetism lay; for she was decidedly plain,
and not specially remarkable for cleverness--that is, she was not
remarkable for what may be termed school-cleverness. She was
indifferent to prizes, and was just as happy at the bottom of her form
as at the top; but wherever she appeared girls clustered round her,
and consulted her, and hung on her words; and to be Maggie Howland's
friend was considered the greatest honor possible among the girls
themselves at any school where she spent her time.

Maggie was the daughter of a widow who lived in London. Her father had
died when she was a very little girl. He was a man of remarkable
character. He had great strength of will and immense determination;
and Maggie, his only child, took after him. She resembled him in
appearance also, for he was very plain of face and rather ungainly of
figure. Maggie's mother, on the other hand, was a delicate, pretty,
blue-eyed woman, who could as little manage her headstrong young
daughter as a lamb could manage a young lion. Mrs. Howland was
intensely amiable. Maggie was very good to her mother, as she
expressed it; and when she got that same mother to yield to all her
wishes the mother thought that she was doing the right thing. She had
a passionate love for her daughter, although she deplored her plain
looks, and often told the girl to her face that she wished she had
taken after her in personal appearance. Maggie used to smile when this
was said, and then would go away to her own room and look at her
queer, dark face, and rather small eyes, and determined mouth, and
somewhat heavy jaw, and shake her head solemnly. She did not agree
with her mother; she preferred being what she was. She liked best to
take after her father.

It was Maggie Howland who had persuaded Mr. Tristram, during a brief
visit which he had made to town at Christmas, to send his daughters to
Aylmer House. Maggie was fond of Molly and Isabel. With all her
oddities, she had real affection, and one of her good qualities was
that she really loved those whom she influenced.

Mr. Tristram went to see Mrs. Ward, the head-mistress of that most
select establishment for young ladies at Kensington. Mrs. Ward was all
that was delightful. She was a noble-minded woman of high aspirations,
and her twenty young boarders were happy and bright and contented
under her influence.

Maggie joined the school at Easter, and spent one term there, and was
now coming on a visit to the rectory.

"I wonder what she will have to tell us! I wonder if she is as
fascinating as ever!" thought Molly Tristram as she hurried her
steps.

She had now reached that point in the avenue which gave a good view of
the old Manor, with its castellated walls and its square towers at
each end. The gardens were laid out in terraces after an old-world
fashion. There was one terrace devoted to croquet, another to tennis.
As Molly approached she saw Cicely and Merry playing a game of croquet
rather languidly. They wore simple white frocks which just came down
above their ankles, and had white washing-hats on their heads. Their
thick, rather fair hair was worn in a plait down each young back, and
was tied with a bunch of pale-blue ribbon at the end.

"Hello!" shouted Molly.

The girls flung down their rackets and ran joyfully to meet her.

"Oh, I am so glad you have come!" said Cicely. "It's much too hot to
play tennis, and even croquet is more than we can manage. Are you
going to stay and have lunch with us, Molly?"

"No," replied Molly; "I must go back immediately."

"Oh dear! I wish you would stay," continued Merry. "We could go and
sit in the arbor, and you could tell us another fascinating story
about that school of yours at Hanover."

"Yes, yes," said Cicely; "do stay--do, Molly! We want to hear a lot
more about that remarkable girl Maggie Howland."

"I can't stay," said Molly in a semi-whisper; "but I tell you what,
girls." She seized a hand of both as she spoke. "I have come with
news."

"What?" "What?" asked the twins eagerly.

"There's very seldom much news going on here," said Cicely. "Not that
we mind--not a little bit; we're as happy as girls can be."

"Of course we are," said Merry. "We haven't a care in the world."

"All the same," said Cicely, "tell us your news, Molly, for you do
look excited."

"Well," said Molly, who enjoyed the pleasure of giving her friends a
piece of information which she knew would interest them intensely,
"you know we are to come up here this afternoon to have tea and buns,
aren't we?"

"Oh, don't talk in that way!" said Merry. "One would suppose you were
school children, when you are our darling, dear friends."

"Our only friends," said Cicely. "You are the only girls in the world
father allows us to be the least bit intimate with."

"Oh, well," said Molly, "of course Belle and I are very fond of you
both, naturally."

"Naturally!" echoed Cicely. But then she added, "How queer you look,
Molly, as though you were keeping something back!"

"Well, yes, I am," said Molly; "but I'll have it out in a minute."

"Oh, please, be quick!" said Merry. "Anything a little bit out of the
common is very interesting.--Isn't it, Cicely?"

"Very," said Cicely; "more particularly in the holidays. When we are
busy with our lessons things don't so much matter, you know.--But do
be quick, Molly; what is it?"

"Well," said Molly, "you've asked us to spend the afternoon with
you."

"Of course, and you're both coming, surely?"

"We are--certainly we are--that is, if you will allow us to
bring"----

"To bring"----interrupted Cicely. "Oh Molly, do speak!"

"Well, I will; only, don't jump, you two girls. To bring Maggie
Howland!"

Cicely's face grew very pink. Merry, on the contrary, turned a little
pale. They were both silent for a brief space. Then Merry said
excitedly, "Maggie Howland--_the_ Maggie Howland?"

"Yes, _the_ Maggie Howland; the one who has got the power, the charm,
the fascination."

"Oh, oh!" said Cicely. "But why is she with you? How has it
happened?"

"She is not absolutely with us yet; and as to how it happened I cannot
exactly tell you. We had a telegram from her late last night asking if
she might come to-day to spend a week or fortnight, and of course we
wired back 'Yes.' We are delighted; but of course you may not like
her, girls."

"Like her! like her!" said Cicely; "and after all you have said too!
We shall be certain to more than like her."

"She's not a bit pretty, so don't expect it," said Molly.

"We were brought up," said Merry a little stiffly, "not to regard
looks as anything at all."

"Nonsense!" replied Molly. "Looks mean a great deal. I'd give I don't
know what to be beautiful; but as I am not I don't mean to fret about
it. Well, Maggie's downright plain; in fact--in fact--almost ugly, I
may say; and yet--and yet, she is just Maggie; and you are not five
minutes in her society before you'd rather have her face than any
other face in the world. But the immediate question is: may she come
this afternoon, or may she not?"

"Of course--of course she may come," said Cicely; "we'll be delighted,
we'll be charmed to see her. This _is_ pleasant news!"

"I think, perhaps," said Merry, "we ought to go and ask mother. Don't
you think so, Cis?"

"Of course we ought," said Cicely. "I forgot that. Just stay where you
are, Molly, and I'll run to the house and find mother. It's only to
ask her, for of course she will give leave."

Cicely ran off at once, and Merry and Molly were left alone.

"I know you'll be delighted with her," said Molly.

"It will be very delightful to see her," replied Merry.

"You must expect to be disappointed at first, all the same," continued
Molly.

"Oh, looks do not matter one scrap," said Merry.

"Isabel and I are going to her school; you know that, don't you,
Merry?"

"Yes," said Merry with a sigh. "What fun you do have at your different
schools! Don't you, Molly?"

"Well, yes," said Molly rather gravely; "but it isn't only the fun; we
see a lot of the world, and we mix with other girls and make
friends."

"Mother prefers a home education for us, and so does father," remarked
Merry. "Ah! here comes Cicely. She is flying down the terrace. Of
course mother is delighted."

This proved to be the case. Mrs. Cardew would welcome any girl
introduced to her daughters through her dear friend Mr. Tristram. She
sent a further invitation for the three young people to remain to an
impromptu supper, which was pleasanter than late dinner in such hot
weather, and asked if Mr. and Mrs. Tristram would join them at the
meal.

"Hurrah!" cried Molly. "That will be fun! I must be off now, girls.
We'll be with you, all three of us, between four and five o'clock."




CHAPTER II.

SPOT-EAR.


Isabel took great pains arranging Maggie Rowland's bedroom. At the
Castle (or Manor) there were always troops of servants for every
imaginable thing; but at the rectory the servants were few, and the
girls did a good many odds and ends of work themselves. They were
expected to dust and keep in perfect order their exceedingly pretty
bedrooms, they were further required to make their own beds, and if a
young visitor arrived, they were obliged to wait on her and see to her
comfort. For the Tristrams had just an income sufficient to cover
their expenses, with nothing at all to put by. Mr. Tristram had his
two little boys to think of as well as his two girls. His intention
was to give his children the best education possible, believing that
such a gift was far more valuable to them than mere money. By-and-by,
when they were old enough, the girls might earn their own living if
they felt so inclined, and each girl might become a specialist in her
way.

Molly was exceedingly fond of music, and wished to excel in that
particular. Isabel, on the contrary, was anxious to obtain a post as
gymnasium teacher with the London County Council. But all these things
were for the future. At present the girls were to study, were to
acquire knowledge, were to be prepared for that three-fold battle
which includes body, soul, and spirit, and which needs triple armor in
the fight.

Mr. Tristram was a man of high religious principles. He taught his
children to love the good and refuse the evil. He wanted his girls to
be useful women by-and-by in the world. He put usefulness before
happiness, assuring his children that if they followed the one they
would secure the other.

Belle, therefore, felt quite at home now as she took out pretty mats
and laid them on little tables in the neat spare room which had been
arranged for the reception of Maggie Howland. She saw that all the
appointments of the room were as perfect as simplicity and cleanliness
could effect, and then went out into the summer garden to pick some
choice, sweet-smelling flowers. She selected roses and carnations,
and, bringing them in, arranged them in vases in the room.

Hearing the sound of wheels, she flew eagerly downstairs and met her
friend as she stepped out of the little governess-cart.

"Well, here I am!" said Maggie. "And how is Belle? How good-natured of
you all to have me, and how delightful it is to smell the delicious
country air! Mother and I find town so hot and stuffy. I haven't
brought a great lot of luggage, and I am not a bit smart; but you
won't mind that--will you, dear old Belle?"

"You always talk about not being smart, Maggie; but you manage to look
smarter than anyone else," said Isabel, her eager brown eyes devouring
her friend's appearance with much curiosity. For Maggie looked, to use
a proverbial phrase, as if she had stepped out of a bandbox. If she
was plain of face she had an exceedingly neat figure, and there was a
fashionable, trim look about her which is uncommon in a girl of her
age; for Maggie was only just sixteen, and scarcely looked as much. In
some ways she might almost have been a French girl, so exceedingly
neat and _comme il faut_ was her little person. She was built on a
_petite_ scale, and although her face was so plain, she had lovely
hands and beautiful small feet. These feet were always shod in the
most correct style, and she took care of her hands, never allowing
them to get red or sunburnt.

"Where's Molly?" was her remark, as the two girls, with their arms
twined round each other, entered the wide, low hall which was one of
the special features of the old rectory.

"She has gone up to see the Cardews."

"Who are the Cardews?"

"Why, surely, Mags, you must have heard of them?"

"You don't mean," said Maggie with a laugh, and showing a gleam of
strong white teeth, "the two little ladies who live in a bandbox?"

"Oh, you really must not laugh at them," said Isabel, immediately on
the defensive for her friends; "but they do lead a somewhat exclusive
life. Molly has gone up to the Castle, as we always call Meredith
Manor, to announce your arrival, and to ask permission to bring you
there to a tennis-party this afternoon; so you will soon see them for
yourself. Now, come in and say good-morning to the mater; she is
longing to see you."

"Hello, Peterkins!" called out Maggie at that moment, as a small boy
with a smut across his face suddenly peeped round a door.

"I'm not Peterkins!" he said angrily.

Maggie laughed again. "I am going to call you Peterkins," she said.
"Is this one of the little brothers, Belle?"

"Yes.--Come here at once, Andrew, and speak to Miss Howland."

The boy approached shyly. Then his eyes looked up into the queer face
of the girl who looked down at him. The sulkiness cleared away from
his brow, and he said, in an eager, hurried, half-shy,
half-confidential way, "I say, do you like rabbits?"

"Dote on 'em," said Maggie.

"Then I'm your man, and I don't mind being Peterkins to you; and will
you--will you come and see mine? I've got Spot-ear, and Dove, and
Angelus, and Clover. And Jack, he has five rabbits, but they're not
near as nice as mine. You'll come and see my rabbits, won't you,
Miss--Miss-----"

"Oh, I am Maggie," said the girl. "I'll come and see your rabbits,
Peterkins, in a minute; and I won't look at Jack's; but you must let
me talk to your mother first."

"There you are, Maggie," said Belle when the boy had disappeared;
"fascinating Andrew in your usual way; and Jack will be just furious,
for he's the elder, you know, and he has a temper, and you mustn't set
one of them against the other--promise you won't."

"Trust me," said Maggie. "Peterkins is a nice little fellow, and I'll
manage Jackdaw too."

"You don't mean to say you'll call them by those names?"

"Yes, yes. I always have my own way with people, as you know."

"Indeed I do. Oh, come along, you queer creature. Here's the darling
mums. Mater dearest, here is Maggie Howland."

"Delighted to see you, my dear," said Mrs. Tristram. "I hope you are
not tired after your journey from town."

"Not in the least, thank you, Mrs. Tristram," said Maggie, speaking in
a voice of very peculiar quality; it was sweet and rich and full of
many intonations. She had the power of putting a world of meaning into
the most commonplace expressions.

Mrs. Tristram had not seen Maggie before, and it was Mr. Tristram who
had been completely bowled over by the young lady just at
Christmas-time.

"I bid you a hearty welcome to the rectory," said the good clergyman's
wife, "and I hope you will have a pleasant time with my children."

"I'll have a fascinating time," said Maggie. "I'm just too delighted
to come. It was sweet of you to have me; and may I, please, give you a
kiss?"

"Of course you may, dear child," said Mrs. Tristram.

Maggie bestowed the kiss, and immediately afterward was conducted to
her room by the worshiping Belle.

"I do hope you'll like it," said Belle in an almost timorous voice. "I
prepared it for you myself."

"Why, it's sweet," said Maggie, "and so full of the country! Oh, I
say, what roses! And those carnations--Malmaisons, aren't they? I must
wear a couple in this brown holland frock; they'll tone with it
perfectly. What a delicious smell!"

Maggie sniffed at the roses. Belle lounged on the window-seat.

"Molly will be jealous," she said. "Think of my having you these few
moments all to myself!"

"I am delighted to come, as you know quite well," replied Maggie.
"It's all right about school, isn't it, Belle?"

"Yes, quite, quite right. We are to join you there in September."

"It's a perfectly splendid place," said Maggie. "I will describe it to
you later on."

"But can it be nicer," said Belle, "than our darling school at
Hanover?"

"Nicer!" exclaimed Maggie. "You couldn't compare the two places. I
tell you it's perfect. The girls--well, they're aristocratic; they're
girls of the Upper Ten. It's the most select school. You are in luck
to be admitted, I can tell you. You will learn a lot about society
when you are a member of Mrs. Ward's school."

"But what possible good will that do us when we are never going into
it?" said Belle.

Maggie slightly narrowed her already narrow eyes, took off her hat,
and combed back her crisp, dark hair from her low, full, very broad
forehead. Then she said, with a smile, "You are to stay two years at
Mrs. Ward's, are you not?"

"Yes, I think that is the arrangement."

"And I am to stay there for two years," said Maggie; "I mean two
more. I will ask you, Isabel Tristram, what good society is worth at
the end of your two years. I expect you will tell me a very different
story then."

At this moment there came a hurried, nervous, excited knock at the
room door.

"Aren't you coming, Miss--Miss--Maggie? Clover and Dove and Spot-ear
and Angelus are all waiting. Their hutch is beautiful and clean, and I
have all their lettuces waiting for them just outside, so they sha'n't
begin to nibble till you come. Do, do come, please, Miss Maggie."

"Of course I will, my darling Peterkins," replied Maggie in her joyful
voice. "Oh, this is--this is--this _is_ fun!--Come along, Belle; come
along."

"But don't let poor Jack get into a temper," said Isabel in a
half-frightened whisper.

Maggie took no notice of her. She opened the bedroom door and flew
downstairs, holding the dirty, hot little hand of Andrew, _alias_
Peterkins, while Isabel followed in their wake.

In a far-away part of the rectory garden, on a bit of waste land at
the other side of the great vegetable garden, were two hutches which
stood side by side, and these hutches contained those most adorable
creatures, the pets, the darlings of the Tristram boys.

The Tristram boys were aged eleven and ten years respectively. Jack
was eleven, Andrew ten. They were very sturdy, healthy, fine little
fellows. At present they went to a good day-school in the
neighborhood, but were to be sent to a boarding-school about the same
time as their sisters were to begin their education at Aylmer House in
Kensington. Their passion above all things was for pets. They had
tried every sort: white mice (these somehow or other were sacrificed
to the reigning cat) and waltzing mice (that shared an equally
luckless fate); these were followed by white rats, which got into the
garden and did mischief, and were banished by order of the rector, who
was a most determined master in his own house. Dogs were also
forbidden, except one very intelligent Airedale, that belonged to the
whole family and to no one in particular. But the boys must find vent
for their passion in some way, and rabbits were allowed them. At the
present moment Jack owned five, Andrew four.

In trembling triumph, Andrew brought his new friend to see his
darlings. He greatly hoped that Jack would not appear on the scene
just now. While Maggie was up in her bedroom taking off, her hat, he
had, with herculean strength, managed to move an old wooden door and
put it in such a position that Jack's hutch was completely hidden,
while his hutch shone forth in all its glory, with those fascinating
creatures Spot-ear, Angelus, Dove, and Clover looking through their
prison-bars at the tempting meal that awaited them.

"Here they are! here they are!" said Andrew. "Beauties, all four; my
own--my very own! Maggie, you may share one of them with me while you
are here. He must live in his hutch, but he shall be yours and mine.
Would you like Spot-ear? He is a character. He's the finest old cove
you ever came across in your life. Look at him now, pretending he
doesn't care anything at all for his lettuce, and he's just dying for
it. Clover is the greedy one. Clover would eat till he-burst if I let
him. As to Angelus, she squeaks sometimes--you'll hear her if you
listen hard--that's why I called her Angelus; and Dove--why, she's a
dear pet; but the character of all is Spot-ear. You'd like to share
him with me, wouldn't you, Maggie?"

"Yes, yes; he is so ugly; he is quite interesting," said Maggie. She
flung herself on the ground by the side of the hutch, and gazed in at
the occupants as though her only aim in life was to worship rabbits.

"You take that leaf of lettuce and give it to Spot-ear your very own
self," said Peterkins. "He'll love you ever after; he's a most
affectionate old fellow."

Maggie proceeded to feed the rabbit. Peterkins hopped about in a state
of excitement which he had seldom experienced before. Maggie asked
innumerable questions. Belle seated herself on the fallen trunk of an
old oak-tree and looked on in wonder.

Maggie was a curious girl. She seemed to have a power over every one.
There was Andrew--such a shy little fellow as a rule--simply pouring
out his heart to her.

Suddenly Belle rose. "It's time for lunch," she said, "and you must be
hungry. Andrew, go straight to the house and wash your face and hands.
No lady would sit down to lunch with such a dirty boy as you are."

"Oh, I say, am I?" said Andrew. "Do you think so, Maggie?"

"You are a most disreputable-looking little scamp," said Maggie.

"Then I won't be--I won't, most truly. I'll run off at once and get
clean, and I'll get into my Sunday best if you wish it."

"Dear me, no!" said Maggie; "I don't wish it. But clean hands and
face--well, they are essential to the ordinary British boy, if he's a
gentleman."

"I am your gentleman--for evermore," said Andrew.

"I think you are, Peterkins."

"Then I'm off to clean up," said the small boy.

"I say, Andrew," cried his sister; "before you go take that door away
from Jack's hutch. He'll be so furious at your keeping the light and
air away from his rabbits."

"Not I. I can't be bothered," said Peterkins.

"Please take it away at once," said Maggie.

Andrew's brow puckered into a frown.

"But you'll see 'em, and he's got five!" he said in a most distressed
voice.

"Honor bright," said Maggie, "I'll turn my back and shut my eyes.
Jackdaw shall show me his rabbits himself."

Peterkins immediately removed the door, dragging it to its former
place, where it leaned against a high wall. He then rushed up to
Maggie.

"I've done it," he said. "Promise you won't like his bunnies."

"Can't," said Maggie, "for I'll love 'em."

"Well, at least promise you won't love him."

"Can't," said Maggie again, "for I shall."

"I'll die of raging jealousy," said Peterkins.

"No, you won't, you silly boy. Get off to the house and make yourself
tidy. Come along, Belle."

"I say, Maggie," said Belle, "you mustn't set those two boys by the
ears. They're fond enough of each other."

"Of course I'll do nothing of the kind," said Maggie. "That's a
charming little chap, and Spot-ear is my rabbit as well as his.
Jackdaw shall share two of his rabbits with me. Oh, it is such fun
turning people round your little finger!"

Just then Molly, rather red in the face, ran up.

"Oh, you darling, darling Maggie!" she said. "So you've come!"

"Come!" cried Maggie. "I feel as if I'd been here for ever."

"I am delighted to see you," said Molly.

She kissed her friend rapturously. Maggie presented a cool, firm,
round cheek.

"Oh, how sweet you look, Mags!"

"Don't talk nonsense, Molly; I'm not a bit sweet-looking."

"To me," said Molly with fervor, "You're the loveliest girl in all the
wide world."

"I'm very ugly, and you know that perfectly well," said Maggie; "but
now don't let's talk of looks."

"Whatever were you doing in this part of the garden?" inquired Molly.

"Oh, she was making love to Andrew," remarked Belle. "She calls him
Peterkins, and he allows it, and he has given her one-half of
Spot-ear; and she means to make love to Jack, and he's to give her a
couple of his rabbits--I mean, to share them with her. She's more
extraordinary than ever, more altogether out of the common."

"As if I didn't know that," said Molly. "It's all right about this
afternoon, Maggie. Oh, what do you think? We're to stay to supper, and
I have a special invitation for father and mother to come and join us
then. Won't it be fun! I do wonder, Maggie, if you will like the
Cardew girls."

"Probably not," replied Maggie in a very calm voice; "but at least I
can promise you one thing: they'll both like me."

"No doubt whatever on that point," replied Belle with fervor.

They entered the house, and soon found themselves seated round the
table. Mr. Tristram greeted Maggie with his usual gentle dignity.
Molly delivered herself of her message from the Castle. Mr. and Mrs.
Tristram said that they would be delighted to join the Cardews at
supper.

The meal was proceeding cheerfully, and Maggie was entertaining her
host and hostess by just those pleasant little pieces of information
which an exceedingly well-bred girl can impart without apparently
intending to do so, when a shy and very clean little figure glided
into the room, a pair of bright-brown eyes looked fixedly at Maggie,
and then glared defiance at Belle, who happened to be seated near that
adorable young person.

Peterkins was making up his mind that in future that coveted seat
should be his--for he and Maggie could talk in whispers during the
meal about Spot-ear, Angelus, and the rest--when his father said, "Sit
down, my boy; take your place at once. You are rather late."

The boy slipped into his seat.

"I am glad to see you looking so tidy, Andrew," said his mother
approvingly.

Andrew looked across at Maggie. Maggie did not once glance at him. She
was talking in her gentle, lady-like tone to the rector.

Presently another boy came in, bigger and broader than Andrew.

Andrew said in a raised voice, "Here's Jack, and his hands aren't a
bit clean."

"Hush!" said the rector.

Jack flushed and looked defiantly at Maggie.

Maggie raised her eyes and gave him a sweet glance. "Are you really
Jack?" she said. "I am so glad to know you. I have been making friends
with your brother Andrew, whom I call Peterkins. I want to call you
Jackdaw. May I?"

Jack felt a great lump in his throat. His face was scarlet. He felt
unable to speak, but he nodded.

"I have been looking at Peterkins's rabbits," continued Maggie. "I
want to see yours after lunch."

"They're beauties!" burst from Jack. "They're ever so many times
better than Andrew's. I've got a cream-colored Angora. His name is
Fanciful, and I've got----"

"Hush, my boy, hush!" said the rector. "Not so much talking during
meals. Well, Maggie, my dear--we must, of course, call you by your
Christian name----"

"Of course, Mr. Tristram; I should indeed feel strange if you
didn't."

"We are delighted to see you," continued the rector, "and you must
tell the girls all about your new school."

"And you too, sir," said Maggie, in her soft, rich voice. "Oh! you'll
be delighted--delighted; there never was such a woman as Mrs. Ward."

"I took a very great liking to her," said the rector. "I think my
girls fortunate to be placed under her care. She has been good, very
good and kind, to me and mine."

"I wonder what he means by that," thought Maggie; but she made no
remark aloud.




CHAPTER III.

LADY LYSLE.


At about a quarter to four that same afternoon three girls prepared to
walk over to Meredith Manor. It was for such golden opportunities that
Molly and Isabel kept their best frocks; it was for just such
occasions that they arrayed themselves most neatly and becomingly.
Their dress, it must be owned, was limited in quantity and also in
quality; but on the present occasion, in their pretty white spotted
muslins, with pale-blue sashes round their waists and white muslin
hats to match, they looked as charming a young pair of English girls
as could be found in the length and breadth of the land. It is true
their feet were not nearly as perfectly shod as Maggie's, nor were
their gloves quite so immaculate; but then they were going to play
tennis, and shoes and gloves did not greatly matter in the country.
Maggie thought otherwise. Her tan tennis-shoes exactly toned with her
neatly fitting brown holland dress. The little hat she wore on her
head was made of brown straw trimmed very simply with ribbon; it was
an ugly hat, but on Maggie's head it seemed to complete her dress, to
be a part of her, so that no one noticed in the least what she wore
except that she looked all right.

Two boys with worshiping eyes watched the trio as they stepped down
the rectory avenue and disappeared from view. Two boys fought a little
afterward, but made it up again, and then lay on the grass side by
side and discussed Maggie, pulling her to pieces in one sense, but
adoring her all the same.

Meanwhile the girls themselves chatted as girls will when the heart is
light and there is no care anywhere. It was very hot, even hotter than
it had been in the morning; but when they reached the road shaded so
beautifully by the elm-trees they found a delicious breeze which
fanned their faces. Somehow, Maggie never seemed to suffer from
weather at all. She was never too cold; she was never too hot; she was
never ill; no one had ever heard her complain of ache or pain. She was
always joyous, except when she was sympathizing with somebody else's
sorrow, and then her sympathy was detached--that is, it did not make
her personally sad, although it affected and helped the person who was
the recipient of it to a most remarkable extent. One of Maggie's great
attractions was her absolute health, her undiminished strength, the
fact that she could endure almost any exertion without showing a trace
of fatigue.

Molly and Isabel were also strong, hearty, well-made girls, and the
excitement of this expedition caused them to chatter more volubly than
usual. Maggie had a good deal to tell them with regard to the new
school, and they had a great deal to tell her with regard to the
Cardews.

Just as they were entering the avenue Maggie turned and faced her two
companions. "May I say something?" she asked eagerly.

"Why, of course, Mags," said Molly.

"Well, it's this: from what you told me of your friends, they must be
the most profoundly uninteresting girls."

"Oh no, indeed they are not!" said Isabel stanchly. "Merry has a great
deal in her, and Cicely is so nice-looking! We think she will be
beautiful by-and-by; but Merry undoubtedly has the most character.
Then there is something dignified and aristocratic about them, and yet
they are not really proud, although they might be, for they are so
rich, and Meredith Manor is such a wonderful old house."

"Didn't you tell me," said Maggie, "that Meredith Manor belonged to
Mrs. Cardew?"

"Did I?" said Isabel, coloring in some confusion. "I am sure I don't
know; I don't remember saying it. I don't think Mrs. Cardew is the
sort of woman who would call anything hers apart from her husband. She
is devoted to him, and no wonder, for he is quite charming. He is
nearly as charming as father, and that's saying a great deal."

"Do let's come on. We'll be late!" said Molly impatiently.

"No, not quite yet, please," said Maggie. "I want to understand the
position. Mrs. Cardew was a Miss Meredith?"

"Yes, dear Maggie; but what does that matter?"

"And," continued Maggie, "she was the heiress of Meredith Manor?"

"I suppose so. Father can tell you exactly."

"Oh, I don't want to question him, but I want to get my bearings. On
the mother's side, the Cardew girls belong to the country. Isn't that
so?"

"Yes, yes, yes. Do come on."

"But their father," continued Maggie, "he is in trade, isn't he?"

"He's a perfect gentleman," said Isabel stoutly; "no one looks down on
trade in these days."

"Of course not. I adore trade myself," said Maggie. She now proceeded
to walk very slowly up the avenue. She was evidently thinking hard.
After a time she said, "I mean to get those girls to come to school
with you, Molly, and with you, Isabel, in September."

Both the Tristrams burst into a peal of merry laughter. "Oh Mags!"
they cried, "we never did think before that you were conceited. You
certainly overrate even your powers when you imagine that you will get
Mr. Cardew to change his mind."

"What do you mean by his changing his mind?"

"Why, this," said Belle. "He has set his face from the very first
against his girls leaving home. He wishes them to have a home
education, and that alone."

"Oh, that is all right," said Maggie cheerfully. "Well, what will you
bet, girls, that I have my way?"

"We don't want you to lose, Maggie; but you certainly will not get
your way in this particular."

"Well, now, I am going to be generous. I am not rich; but I have got
two gold bracelets at home, and I will give one to each of you for
your very own if I succeed in bringing Cicely and Merry Cardew to Mrs.
Ward's school."

"Oh! oh!" exclaimed both the Tristram girls.

"You'll get your bracelets," said Maggie in a most confident tone,
"and I can assure you they are beauties; my darling father brought
them from India years and years ago. He brought a lot of jewels for
mother and me, and I will get the bracelets for you--one each--if I
succeed; but you must allow me to manage things my own way."

"But you won't do anything--anything--to upset the Cardews?" said
Isabel.

"Upset them!" said Maggie. "Well, yes, I do mean to upset them. I mean
to alter their lives; I mean to turn things topsyturvy for them; but
I'll manage it in such a fashion that neither you, nor Molly, nor your
father, nor your mother, nor anyone will suspect how I have got my
way, but get it I will. I thought I'd tell you, that's all. You'd like
to have them at school with you, wouldn't you?"

"Oh yes, very much indeed," said Molly.

"I am not so sure," said Isabel. "It's rather fun coming back to the
rectory in the holidays and telling the Cardew girls all about what we
do and how we spend our time. There'll be nothing to tell them if we
all go to the same school."

"Well," said Maggie, "I don't agree with you. I expect, on the
contrary, you'll find a vast lot more to talk about. But come, let's
hurry now; I want to be introduced to them, for I have no time to
lose."

Neither Isabel nor Molly could quite make out why they felt a certain
depression after Maggie Howland had explained her views. The thought
of the possible possession of the bracelets did not greatly elate
them. Besides, there was not the most remote chance of even such a
fascinating young person as Maggie succeeding in her project. She
would meet her match, if not in Mrs. Cardew, then in Mr. Cardew. There
was no doubt whatever on that point. But they greatly wished she would
not try. They did not want her to upset the placid existence of their
young friends. The girls who lived at the Castle, the girls who
pursued their sheltered, happy, refined life, were in a manner
mysterious and remote to the young Tristrams, and they thought that
they would not love them any more if they were brought into closer
contact with them.

A turn in the avenue now brought the old manor-house into view. Some
friends of Mrs. Cardew's had arrived, but there were no other young
people to be seen. Cicely and Merry were standing talking to a lady of
middle age who had come to pay an afternoon call, when Cicely found
herself changing color and glancing eagerly at Merry.

"Oh, will you excuse me?" she said in her pretty, refined voice. "Our
special friends the Tristrams, the rector's daughters, and a friend of
theirs, a Miss Howland, are coming up the avenue."

"Certainly, my dear," said Lady Lysle; and Cicely and Merry were off
down the avenue like arrows from the bow to meet their friends.

Lady Lysle watched the two girls, and then turned to speak to Mrs.
Cardew.

"What name was that I heard Cicely say?" was her remark. "Of course I
know the Tristrams, but who was the girl who was with them?"

"A special friend of theirs, a Miss Howland. She has been their school
companion abroad. She is staying with them at the rectory. Why, what
is the matter, Lady Lysle? Do you know anything about her?"

"I don't know her," said Lady Lysle, "but I know a little bit about
her mother. I should not have supposed the Tristram girls and Miss
Howland were in the same set."

"Why, what is wrong?" said Mrs. Cardew, who was exceedingly particular
as regarded the people whom her daughters knew.

"Oh, nothing, nothing," said Lady Lysle. "I happen not particularly to
like Mrs. Howland; but doubtless I am prejudiced."

She turned to talk to a neighbor, and by this time the five girls had
met. There was an eager interchange of greetings, and then Maggie
found herself walking up the avenue by Merry's side, while Cicely
found a place between the two Tristram girls.

"I am so glad you've come!" said Merry in her gentle, polite voice.

"It is kind of you to ask me," replied Maggie. "Do you know," she
added, turning and fixing her curious eyes on her companion's face,
"that I am one of those poor girls who have never seen a beautiful
house like yours before."

"I am so glad you like our house," said Merry; "but you haven't seen
it yet."

"I am looking at it now. So this is what I am accustomed to hear
spoken of as one of the 'Homes of England'?"

"It certainly is a home," said Merry, "and an old one, too. Parts of
the Manor have been centuries in existence, but some parts, of course,
are comparatively new."

"Will you take me all over it, Miss Cardew?" asked Maggie.

"Indeed, I shall be delighted; but you must come another day for
that, for we want to make up some sets of tennis without any delay. We
have all our afternoon planned out. There are three or four young
people who may arrive any moment, so that we shall be able to make two
good sets."

"How wonderful it all is!" said Maggie, who kept on looking at the
house with ever-increasing admiration, and did not seem particularly
keen about tennis.

"Don't you like tennis, Miss--Miss Howland?" said Merry.

"Oh yes," replied Maggie after a pause; "but then I think," she added,
after yet another pause, "that I like every nice thing in all the
world."

"How delightful that must be!" said Merry, becoming more and more
attracted by Maggie each moment. "And you know a lot, too, don't you?
For you have seen so much of the world."

"I know very little," replied Maggie; "and as to having seen the
world, that is to come. I am quite young, you know--only just
sixteen."

"But Isabel and Molly told me that you knew more than any other girl
of their acquaintance."

Maggie gave a cheerful laugh, and said, "You mustn't mind what they
say, poor darlings! The fact is, they're fond of me, and they magnify
my knowledge; but in reality it doesn't exist. Only, I must tell you,
Miss Cardew, I mean to see everything, and to know everything. I mean
to have a glorious future."

The enthusiasm in the charming voice was also seen, to shine through
those queer, narrow eyes. Merry felt her heart beat. "I am going to
tell you something in return," she said, speaking, for a wonder,
without diffidence, for she was naturally very shy and retiring. "I
wish with all my heart that I could live a glorious life such as you
describe."

"And surely you can?" said Maggie.

"No, I must be satisfied with a very quiet life. But we won't talk of
it now. I am really very happy. I should consider myself a most
wicked, discontented girl were I anything else. And, please, may I
take you to see mother?"

Merry brought up her new friend to introduce her to Mrs. Cardew, who
for the first moment, remembering what Lady Lysle had said, was a
trifle stiff to Maggie Howland, but two minutes afterward was chatting
to her in a pleasant and very friendly manner. She even went the
length of personally introducing Maggie to Lady Lysle, excusing
herself for the act by saying that Lady Lysle knew her mother.

Maggie also succeeded in charming Lady Lysle, who said to Mrs. Cardew
afterward, "I am glad you have introduced the girl to me. She is not
in the least like her commonplace, affected mother. She seems a very
good sort, and I like plain girls."

"But is she plain?" said Mrs. Cardew in some astonishment. "Do you
know, I never noticed it."

Lady Lysle laughed. "You never noticed how remarkably plain that girl
is, my dear friend?" she said.

"To be frank with you," said Mrs. Cardew, "I didn't think of her face
at all. She has a pretty manner and a nice, sensible, agreeable way of
talking. I do not think my girls can suffer injury from her."

"They seem to like her, at any rate," said Lady Lysle, looking
significantly as she spoke at the distant part of the grounds, where
Maggie, with Cicely at one side of her and Merry at the other, was
talking eagerly. "Oh yes, she seems a nice child," continued the great
lady, "and it would be unfair to judge a girl because her mother is
not to one's taste."

"But is there anything really objectionable in the mother?" asked Mrs.
Cardew.

"Nothing whatsoever, except that she is pushing, vulgar, and shallow.
I am under the impression that the Howlands are exceedingly poor. Of
course they are not to be blamed for that, but how the mother can
manage to send the girl to expensive schools puzzles me."

"Ah, well," said Mrs. Gardew in her gentle voice, "the child is
evidently very different from her mother, and I must respect the
mother for doing her best to get her girl well educated."

"Your girls are not going to school, are they, Sylvia?" asked Lady
Lysle.

"Mine? Of course not. Their father wouldn't hear of it."

"On the whole, I think he is right," said Lady Lysle, "though there
are advantages in schools. Now, that school at Kensington, Aylmer
House, which my dear friend Mrs. Ward conducts with such skill and
marvelous dexterity, is a place where any girl might receive
advantages."

"Is it possible," said Mrs. Cardew, "that Mrs. Ward is your friend?"

"My very great friend, dear. I have known her all my life. Aylmer
House is particularly select. My niece Aneta is at the school, and her
mother is charmed with it."

"But that is very strange," said Mrs. Gardew after a pause. "You must
talk to-night to our rector when he comes. Oh yes, of course you'll
stay to supper."

"I cannot, I regret to say."

"Well, then, if you won't, there's no use in pressing you. But I have
something curious to say. The rector's two little girls are going to
Aylmer House in September, and that little Miss Howland whom I just
introduced to you is also one of the girls under Mrs. Ward's care."

"Then she will do well," said Lady Lysle alter a pause, during which
her face looked very thoughtful.

"I wonder if she knows your niece," said Mrs. Cardew.

Lady Lysle laughed. "I presume she does. The school only contains
twenty boarders--never any more. I happen to know that there are two
vacancies at the present moment. Really, if I were you, Sylvia, I
would give your girls a couple of years there. It would do them a
world of good, and they would acquire some slight knowledge of the
world before they enter it."

"Impossible! quite impossible!" said Mrs. Cardew; "their father would
never consent."




CHAPTER IV.

POWER WAS EVERYTHING TO MAGGIE.


Meanwhile the young people enjoyed themselves vastly. Maggie was very
modest with regard to her tennis, but she quickly proved that she
could play better than any one else at the Manor that day. The
visitors walking about the grounds paused to remark on her excellent
play and to inquire who she was. She took her little triumph very
modestly, saying that she was rather surprised at herself, and
supposed that it was the fresh and delicious air of the country which
had put her into such good form.

"She is ridiculously overmodest," said Isabel Tristram to Merry, "for
she always did play every sort of game better than the rest of us. She
is not quite so good at her books; except, indeed, at certain things,
such as recitation. I wish you could see and hear her then. She is
almost a genius. She looks like one inspired."

"I think her quite delightful," said Merry; "and as to being
plain----"

"I told you, didn't I?" said Belle, "that you'd never notice her looks
after you had seen her for a minute or two."

By-and-by it was time for the family to go into the house for supper
at Meredith Manor. The three girls from the rectory were taken
upstairs, to a spacious bedroom to wash their hands and brush their
hair. Molly and Isabel were both most anxious to know what Maggie
thought of Cicely and Merry.

"What I think of them?" said Maggie. "Oh, they're first-rate, and not
really dull at all; and the whole place is lovely, and all the people
I met to-day were so nice, except, indeed, that Lady Lysle."

"Lady Lysle!" exclaimed Molly in a tone of astonishment. "Why, she is
Mrs. Cardew's greatest friend. Do you mean to say you were introduced
to her?"

"Yes, Mrs. Cardew was kind enough to do so, though I am sure I didn't
want it at all."

"But I can't imagine why she did it," said Molly in a tone of
astonishment. "Mrs. Cardew never introduces either of us to the
grown-up people."

"Well, her ostensible reason," said Maggie, "was that Lady Lysle knows
my mother."

"Does she, indeed?" said Isabel in a tone of great respect.

"But that doesn't make me like her any the better," said Maggie. "And
now I will tell you why, girls, only you must faithfully promise you
won't repeat it to any one."

"Of course not," said the girls eagerly, who were accustomed to
receive secrets from their schoolfellows, though Maggie, as a rule,
never gave her secrets to anyone.

"Well, I will tell you," said Maggie, the color flushing into her face
and then leaving it pale again. "Aneta Lysle is one of the girls at
Aylmer House. She is Lady Lysle's niece; and--well--you know I am
tolerant enough, but I can't bear Aneta Lysle."

Molly and Isabel were silent for a minute.

"If _you_ can't bear her," said Isabel, "then I don't suppose we'll
like her either when we go to the school."

"Oh yes, you will; you'll adore her--sure to. Now promise once again
that you will never repeat this."

"We certainly will not," said Molly.

Isabel nodded emphatically. "We don't tell secrets," she said. Then
she added, "We had best go downstairs now, if you're quite tidy,
Mags."

During supper that night Mrs. Cardew, who found herself seated near
her favorite rector, began to ply him with questions with regard to
Aylmer House. How had he heard of it, and why had he specially fixed
on that establishment for his daughters?

The rector smiled. He had twinkling dark eyes, and they now looked
down the long table until they rested for a brief moment on Maggie's
young figure. She was talking to Mr. Cardew, who, stately and reserved
as he was, took her remarks with good-natured tolerance.

"A nice, unaffected child," he kept saying to himself, and neither did
he remark how plain she was.

"That young person yonder," said Mr. Tristram to Mrs. Cardew, "is the
influence that has induced me to make arrangements for my girls at
Aylmer House."

"Miss Howland! You don't mean to say that you are influenced by a
schoolgirl?"

Mr. Tristram looked grave. "In this case I may as well confess at once
that I have been influenced," he said. "I have heard a great deal of
the child from Molly and Isabel, for they were all three at the same
excellent school in Hanover. I met little Miss Howland when I was in
London at Christmas. Being such a great friend of my children's, I
naturally talked to her. She told me of Mrs. Ward and of the new
delightful school to which she was going. She certainly never once
pressed me to send my girls there, but it occurred to me that I would
visit Mrs. Ward and see if it could be arranged. My girls are quite
proficient for their ages in foreign languages; but I want them now
thoroughly to learn literature and English history, and also those
numerous small accomplishments which are so necessary for a
gentlewoman. There is also no place in the world like London, in my
opinion, for hearing good music and seeing good art. I saw Mrs. Ward.
A short interview with her was all-sufficient. I could not desire to
put my girls in safer hands."

Mrs. Cardew listened very attentively.

"Then you think, Mr. Tristram," she said after a pause, "that
school-life is really good for girls?"

"In my humble opinion, Mrs. Cardew, it is essential. A girl must find
her level. She can only find it at school."

"Then what about my dear girls?" said Mrs. Cardew.

The rector bowed in a very courteous manner. "School-life may not be
really necessary for them," he said; "although you know my opinion--in
short you know what I would do with them did they belong to me."

Mrs. Cardew was silent for a minute or two. Then she continued the
conversation by saying, "It is really a curious fact that Lady Lysle,
my great friend, who was here this afternoon, spoke to me in terms of
the warmest approbation with regard to Mrs. Ward and Aylmer House. She
says that her own niece Aneta is a member of the school. She further
said that there were two vacancies at present, and she urged me to
send my girls there. But, alas I cannot do that, for their father
would not hear of it."

"I do wish he would hear of it," said Mr. Tristram with some feeling.
"You will never have your girls properly taught unless they go to
school. It is impossible at this distance from London to command the
services of the best masters and governesses. You will not have a
resident governess in the house--forgive me if I speak freely, dear
lady, but I love your children as though they were my own--and if you
could persuade Mr. Cardew to seize this opportunity and let them go to
school with Molly and Isabel I am certain you would never regret it."

"I wish I could persuade him," said Mrs. Cardew; "more particularly as
that excellent music master, Mr. Bennett, has just written to say he
must discontinue giving his music-lessons, as the distance from
Warwick is too far for his health, and Miss Beverley, their daily
governess, has also broken down. But there, I know my husband never
will agree to part with the girls."

"Then the next best thing," said Mr. Tristram, speaking in a cheerful
tone, "is for you to take up your abode in your London house, and give
the girls the advantages of masters and mistresses straight from the
Metropolis. Why, you will be bringing them out in a couple of years,
Mrs. Cardew, and you would like them to have all possible advantages
first."

"Something must be done, certainly," said Mrs. Cardew; "and I like
that girl, Miss Howland, although Lady Lysle seemed prejudiced against
her at first."

"Oh, she is a girl in a thousand," said Mr. Tristram; "so
matter-of-fact and amiable and agreeable. See how she is talking to
your husband at this very moment! I never saw a nicer or more modest
young creature, but she is so exceedingly clever that she will push
her own way anywhere. She has bowled over my two young urchins
already, although she has been only a few hours at the rectory. What
could Lady Lysle have to say against Maggie Howland?"

"Oh, nothing--nothing at all, and I ought not to have spoken; but it
seems she does not much care for Mrs. Howland."

"I think I can explain that," said Mr. Tristram. "Mrs. Howland means
well, but is a rather silly sort of woman. The girl manages her in the
sweetest way. The girl herself takes after her father, poor Howland
the African explorer, who lost his life in his country's cause. He
had, I am told, a most remarkable personality."

When Molly and Isabel Tristram, accompanied by Maggie Howland, the
rector, and his wife, walked back to the rectory that evening, Maggie
was in excellent spirits. It was natural that the three young people
should start on in front. Maggie talked on various subjects; but
although the Tristrams were most anxious to get opinions from her with
regard to the Cardews, she could not be led to talk of them until they
were approaching the house.

It was now nearly eleven o'clock, and a perfect summer night. The
boys, Jack and Andrew, had gone to bed, but a few lights were
twinkling here and there in the dear old rectory.

"Oh, I am not a scrap sleepy", said Maggie. "This air stimulates one;
it is splendid. By the way, girls," she added, suddenly turning and
facing her companions, "would you like your bracelets to have rubies
in them or sapphires?"

"Nonsense!" said Molly, turning crimson.

Belle laughed. "You don't suppose you are accomplishing that?" she
said.

Maggie spoke rather slowly. "Mother has one dozen bracelets in her
jewelry-case. Father brought them to her in the course of his travels.
Some he got in India and some in Africa. They are very valuable and
exceedingly quaint, and I recall now to my memory, and can-see clearly
in my mind's eye one lovely gold bracelet fashioned like a snake and
with eyes of ruby, and another (which I think he must have got at
Colombo) that consists of a broad gold band studded here and there
with sapphires. How pretty those bracelets would look on your dear
little arms, Molly and Isabel; and how glad--how very, very glad--your
Maggie will be to give them to you!"

"And, of course, when you do give them to us we'll be delighted to
have them," said Molly and Isabel.

Then Isabel laughed and said, "But what is the good of counting your
chickens before they're hatched?"

"I consider my chickens hatched," was Maggie's remark, "What fun we
shall all have together next winter! Aneta won't have much chance
against us. Yes, girls, of course I like your friends Cicely and
Merry; but they'll be twice three times--the girls they are when they
have been for a short time at Mrs. Ward's school."

"Aren't you tired, Maggie?" was Molly's remark. "Wouldn't you like to
go to bed?"

"I am not a scrap tired, and I don't want to go to bed at all; but I
suppose that means that you would?"

"Well, I must own to feeling a little sleepy," said Molly.

"And so am I," said Belle.

"Girls, girls, come in; your father wants to lock up," called Mrs.
Tristram at that moment.

The girls all entered the house, lit their candles, and went upstairs
to their rooms.

As Maggie was wishing her two dear friends good-night she said
quietly, "I hope you won't mind; but Merry Cardew--or, as I ought to
call her, Miss Cardew--has asked me to go over to the Manor to-morrow
morning in order to show me the old house. I said I'd be there at ten
o'clock, and could then get back to you in time for lunch. I do trust
you don't mind."

"Of course we don't," said Molly in a hearty tone. "Now, good-night,
Mags."

"But if you think, Maggie," said Isabel, "that you will succeed in
that scheme of yours you will find yourself vastly mistaken."

Maggie smiled gently, and the next moment she found herself alone. She
went and stood by the open window. There was a glorious full moon in
the sky, and the garden, with its deep shadows and brilliant avenues
of light, looked lovely. But Maggie was not thinking of the scenery.
Her thoughts were busy with those ideas which were always running riot
in her busy little head. She was not unamiable; she was in reality a
good-hearted girl, but she was very ambitious, and she sighed, above
all things for power and popularity.

When she came to visit Molly and Isabel she had not the faintest idea
of inducing Cicely and Merry to join that select group who were taught
by Mrs. Ward at Aylmer House. But when once the idea had entered her
brain, she determined, with her accustomed quickness, to carry it into
execution. She had never yet, in the whole course of her life, met
with defeat. At the various schools where she had been taught she had
always been popular and had won friends and never created an enemy-but
at Aylmer House, extraordinary and delightful as the life was, there
was one girl who excited her enmity--who, in short, roused the worst
that was in her. That girl's name was Aneta Lysle. No sophistries on
the part of Maggie, no clever speeches, no well-timed and courteous
acts, could win the approval of Aneta; and just because she was
impossible to get at, because she carried her young head high, because
she had that which Maggie could never have--a stately and wonderful
beauty--Maggie was jealous of her, and was determined, if she could
not win Aneta over to be her friend, to use her own considerable
powers against the girl. She had not for a single moment, however,
thought that she could be helped by Cicely and Merry in this
direction, and had intended to get them to come to the school simply
because they were aristocratic and rich, in the first instance. But
when she saw Lady Lysle--Lady Lysle, who hated her mother and before
whom her mother trembled and shrank; Lady Lysle, who was Aneta's
aunt--she knew that Cicely and Merry might be most valuable aids to
her in carrying out her campaign against Aneta, and would help her to
establish herself once and for all as the most powerful and important
person in Mrs. Ward's school.

Power was everything to Maggie. By power she meant to rule her small
school-world, and eventually by the aid of that same gift to take her
position in the greater world that lies beyond school. In her heart of
hearts she considered Cicely and Merry tiresome, silly, ignorant
little girls; but they could be made to play into her hands. They must
come to Aylmer House--oh yes! and already she felt certain she had put
the thin end of the wedge beneath that opposition which she knew she
must expect from Mr. Cardew. She would see him again on the morrow.
Indeed, greater schemes than hers could be carried into effect within
a fortnight.

Maggie was the soul of common-sense, however, and had no idea of
wearing herself out thinking when she ought to be asleep. She
accordingly soon turned from the window, and, getting into bed,
dropped at once into healthy slumber.

When she awoke she felt remarkably light-hearted and cheerful. She got
up early, and went with Andrew and Jack to see the adorable rabbits.
So judicious was she on this occasion that both boys returned with her
to breakfast in the highest good-humor.

"Mother, mother," cried Jackdaw, "she loves Fanciful because he's so
beautiful."

"And she adores Spot-ear because he's so ugly," said Peterkins.

The boys were exceedingly happy at being allowed to sit at breakfast
one on each side of Maggie, who, when she did not speak to them--for
she wanted to ingratiate herself with every one present, and not with
them alone--contrived to pat their hands from time to time, and so
keep them in a subdued state of exceeding good-humor.

Soon after breakfast she flew up to her room, put on that strangely
becoming brown hat, which would have suited no other girl but herself,
and went off to the Manor. She was met at the gate by Merry, who was
anxiously waiting for her appearance.

"I am so sorry that Cicely isn't here too," said Merry; "but mother
wanted Cicely to drive into Warwick with her this morning. We're
going for a long motor-ride this afternoon. Don't you love motors?"

"I have never been in one in my life," replied Maggie.

"Oh dear!" said Merry; "then you shall come with us, although I know I
can't ask you to-day, but perhaps to-morrow we could manage."

"I must not be too much away from Molly and Isabel, for it would not
be kind--would it, Miss Cardew?"

"Do call me Merry. 'Miss Cardew' sounds so stiff, and you know I feel
that I have known you all my life, for Molly and Isabel have always
been talking about you. Mother was so pleased when she heard that you
wanted to see the old house; and, do you know, Maggie----You don't
mind my saying Maggie?"

"Of course not, Merry--dear Merry."

"Well--would you believe it?--father is going to show you the
manuscript-room himself. I can tell you that is an honor."

"I am so delighted!" said Maggie. "Your father is a most charming
man."

"Indeed, that he is," said Merry; "but I never saw him get on so well
with a young girl before."

"Oh," said Maggie in her modest way, "it was just that I wanted to
listen to him; what he said was so very interesting."

The girls were now walking up the avenue.

"Please," said Merry suddenly, "tell me more about your school--I mean
that new, wonderful school you are at in London."

"Aylmer House?" said Maggie.

"Yes, Aylmer House. Mother was talking about it this morning. She was
quite interested in it."

"Your mother was talking about it?"

"Yes. It seems Mr. Tristram had been praising it to her like anything
last night."

"Well, he can't say too much in its favor," said Maggie. "Any girl who
didn't get good from it ought to be ashamed of herself."

"What is that you are saying, Miss Howland?" said the voice of Mr.
Cardew at that moment.

"Oh father! I never saw you," cried Merry.

Mr. Cardew came up and shook hands with Maggie. "I was walking just
behind you on the grass," he said, "and I heard your enthusiastic
remarks with regard to the school that the young Tristrams are going
to. I am heartily pleased; I take a great interest in the Tristrams."

"Oh sir," said Maggie suddenly, "I only wish--oh! I hardly dare to say
it--but I only do wish that your girls were coming too!"

Merry turned crimson and then grew pale. "Father doesn't approve of
schools," she said in a faint voice.

"As a rule, I do not," said Mr. Cardew decidedly; "but of course I am
bound to say there are schools and schools. You shall tell me all
about your school presently, Miss Howland. And now, I will allow my
daughter to entertain you."

"But, father darling, you promised to show Maggie the manuscript-room
yourself."

"Are you interested in black-letter?" said Mr. Cardew.

"I am interested in everything old," replied Maggie.

"Well, then, I will show you the manuscript-room with pleasure; but if
you want to go over the Manor you have a heavy morning's work before
you, and Merry is an excellent guide. However, let me see. I will meet
you in the library at a quarter to twelve. Until then, adieu."




CHAPTER V.

"WHAT DID YOU TALK ABOUT?"


Maggie and Merry had now reached the great porch which overshadowed
the entrance to the old house. The next instant they found themselves
in the hall. This, supported by graceful pillars, was open up to the
roof of the house. It was a magnificent hall, and Merry began
enthusiastically to explain its perfections. Maggie showed not a
pretended but a real interest. She asked innumerable and sensible
questions. Her queer, calm, narrow eyes grew very bright. She smiled
now and then, and her face seemed the personification of intelligence.
With that smile, and those gleaming white teeth, who could have
thought of Maggie Howland as plain?

They went from the hall into the older part of the house, and there
Merry continued her duties as guide. Never before had she been in the
company of so absolutely charming a companion. Maggie was the best
listener in the world. She never interrupted with tiresome or
irrelevant questions. When she did speak it was with the utmost
intelligence, showing clearly that she understood what she was being
told.

By-and-by they found themselves in the picture-gallery. There Merry
insisted on their sitting down for a time and taking a rest. She
touched a bell as she spoke, and then motioned Maggie to recline in a
deep arm-chair which faced the picture of a beautiful lady who was the
grandmother of the present Mrs. Cardew.

"That lady's name," said Merry, "was Cicely Meredith, and she was the
wife of the last Meredith but one who owned the Manor. It was little
supposed in those days that my darling mother would inherit the place,
and that Cardews should live at Meredith Manor after all. Ah, here
comes Dixon!--Dixon, will you put our lunch on that small table? Thank
you very much."

One of the servants in the Cardew livery had appeared. He was bearing
a small tray of tempting drinks, fruit, and cake.

"Now, Maggie, eat; do eat," said Merry.

"I declare I am as hungry as a hawk," said Maggie, and she munched
cake and ate fruit and felt that she was, as she expressed it to
herself--although she would not have used the words aloud--in clover.

Nevertheless, she was not going to lose sight of that mission which
she had set herself. She turned and looked thoughtfully at Merry.
Merry had a pretty profile, with the short upper-lip and the graceful
appearance of a very high-bred girl.

"Do you," said Maggie after a pause, "happen to know Aneta Lysle?"

"Why, of course," said Merry. "Do you mean Lady Lysle's niece?"

"Yes," replied Maggie.

"I don't know her well, but she has stayed here once or twice. Is she
a friend of yours, Maggie?"

"Oh no; scarcely a friend, although we are schoolfellows."

"How stupid of me!" said Merry, speaking with some warmth. "Of course,
I quite forgot that she is at Mrs. Ward's school. She is older than
you, isn't she, Maggie?"

"Yes, a year older, as days are counted; but she appears even more
than her age, which is just seventeen. Don't you think her very
beautiful, Merry?"

"Now that I recall her, I do; but she never made a special impression
on me. She never stayed here long enough."

"Nevertheless, she is a sort of cousin of yours?"

"Yes, Lady Lysle is mother's cousin; but then one doesn't love all
one's relations," said Merry carelessly. "Have another piece of cake,
Maggie."

"Thanks," said Maggie, helping herself. "How delicious it is!"

"And put some more cream over your raspberries. The raspberries at
Meredith Manor are celebrated."

Maggie helped herself to some more cream. "I do wish" she said
suddenly.

"That I would go on telling you about the pictures?" said Merry. "But
you must be tired. I never knew any one take in interesting things so
quickly."

"I am glad you think I do; but it so happens that I do not want to
hear about the pictures this morning. I think perhaps I am, after all,
a bit tired. It is the pleasure, the delight of knowing you and your
sister, and of being with those sweet girls Molly and Isabel."

"Yes, aren't they darlings'?" said Merry.

"I want you to tell me a lot about yourself," said Maggie.

"We have half-an-hour yet before I am to meet your father in the
manuscript-room. Begin at the beginning, and tell me just everything.
You are not schoolgirls?"

"Oh, no," said Merry, speaking slowly. "We are taught at home."

"But have you a resident governess?"

"No; father objects. This is holiday-time of course; but as a rule we
have a daily governess and masters."

"It must be dull," said Maggie, speaking in a low tone--so low that
Merry had to strain her ears to hear it.

She replied at once, "'Tisn't nearly so interesting as school; but
we--we are--quite--_quite_ satisfied."

"I wonder you don't go to school," said Maggie.

"Father doesn't wish it, Maggie."

"But you'd like it, wouldn't you?"

"Like it!" said Merry, her eyes distended a little. "Like to see the
world and to know other girls? Well, yes, I should like it."

"There'd be discipline, you know," said Maggie. "It wouldn't be all
fun."

"Of course not," said Merry. "How could one expect education to be all
fun?"

"And you would naturally like to be very well educated, wouldn't you?"
said Maggie.

"Certainly; but I suppose we are--that is, after a fashion."

"Yes," said Maggie, "after a fashion, doubtless; but you will go into
society by-and-by, and you'll find--well, that home education leaves
out a great many points of knowledge which cannot possibly be attained
except by mixing with other girls."

"I suppose so," said Merry, speaking with a slight degree of
impatience; "but then Cicely and I can't help it. We have to do what
father and mother wish."

"Yes, exactly, Merry; and it's so awfully sweet and amiable of you!
Now, may I describe to you a little bit of school-life?"

"If you like, Maggie. Molly and Isabel have often told me of what you
did in Hanover."

"Oh, Hanover?" said Maggie with a tone of slight contempt. "We don't
think of Hanover now in our ideas of school-life. We had a fairly good
time, for a German school; but to compare it with Mrs. Ward's house!
Oh, I cannot tell you what a dream of a life I have lived during the
last term! It is only to see Mrs. Ward to love her; and all the other
mistresses are so nice, and the girls are so very select and
lady-like. Then we take a keen interest in our lessons. You're the
musical one, aren't you, Merry?"

"Yes. How ever did you find that out?"

"Well," said Maggie, "I looked at you, and I guessed it. Besides, I
heard you hum an air under your breath yesterday, and I knew at once
that you had a lovely voice."

"I am sure I haven't; and I'm too young to begin singing-lessons."

"Not a bit of it. That's quite an exploded idea. If, for
instance----Oh, of course I know you won't be there; but if you
were so lucky as to be a pupil at Mrs. Ward's you would be
taught to sing, and, what is more valuable, you would hear
good, wonderful, beautiful singing, and wonderful, beautiful
music of all sorts. Once a week we all go to a concert at
Queen's Hall. Have you ever been there?"

"No! I don't know London at all."

"Well, then, another day in the week," continued Maggie, "we go to
the different museums and picture-galleries, and we get accustomed to
good art, and we are taught to discern good from bad. We learn
architecture at St. Paul's and the Abbey and some of the other
churches. You see, Mrs. Ward's idea is to teach us everything
first-hand, and during the summer term she takes us on long
expeditions up the river to Kew and Hampton Court and all those dear
old places. Then, in addition, she has what she calls reunions in
the evenings. We all wear evening-dress, and she invites two or
three friends, and we sing and play among ourselves, and we are taught
the little observances essential to good society; and, besides all
the things that Mrs. Ward does, we have our own private club and our
own debating society, and--oh, it is a full life!--and it teaches
one, it helps one."

Merry's soft brown eyes were very bright, and her cheeks had a
carnation glow on them, and her pretty red lips were slightly parted.
"You do all these things at school--at school?" she said.

"Why, of course; and many, many more things that you can't even
imagine, for it's the whole influence of the place that is so
delightful. Then you make friends--great friends--and you get to
understand character, and you get to understand the value of real
discipline, and you are taught also that you are not meant to live a
worldly and selfish life, for Mrs. Ward is very philanthropic. Each
girl in her school has to help a poor girl in East London, and the
poor girl becomes in a sort of manner her property. I have got a dear
little lame girl. Her name is Susie Style. I am allowed to see her
once or twice a year, and I write her a letter every week, and she
writes back to me, and I collect enough money to keep her in a
cripples' home. I haven't enough of my own, for I am perhaps the
poorest girl in the school; but that makes no difference, for Mrs.
Ward doesn't allow the word money or rank to be spoken of--she lives
above all that. She says that money is a great talent, and that people
who are merely purse-proud are detestable. Oh, but I've told you
enough, haven't I?"

"Yes, oh yes!" said Merry. "Thanks very, very much. And so Aneta is
there; and as Molly and Isabel will be there, they will tell me more
at Christmas. Perhaps we ought to go down now to meet father in the
manuscript-room."

Maggie rose with alacrity. She followed her companion quite
cheerfully. She felt assured within herself that the thin end of the
wedge had been well inserted by now.

Mr. Cardew was exceedingly courteous and pleasant, and Maggie charmed
him by her intelligence and her marvellous gift of assimilating
knowledge. Not a word was said with regard to the London school, and
at ten minutes to one Maggie bade good-bye to Mr. Cardew and Merry,
and went back to the rectory in considerable spirits.

Molly and Isabel were all impatience for her return.

"Well, what did you do?" said Molly. "Who was there to meet you?"

"Only Merry. Cicely had gone with Mrs. Cardew to Warwick."

"Oh, well, Merry is the jollier of the two, although they are both
perfectly sweet," said Molly. "And did she show you all the house,
Maggie?"

"No," said Maggie; "I really couldn't take it all in; but she took me
round the armory and into the old tower, and then we went into the
picture-gallery."

"Oh, she took you into the picture-gallery! There are Romneys and
Gainsboroughs and Sir Joshua Reynoldses, and all sorts of magnificent
treasures there."

"Doubtless," said Maggie. "But when I tell you what we did you will
laugh."

"What did you do? Do tell us, Mags."

"We sat in easy-chairs. I faced the portrait of a very beautiful lady
after whom Cicely Cardew is called."

"Of course I know her well--I mean her picture," said Isabel. "That is
a Gainsborough. Didn't you admire it?"

"Yes; but I want to look at it again; I'm going to do the gallery
another day, and on that occasion I think I shall ask Cicely to
accompany me."

"Why, what do you mean? Don't you like our sweet little Merry?"

"Like her? I quite love her," said Maggie; "but the fact is, girls, I
did my duty by her this morning, and now I want to do my duty by
Cicely."

"Oh Mags, you are so mysterious!" said Molly; "but come upstairs and
take off your hat, for the gong will sound for lunch in a moment."

Maggie went upstairs, Molly and Isabel following her. "Come into my
room, girls," she said. Then she added, dropping her voice, "I think
those bracelets are pretty secure."

Molly colored. Isabel looked down.

"You will never succeed," said Molly.

Then Isabel said, "Even if you do, I don't think we ought, perhaps,
to--to take them, for it would seem as though they were a sort
of--sort of--bribe."

"Oh, you old goose!" said Maggie, kissing her. "How could they be a
bribe when I don't ask you to do anything at all? But now, listen. We
were tired when we got to the gallery; therefore that sweet little
Merry of yours ordered fruit and milk and cake, and we ate and
talked."

"What did you talk about?"

"School, dear."

"What was the good of your talking about school to Merry when she
can't go?"

"Can't go?" said Maggie. "Why, she is going; only, it was my bounden
duty to make her want to go. Well, I succeeded in doing that this
morning. There's the gong, and, notwithstanding my lunch, I am quite
hungry."

"Well, Andrew and Jack are perfectly mad to see you; you'll have to
devote a bit of your time to them. Dear me, Mags!" said Molly, "it
must be tiresome to be a sort of universal favorite, as you are."

"Tiresome!" said Maggie, glancing round with her queer, expressive
eyes, "when I love it like anything? Let's get up a sort of play
between ourselves this afternoon, and let the boys join in; and, oh!
couldn't we--don't you think we might--get your two friends Cicely and
Merry to join us, just for an impromptu thing that we could act
beautifully in the hay-field? Wouldn't their father consent?"

"Why, of course he would. I'll run round the minute lunch is over and
get them," said Isabel. "You are a girl for planning things, Mags!
It'll be quite glorious."

"We might have tea in the hay-field too," continued Maggie. "I am sure
Peterkins and Jackdaw will help us."

"Capital! capital! and we'll get David"--David was the gardener's
boy--"to pick lots of fruit for the occasion."




CHAPTER VI.

FORBIDDEN FRUIT.


Meanwhile a little girl stood all alone on one of the terrace walks at
Meredith Manor. Mrs. Cardew and Cicely would not arrive until rather
late for lunch, and Merry and her father were to partake of it alone.
Merry paced up and down very slowly. What a lovely day it was, and how
beautiful the place looked with its long lines of stately trees, and
its background of woods, and its terraces of bright flowers and green,
green grass!

As far as the eye could reach the land belonged to the Cardews, and
yet Merry Cardew, the joint-heiress with Cicely of all this wealth,
did not feel either happy or contented at that moment. A girl had come
into her life who had suddenly turned her gold to gray, her sunshine
to shadow. She was a very nice girl, too--exceedingly nice. There was
something about her which Merry found impossible to define, for Merry
had no acquaintances just then in her sheltered life who possessed the
all-important and marvelous power of charm. Merry knew quite well that
Maggie Howland was neither rich nor beautiful. She was just a little
schoolgirl, and yet she could not get Maggie out of her head. She
sighed for the girl's companionship, and she sighed yet more for the
forbidden fruit which Maggie had placed so enticingly before her
mental vision: the school-life, the good life, the energetic,
purposeful life. Music--oh, how passionately Merry loved the very
little music she had ever heard! And art--Merry and Cicely had learned
a little bit of art in their own picture-gallery; but of all there was
outside they knew nothing. Then that delightful, wonderful scheme of
having an East End girl for your very own to train, and help, and
write to, and support; and the companionship, and all the magical
things which the Tristrams had more or less enjoyed in foreign
schools, but which seemed to have reached a delicacy of perfection at
Aylmer House!

Yes, doubtless these were forbidden fruits; but she could not help, as
she paced alone on the terrace, contrasting her mode of education with
that which was put within the reach of her friends Molly and Isabel,
and of Maggie herself. How dull, after all, were her lessons! The
daily governess, who was always tired when she arrived, taught her out
of books which even Molly and Isabel declared to be out of date; who
yawned a good deal; who was always quite, quite kind, but at the same
time had no enthusiasm; who said, "Yes, my dears; very nicely done,"
but never even punished; and who only uttered just that mild phrase
which was monotonous by reason of its repetition. Where was the good
of reading Racine aloud to Miss Beverley day after day, and not being
able to talk French properly at all? And where was the use of
struggling through German with the same instructress?

Then the drawing-master who came from Warwick: he was better than Miss
Beverley; but, after all, he taught what Molly and Isabel said was now
quite exploded--namely, freehand--and he only came once a week.
Merry's passion was for music more than for drawing; it was Cicely who
pleased Mr. Vaughan, the drawing-master, best. Then there was the
music-master, Mr. Bennett; but he never would allow her to sing a
note, and he taught very dull, old-fashioned pieces. How sick she was
of pieces, and of playing them religiously before her father at least
once a week! Her dancing was better, for she had to go to Warwick to a
dancing-class, and there were other girls, and they made it exciting.
But compared to school, and in especial Mrs. Ward's school, Merry's
mode of instruction was very dull. After all, Molly and Isabel,
although they would be quite poor girls, had a better time than she
and Cicely with all their wealth.

"A penny for your thoughts, my love," said her father at that moment,
and Merry turned her charming little face towards him.

"I ought not to tell them to you, dad," she said, "for they are--I'm
ever so sorry--they are discontented thoughts."

"You discontented, my dear child! I did feel that I had two little
girls unacquainted with the meaning of the word."

"Well, I'll just tell you, and get it over, dad. I'll be perfectly all
right once I have told you."

"Then talk away my child; you know I have your very best interests at
heart."

"Indeed I know that, my darling father. The fact is this," said Merry;
"I"----She stopped; she glanced at her father. He was a most
determined and yet a most absolutely kind man. Merry adored him;
nevertheless, she was a tiny little bit in awe of him.

"What is the matter?" he said, looking round at her. "Has your
companion, that nice little Miss Howland, been putting silly thoughts
into your head? If so, she mustn't come here again."

"Oh father, don't say that! You'll make me quite miserable. And indeed
she has not been putting silly thoughts into my head."

"Well, then, what are you so melancholy about?"

"The fact is--there, I will have it out," said Merry--"I'd give
anything in the world to go to school."

"What?" said Mr. Cardew.

"Yes," said Merry, gaining courage as she spoke; "Molly and Isabel are
going, and Aneta Lysle is there, and Maggie Howland is there, and I'd
like to go, too, and I'm sure Cicely would; and, oh, father! I know it
_can't_ be; but you asked me what was the matter. Well, that's the
matter. I do want most awfully to go to school!"

"Has that girl Miss Howland been telling you that you ought to go to
school?"

"Indeed no, she has not breathed such a word. But I am always
interested, as you know--or as perhaps you don't know--in schools; and
I have always asked--and so has Cicely--Molly and Isabel to tell us
all about their lives at school."

"I did not know it, my little Merry."

"Well, yes, father, Cicely and I have been curious; for, you see, the
life is so very different from ours. And so to-day, when Maggie and I
were in the picture-gallery, I asked her to tell me about Aylmer
House, and she--she did."

"She made a glowing picture, evidently," said Mr. Cardew.

"Oh father, it must be so lovely! Think of it, father--to get the best
music and the best art, and to be under the influence of a woman like
Mrs. Ward. Oh, it must be good! Do you know, father, that every girl
in her school has an East End girl to look after and help; so that
some of the riches of the West should be felt and appreciated by those
who live in the East. Oh father! I could not help feeling a little
jealous."

"Yes, darling, I quite understand. And you find your life with Miss
Beverley and Mr. Vaughan and Mr. Bennett a little monotonous compared
to the variety which a school-life affords?"

"That is it, father darling."

"I don't blame you in the least, Merry--not in the very least; but the
fact is, I have my own reasons for not approving of school-life. I
prefer girls who are trained at home. If, indeed, you had to earn your
living it would be a different matter. But you will be rich, dear,
some day, and----Well, I am glad you've spoken to me. Don't think
anything more about it. Come in to lunch now."

"I'll try not to think of it, father; and you're not really angry?"

"Angry!" said Mr. Gardew. "I'll never be angry with you, Merry, when
you tell me all the thoughts of your heart."

"And you won't--you won't," said Merry in an anxious tone--"vex
darling mother by talking to her about this?"

"I make no promises whatsoever You have trusted me; you must continue
to trust me."

"I do; indeed I do! You are not angry with dear, nice Miss Howland,
are you, father?"

"Angry with her! Why should I be? Most certainly not. Now, come in to
lunch, love."

At that meal Mr. Cardew did his very utmost to be pleasant to Merry;
and as there could be no man more charming when he pleased, soon the
little girl was completely under his influence, and forgot that
fascinating picture of school-life which Maggie had so delicately
painted for her edification.

Soon after lunch Mrs. Cardew and Cicely returned; and Merry, the
moment she was with her sister, felt her sudden fit of the blues
departing, and ran out gaily with Cicely into the garden. They were
seated comfortably in a little arbor, when Isabel's voice was heard
calling them. She was hot and panting. She had come up to tell them of
the proposed arrangements for the afternoon, and to beg of them both
to come immediately to the rectory.

"How more than delightful!" said Merry.--"Cicely, you stay still, for
you're a little tired. I'll run up to the house at once and ask father
and mother if we may go."

"Yes, please do," said Isabel; "and I'll rest here for a little, for
really the walk up to your house is somewhat fatiguing." She mopped
her hot forehead as she spoke. "You might as well come back with me,
both of you girls," she added. But she only spoke to Cicely, for Merry
had already vanished.

"Father! mother!" said the young girl, bursting abruptly into their
presence. "Belle Tristram has just come up to ask us to spend the
afternoon at the rectory. Tea in the hay-field, and all kinds of fun!
May we go?"

"Of course you may, dears," said Mrs. Cardew at once. "We intended
motoring, but we can do that another day."

Mr. Cardew looked dubious for a moment. Then he said, "All right, only
you must not be out too late. I'll send the pony-trap down to the
rectory for you at half-past eight o'clock."

"Oh, but, father," said Merry, "we can walk home."

"No dear; I will send the little carriage. Now, go and enjoy yourself,
my child."

He looked at her with great affection, and she felt herself reddening.
Had she hurt that most dear father after all? Oh! no school that ever
existed was worth that.




CHAPTER VII.

DISCONTENT.


On that special afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Cardew happened to be alone.
The girls had gone down to the rectory. This was not Mrs. Cardew's At
Home day, and she therefore did not expect any visitors. She was a
little tired after her long drive to Warwick, and was glad when her
husband suggested that they should go out and have tea all alone
together under one of the wide-spreading elm-trees.

Mrs. Cardew said to herself that this was almost like the old, old
times of very long ago. She and her husband had enjoyed an almost
ideal married life. They had never quarreled; they had never even had
a small disagreement. They were blessed abundantly with this world's
good things, for when Sylvia Meredith of Meredith Manor had accepted
the hand of Cyril Cardew she had also given her heart to him.

He and she were one in all particulars. Their thoughts were almost
identical. She was by no means a weak-minded woman--she had plenty of
character and firmness; but she deferred to the wishes of her husband,
as a good wife should, and was glad! to feel that he was slightly her
master. Never, under any circumstances, did he make her feel the yoke.
Nevertheless, she obeyed him, and delighted in doing so.

The arrival of their little twin-daughters was the crown of their
bliss. They never regretted the fact that no son was born to them to
inherit the stately acres of Meredith Manor; they were the last sort
of people to grumble. Mrs. Cardew inherited the Meredith property in
her own right, and eventually it would be divided between her two
daughters.

Meanwhile the children themselves absorbed the most loving care of
their parents. Mr. Cardew was, as has already been said, a great
merchant-prince. He often went to London to attend to his business
affairs, but he spent most of his time in the exquisite country home.
It was quite true that discontent seemed far, very far away from so
lovely a spot as Meredith Manor. Nevertheless, Mr. Cardew had seen it
to-day on the face of his best-loved child, his little Merry. The
look had hurt him; and while he was having lunch with her, and joking
with her, and talking, in his usually bright and intelligent way, her
words, and still more the expression of her face and the longing look
in her sweet brown eyes, returned to him again and again.

He was, therefore, more thoughtful than usual as he sat by his wife's
side now under the elm-tree. He had a pile of newspapers and magazines
on the grass at his feet, and his favorite fox-terrier Jim lay close
to his master. Mrs. Cardew had her invariable knitting and a couple of
novels waiting to occupy her attention when Mr. Cardew took up one of
the newspapers. But for a time the pair were silent. Mrs. Cardew was
thinking of something which she wanted to say, and Mr. Cardew was
thinking of Merry. It was, as is invariably the case, the woman who
first broke the silence.

"Well, Cyril," said his wife, "to find ourselves seated here all
alone, without the children's voices to listen to reminds me of the
old times, the good times, the beautiful times when we were first
married."

"My dear," he answered, starting slightly as she spoke, "those were
certainly good and beautiful times, but surely not more good and
beautiful than now, when our two dear little girls are growing up and
giving us such great happiness."

"That is true. Please don't misunderstand me, love; but you come even
before the children."

He felt touched as she said this, and glancing at her, said to himself
that he was indeed in luck to have secured so priceless a woman as his
wife.

"We have had happy times together, Cyril," she said, returning his
glance.

"Yes, Sylvia," he answered, and once again he thought of Merry's
face.

"Nothing can alter that," she continued.

"Nothing, my love," he said.

Then he looked at her again, and saw that she was a little troubled
about something; and, as was his custom, he determined to take the
bull by the horns.

"You have something on your mind, Sylvia. What is it?"

"I have," she said at once; "and something of very great importance. I
have a sort of fear that to talk of it with you may possibly trouble
you a little. Shall we defer it, dear? The day is so peaceful, and we
are so happy."

"No, no," he replied at once. "We will take the opportunity of the
children being perfectly happy at the rectory to discuss the thing
that worries you. But what can it be?" he continued. "That is more
than I can imagine. I have never seen you worried before."

Again he thought of Merry, but it was impossible to connect his wife's
trouble with his child's discontent.

"Well, I will tell you just out, Cyril," said his wife. "I urge
nothing, but I feel bound to make a suggestion. I know your views with
regard to the girls."

"My views, dear! What do you mean?"

"With regard to their education, Cyril."

"Yes, yes, Sylvia; we have done our very best. Have you any reason to
find fault with Miss Beverley or with Vaughan or Bennett?"

"Unfortunately," said Mrs. Cardew, "Miss Beverley, who, you know, is
an admirable governess, and whom we can most thoroughly trust, wrote
to me yesterday morning saying that she was obliged to resign her post
as daily governess to our girls. She finds the distance from Warwick
too far; in fact, she has her physician's orders to take work nearer
home. She regrets it immensely, but feels that she has no
alternative."

"Provoking!" said Mr. Cardew; "but really, Sylvia, I wouldn't allow it
to upset me if I were you. Surely there are plenty of other Miss
Beverleys in the world; and"--again he thought of Merry--"we might
perhaps find some one a little less old-fashioned."

"I am afraid, dear, that is impossible, for you will not allow a
resident governess in the house."

"I will not," said Mr. Cardew with decision. "Such an arrangement
would break in on our family life. You know my views."

"Yes, dear; and I must say I approve of them."

"You must find some one else in Warwick who is not too tired to take
the train journey. Doubtless it would be quite easy," said Mr.
Cardew.

"I went to Warwick this morning in order to make inquiries," said Mrs.
Cardew in her gentle voice, "and I grieve to say there is no one who
can in the least take the post which dear Miss Beverley has so
worthily filled. But I have further bad news to give you. Mr. Bennett
is leaving Warwick for a better post in London, and we shall be at our
wits' end to get the girls good music-lessons for next term."

"How provoking! how annoying!" said Mr. Cardew, and his irritation was
plainly shown in his face. "It does seem hard," he said after a
moment's pause, "that we, with all our wealth, should be unable to
give our girls the thorough education they require."

"The fact is this, dear," said Mrs. Cardew, "and I must speak out
plainly even at the risk of displeasing you--Cicely and Merry are
exceedingly clever girls, but at the present moment they are very far
behind other girls of their age. Their knowledge of foreign languages
is most deficient. I have no doubt Miss Beverley has grounded them
well in English subjects; but as to accomplishments, they are not
getting the advantages their rank in life and their talent demand.
Dear Cyril, we ought to forget ourselves and our interests for the
children."

"What has put all this into your head?" said Mr. Cardew. "As, for
instance--" He paused. "It seemed impossible----"

"What, dear?" asked his wife very earnestly.

"Well, I may as well say it. Has Merry been talking to you?"

"Our little Merry!" said Mrs. Cardew in astonishment. "Of course not.
What in the world do you mean?"

"I will not explain just at present, dear. You have some idea in your
head, or you wouldn't speak to me as you do."

"Well, the fact is, when my cousin, Lucia Lysle, was here yesterday
she spoke very strongly to me on the subject of the girls' education,
and urged me to do what I knew you would never for a moment consent
to."

"And what is that?" asked Mr. Gardew. "I seem to be an awful bugbear
in this business."

"No, dear, no. I quite understand your scruples, and--and--respect
them. But Lucia naturally wanted us to seize the opportunity of two
vacancies at Aylmer House, Mrs. Ward's school."

"I shall soon begin to hate the name of Mrs. Ward," said Cardew with
some asperity.

"My cousin spoke most highly of the school," continued Mrs. Cardew.
"She said that two years there, or perhaps a little longer, would give
the girls that knowledge of life which will be all-essential to them
in the future."

"Home education is best; I know it is best," said Mr. Cardew. "I hate
girls' schools."

"I gave her to understand, dear, that those were your views; but I
have something else to tell you. You know how attached we both are to
the dear Tristrams."

"Of course, of course," said Mr. Cardew with impatience.

"Well, at supper yesterday evening Mr. Tristram began to talk to me on
the very same subject as my cousin, Lady Lysle, had spoken of earlier
in the day."

"Very interfering of Tristram," replied Mr. Cardew.

"He didn't mean it in that way, I assure you, my love; nothing could
be nicer than the way he spoke. I was telling him--for I had not
mentioned the fact to you, and it was troubling me a little--about
Miss Beverley and Mr. Bennett, and asking his advice, as I often do.
He immediately urged Aylmer House as the best possible substitute for
Miss Beverley and Mr. Bennett. I repeated almost the same words I had
used to Lucia Lysle--namely, that you were dead-set against girls'
schools."

"That was scarcely polite, my love, seeing that he sends his own
daughters to school."

"Well, yes," said Mrs. Cardew; "but of course their circumstances are
very different."

"I would be sorry if he should feel that difference, Sylvia. Tristram
is a most excellent fellow."

"He is--indeed he is!" said Mrs. Cardew. "Feeling for him, therefore,
as you do, dear, you may perhaps be more inclined to listen to an
alternative which he proposed to me."

"And what is that, my dear?"

"Well, he thinks we might occupy our house in London during the school
terms of each year----"

"During the school terms of each year!" echoed Mr. Cardew in a voice
of dismay. "But I hate living in London."

"Yes, dearest; but you see we must think of our girls. If you and I
took the children to town they could have governesses and masters--the
very best--and would thus be sufficiently educated to take their place
in society."

Mr. Cardew was quite silent for a full minute after his wife had made
this suggestion. To tell the truth, she had done a somewhat
extraordinary thing. Amongst this great lady's many rich possessions
was a splendid mansion in Grosvenor Street; but, as she hated what is
called London society, it had long been let to different tenants, for
nothing would induce the Cardews to leave their delightful home, with
its fresh air and country pursuits, for the dingy old house in town.
They knew that when the girls came out--a far-distant date as
yet--they would have to occupy the house in Grosvenor Street for the
season; but Mrs. Cardew's suggestion that they should go there almost
immediately for the sake of their daughters' education was more
annoying to her husband than he could possibly endure.

"I consider the rector very officious," he said. "Nothing would induce
me to live in town."

"I thought you would feel like that, dear. I was certain of it."

"You surely would not wish it yourself, Sylvia?"

"I should detest it beyond words," she replied.

"Besides, the house is occupied," said Mr. Cardew, catching at any
excuse not to carry out this abominable plan, as he termed it.

"Well, dear, at the present moment it is not. I had a letter a week
ago from our agent to ask if he should relet it for the winter and
next season, and I have not yet replied to him."

"Nonsense, nonsense, Sylvia! We cannot go to live there."

"I don't wish it, my love."

The pair sat quite silent after Mrs. Cardew had made this last
remark.

After a time her husband said, "We're really placed in a very cruel
dilemma; but doubtless there are schools and schools. Now, I feel that
the time has arrived when I ought to tell you about Merry."

"What about the dear child?" asked her mother. "Isn't she well?"

"Absolutely and perfectly well, but our dear little girl is consumed
by the fever of discontent."

"My dear, you must be mistaken."

"I am not. Listen, and I will tell you what has happened."

Mr. Cardew then related his brief interview with Merry, and Merry's
passionate desire to go to Aylmer House.

"And what did you say to her, love?" asked his wife.

"I told her it was impossible, of course."

"But it really isn't, dear, you know," said Mrs. Cardew in a low tone;
"and as you cannot make up your mind to live in London, those two
vacancies at Aylmer House seem providential."

At these words Mr. Cardew sprang to his feet. "Nothing will ever shake
my opinion with regard to school-life," he said.

"And yet the life in town----"

"That is impossible. Look me straight in the face, Sylvia. If by any
chance--don't, please, imagine that I'm giving way--but if, by any
possible chance, I were to yield, could you, my darling, live without
your girls?"

"With you--I could," she answered, and she held out her hand to him,
which he raised to his lips and kissed.

"Well, I am upset," he said. "If only Miss Beverley and Bennett were
not so silly, we should not be in this awkward fix. I'll go for a
ride, if you don't mind, Sylvia, and be back with you in an hour's
time."

During that ride Mr. Cardew felt as a strong man does when his most
cherished wishes are opposed, and when circumstance, with its
overpowering weight, bears down every objection. Beyond doubt the
girls must be educated. Beyond doubt the scheme of living in London
could not be entertained. Country life was essential. Meredith Manor
must not be deserted for the greater part of the year. He might visit
the girls whenever he went to London; but, after all, he was now more
or less a sleeping partner in his great firm. There was no necessity
for him to go to London more than four or five times a year. Oh!
school was hateful, but little Merry had longed for it. How
troublesome education was! Surely the girls knew enough.

He was riding home, his thoughts still in a most perturbed condition,
when he suddenly drew up just in front of a little figure who stood by
the roadside, attired as a gipsy, with a scarlet bandana handkerchief
twisted round her head, a short skirt reaching not quite to her ankles
made also of scarlet, and a little gay blue shawl across her
shoulders. She was carrying a tambourine in one hand and in the other
a great bunch of many-colored ribbons.

This little, unexpected figure was seen close to the rectory grounds,
and Mr. Cardew was so startled by it, and so also was his horse, that
he drew up abruptly and looked imperiously at the small suppliant for
his favor.

"If you please, sir," said Maggie Howland, speaking in her most
enticing voice, and knowing well that her dress magnified her charms,
"will you, kind sir, allow me to cross your hand with silver and let
me tell your fortune?"

Mr. Cardew now burst into a merry laugh.

"Why, Miss Howland," he said, "I beg your pardon; I did not recognize
you."

Maggie dropped a low curtsy. "I'm the gipsy girl Caranina, and I
should like to tell your fortune, kind and generous sir."

Just then the pretty face of Cicely was seen peeping over the rectory
grounds. She was dressed as a flower-girl, and looked more lovely than
he had ever seen her before.

"Why, dad, dad," she cried, "oh! you must come in and join our fun.
Mustn't he, Maggie?"

"I am Caranina, the gipsy girl," said Maggie, dropping another low
curtsy, and holding her little tambourine in the most beseeching
attitude; "and you are Flora, queen of the flowers."

"Well, really, this is entertaining," said Mr. Cardew. "What queer
little minxes you all are! And may I really come in and see the fun?"

"Indeed you may, dad," said the flower-girl. "Oh, and please we want
you to look at Merry. Merry's a fairy, with wings. We're going to have
what we call an evening revel presently, and we are all in our dress
for the occasion. But Maggie--I mean Caranina--is telling our
fortunes--that is, until the real fun begins."

"Do please come in, Mr. Cardew. This is the height of good luck," said
Mrs. Tristram, coming forward herself at this moment. "Won't you join
my husband and me under the shadow of the tent yonder? The young
people are having such a good time."

"I will come for a minute or two," said Cardew, dismounting as he
spoke. "Can some one hold Hector for me?"

David was quickly summoned, and Mr. Cardew walked across the hay-field
to where the hastily improvised tent was placed.

"No one can enter here who doesn't submit to the will of the gipsy,"
remarked Caranina in her clear and beautiful voice. "This is my tent,
and I tell the fortunes of all those kind ladies and gentlemen who
will permit me to do so."

"Then you shall tell mine, with pleasure, little maid," said Mr.
Cardew, who felt wonderfully cheered and entertained at this _al
fresco_ amusement.

Quick as thought Maggie had been presented with a silver coin. With
this she crossed the good gentleman's palm, and murmured a few words
with regard to his future. There was nothing whatever remarkable in
her utterance, for Maggie knew nothing of palmistry, and was only a
very pretense gipsy fortune-teller. But she was quick--quicker than
most--in reading character; and as she glanced now into Mr. Cardew's
face an inspiration seized her.

"He is troubled about something," thought the girl. "It's the thin end
of the wedge; I'll push it in a little farther."

Her voice dropped to a low tone. "I see in your hand, kind sir," she
said, "all happiness, long life, and prosperity; but I also see a
little cross, just here--" she pointed with her pretty finger--"and it
means self-sacrifice for the sake of a great and lasting good. Kind
sir, I have nothing more to add."

Mr. Cardew left the tent and sat down beside the rector and his wife.
Maggie's words were really unimportant. As one after the other the
merry group of actors went to have their fortunes told he paid no
attention whatever to them. Gipsy fortune-tellers always mixed a
little sorrow with their joyful tidings. It was a bewitching little
gipsy after all. He could not quite make out her undefined charm, but
he was interested in her; and after a time, when the fortune-telling
had come to an end and Maggie was about to change her dress for what
they called the evening revels, he crossed the field and stood near
her.

"So you, Miss Howland, have been telling my daughter Merry a good many
things with regard to your new school?"

She raised her queer, bright eyes, and looked him full in the face. "I
have told Merry a few things," she said; "but, most of all, I have
assured her that Aylmer House is the happiest place in the world."

"Happier than home? Should you say it was happier than home, Miss
Howland?"

"Happier than my home," said Maggie with a little sigh, very gentle
and almost imperceptible, in her voice. "Oh, I love it!" she continued
with enthusiasm; "for it helps--I mean, the life there helps--to make
one good."

Mr. Cardew said nothing more. After a time he bade his friends good-by
and returned to Meredith Manor. In course of time the little
pony-carriage was sent down to the rectory for the Cardew girls, who
went back greatly elated.

How delightful their evening had been, and what a marvelous girl
Maggie Howland was.'

"Why, she even manages to subdue and to rule those really tiresome
boys," said Cicely.

"Yes," remarked Merry, "she is like no one else."

"You have quite fallen in love with her, haven't you, Merry?"

"Well, perhaps I have a little bit," said Merry. She looked
thoughtful. She longed to say to Cicely, "How I wish beyond all things
on earth that I were going to the same school!" But a certain fidelity
to her father kept her silent.

She was startled, therefore, when Cicely herself, who was always
supposed to be much calmer than Merry, and less vehement in her
desires, clasped her sister's hand and said with emphasis, "I don't
know, after all, if it is good for us to see too much of Maggie
Howland."

"Why, Cissie? What do you mean?"

"I mean this," said Cicely: "she makes me--yes, I will say
it--discontented."

"And me too," said Merry, uttering the words with an emphasis which
astonished herself.

"We have talked of school over and over again," said Cicely, "with
Molly and Belle; but notwithstanding their glowing accounts we have
been quite satisfied with Miss Beverley, and dear, gray-haired Mr.
Bennett, and Mr. Vaughan; but now I for one, don't feel satisfied any
longer." "Nor do I," said Merry.

"Oh Merry!"

"It is true," said Merry. "I want to go to Aylmer House."

"And I am almost mad to go there," said Cicely.

"I'll tell you something, Cissie. I spoke to father about it to-day."

"Merry! you didn't dare?"

"Well, I just did. I couldn't help myself. It is hateful to be
under-educated, and you know we shall never be like other girls if we
don't see something of the world."

"He didn't by any chance agree with you?" said Cicely.

"Not a bit of it," said Merry. "We must bear with our present life,
only perhaps we oughtn't to see too much of Maggie Howland."

"Well," said Cicely, "I've something to tell you, Merry."

"What's that?"

"You don't know just at present why mother and I went to Warwick this
morning?"

"No," said Merry, who was rather uninterested. "I had a very good time
with Maggie, and didn't miss you too dreadfully."

"Well, you will be interested to know why we did go, all the same,"
said Cicely. "It's because Miss Beverley is knocked up and can't teach
us any more, and Mr. Bennett is going to London. Mother can't hear of
anyone to take Miss Beverley's place, or of any music-teacher equal to
Mr. Bennett; so, somehow or other, I feel that there are changes in
the air. Oh Merry, Merry! suppose----"

"There's no use in it," said Merry. "Father will never change. We'll
get some other dreadfully dull daily governess, and some other
fearfully depressing music-master, and we'll never be like Molly and
Belle and Maggie and our cousin Aneta. It does seem hard."

"We must try not to be discontented," said Cicely.

"Then we had best not ask Maggie here too often," replied Merry.

"Oh, but they're all coming up to-morrow morning, for I have asked
them," said Cicely.

"Dear, dear!" replied Merry.

"We may as well have what fun we can," remarked Cicely, "for you know
we shall be going to the seaside in ten days."




CHAPTER VIII.

MRS. WARD'S SCHOOL.


It is to be regretted that Mr. Cardew spent a restless night. Mrs.
Cardew, on the contrary, slept with the utmost peace. She trusted so
absolutely in her husband's judgment and in in his power to do the
very best he could on all possible occasions for her and hers that she
was never deeply troubled about anything. Her dear husband must not be
forced to live in London if he did not like to do so, and some
arrangement must be made for the girls' home education if he could not
see his way to sending them to school.

Great, therefore, was her astonishment on the following morning when
he came hastily into her room.

"My dear," he said, "I am off to London for the day."

"What for?" she asked.

"I will tell you, darling, when I return to-night."

"Cyril, may I not come with you?"

"I think not, my love. Make all the young people as happy as you can.
I'm just off to the station, in the motor-car."

Mr. Cardew left his wife's room. The girls were told at breakfast that
their father had gone to London; but as this frequently happened, and
was invariably connected with that business which they knew nothing
whatever about, they were not keenly interested. As a matter of fact,
they were much more absorbed in getting things ready for the
entertainment of their friends; and in this Mrs. Cardew very heartily
joined them. She proposed that during Maggie Howland's visit the five
girls should have as happy a time together as possible; and as the
weather was perfect the invariable picnics and gipsy teas were
arranged for their benefit.

"You can all make yourselves happy here to-day, my darlings," said
Mrs. Cardew, addressing Cicely and Merry. "To-morrow, when your father
is here, the Tristrams, he and I, and you girls will have a very
pleasant picnic to the Aldersleigh woods. We will arrange it to-day,
for there is nothing your father enjoys more than a whole, long, happy
day in the open air. I will speak to Mrs. Fairlight, and tell her to
have all things in readiness for our picnic."

"Oh mummy, how good! how good!" said Merry, clasping her mother's
hand. Then she added, "Mummy, is it true that Miss Beverley is never
going to teach us any more?"

"I am afraid it is only too true, Merry; but this is holiday-time,
darling; we needn't talk of your education just at present."

"Only, we must be educated--mustn't we, mother?"

"Of course, dearest. Your father will see to that."

Merry ran off to join her sister, and it is not too much to say that
the whole of that glorious day was one of unalloyed pleasure. The
Tristram girls were always delightful to the Cardew girls, but now
that they were accompanied by Maggie Howland there was a great
addition to their charm. Nevertheless, Maggie, with her purpose full
in view, with her heart beating a little more quickly than usual when
she heard that Mr. Cardew had gone to London, religiously avoided the
subject of the life at Aylmer House. She felt, somehow, that she had
done her part. A great deal of her own future depended on these two
girls coming to Aylmer House. She would make use of them--large use of
them--at school. She was fond of Molly and Belle; but they were poor.
Maggie herself was poor. She wanted to have rich friends. The Cardews
were rich. By their means she would defeat her enemy, Aneta Lysle, and
establish herself not only in the school but with regard to her future
life. Maggie felt that she could make herself indispensable to Cicely
and Merry. Oh yes, they would certainly go to Aylmer House in
September. She need not worry herself any further, therefore, with
regard to that matter. Little would they guess how much she had really
done toward this desirable goal, and how fortunate circumstances had
been in aiding her to the accomplishment of her desire. It was enough
for Maggie that they were certainly going. She could, therefore, give
herself up to enjoyment.

With Maggie Howland enjoyment meant a very different thing from what
it does to the average English girl. She enjoyed herself with all her
heart and soul, without one single reservation. To see her face at
such moments was to behold pure sunshine; to hear her voice was to
listen to the very essence of laughter and happiness. She had a
marvelous power of telling stories, and when she was happy she told
them with such verve that all people within earshot hung on her words.
Then she could improvise, and dance, and take off almost any
character; in short, she was the life of every party who admitted her
within their circle.

Meanwhile a rather tired and rather sad man found himself, very much
against his will, in London. He said to himself, "This wonderful Mrs.
Ward will not be at Aylmer House now. These are the holidays, and she
will be probably miles away. I will go to see her. Yes, but she won't
be in; that alone will clinch the matter. But first I will pay a visit
to Lucia Lysle; she said she would be in London--she told my dear wife
so. But Lucia is so erratic, it is most improbable that she either
will be at home."

Mr. Cardew drove first of all to Lady Lysle's house in Hans Place. He
asked if she was within, and, very much to his annoyance, the servant
replied in the affirmative. He entered Lady Lysle's drawing-room
feeling rather silly. The first person he saw there was a tall, slim,
lovely girl, whom he did not recognize at first, but who knew him and
ran up to him and introduced herself as Aneta.

"Why, my dear," he said, "how are you? How you have grown!"

"How is dear Cousin Sylvia, and how are Cicely and Merry?" asked
Aneta. "Oh, I am very well indeed, Mr. Cardew; I don't suppose anybody
could be anything but well who was lucky enough to be at Aylmer
House."

"Mrs. Ward's school?" said Mr. Cardew, feeling rather shy and almost
self-conscious.

"Of course. Don't you know Mrs. Ward, Mr. Cardew?"

"No, my dear, I don't."

"It's the most marvelous school in the world," said Aneta with
enthusiasm. "I do wish you would send Cicely and Merry there. They
would have a good time."

"Is your aunt in?" said Mr. Cardew, a little restlessly.

"Oh yes; she'll be down in a minute."

Lady Lysle now hurried into the room.

"How do you do, Cyril?" she said. "I didn't expect to find you in town
just now. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I am rather anxious to have a chat with you," replied Mr. Cardew.

"Aneta darling, you had better leave us," said her aunt.

The girl went off with a light laugh. "Auntie," she said, "I've just
been telling Mr. Cardew that he ought to send Cicely and Merry to
Aylmer House." She closed the door as she made this parting shot.

"As a matter of fact, I agree with Aneta," said Lady Lysle. "A couple
of years at that splendid school would do the girls no end of good."

Mr. Cardew was silent for a minute. "I may as well confess something
to you, Lucia," he said then.

"What is it, Cyril?"

"I have by no means made up my mind; but we are very much annoyed at
the illness of our daily governess Miss Beverley, and at the girls'
music-master Mr. Bennett removing to London. So I just thought I would
ask you a question or two about this wonderful Mrs. Ward. I don't
suppose for a single moment I should dream of sending the children
there; and, besides, she is not in London now, is she?"

"Yes, she is," replied Lady Lysle. Mr. Cardew felt at that moment that
he hated Mrs. Ward. "She came to see me only last evening. She is
leaving town to-morrow; but if by any chance you would like to go and
see her, and thus judge of the school for yourself--it would commit
you to nothing, of course--she will, I know, be at home all this
morning."

"Dear, dear!" said Mr. Cardew. "How very provoking!"

"What do you mean, Cyril?"

"Nothing, nothing, of course, Lucia. But if, as you say, the school is
so popular, there will be no vacancies, for I think some one told me
that Mrs. Ward only took a limited number of pupils."

"There are two vacancies at the present moment," said Lady Lysle in
her calm voice, "although they are likely to be filled up immediately,
for Mrs. Ward has had many applications; but then she is exceedingly
particular, and will only take girls of high birth and of very
distinguished character."

"Doubtless she has filled up the vacancies by this morning," said Mr.
Cardew, rising with some alacrity. "Well, thank you, Lucia. As I am in
town--came up on business you know--I may as well just have a look at
Aylmer House and Mrs. Ward. It will satisfy my dear wife."

"Why, surely you don't for a minute really intend to send the girls
there?" said Lady Lysle with a superior smile.

"I cannot tell what I may do. When a man is distracted, and when a
valuable daily governess breaks down, and--and--don't question me too
closely, Lucia, and keep our little interview to yourself. As I have
just said, nothing will probably come of this; but I will go and see
the lady just to satisfy myself."

"Aneta will be delighted if you do send the girls to Aylmer House,"
was Lady Lysle's last word.

She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Cardew found himself turning rather
red. He left her, called a hansom, and got into it.

"Of course the vacancies will be filled up," he said to himself as he
was driving in the direction of South Kensington. He further thought,
"Although that good Mrs. Ward is remaining for such an unconscionable
time in town, she will very probably be out this morning. If she is
out that puts an end to everything; but even if she is in, she must
ave filled up her vacancies. Then I shall be able to return to the
Manor with a quiet mind. I'll have done my best, and the thing will be
taken out of my hands. Dear little Merry! I didn't like that
discontent on her sweet face. Ah, well, she can't guess what school is
like. It's not home; but I suppose the educational advantages would be
greater, and a man must sacrifice himself for his children. Odd what
that queer little Miss Howland told me last night: that I was
approaching a deed of self-sacrifice. She's a queer girl, but quite
nice; and Aneta is a charming creature. I could never desire even one
of my own precious girls to look nicer than Aneta does. Well, here I
am. Now, then, what will Fate decide?"

Mr. Cardew sprang from the hansom, desired the man to wait, ran up
some low steps, and rang the bell at the front door of a stately
mansion.

A smiling, very bright-looking maid-servant opened it for him.

"Is Mrs. Ward, within?" questioned Cardew.

"Yes, sir."

"Good heavens!" murmured Cardew under his breath.

"Is she disengaged, and can she give me a few moments of her time?"
continued the much-disappointed gentleman.

"Certainly, sir. Will you come into the drawing-room? What name shall
I say?"

Cardew produced one of his cards.

"Have the goodness to tell your mistress that if she is particularly
engaged I can "--he hesitated--"call another time."

"I will tell her, sir; but Mrs. Ward is not particularly engaged. She
will see you, I am sure, directly."

The girl withdrew, and Cardew sank into a low chair.

He had to wait a few minutes, and during that time had abundant
leisure to look round the beautiful room in which he found himself. It
was so furnished as to resemble a fresh country room. The wall-paper
was white; the pictures were all water-colors, all original, and all
the works of well-known artists. They mostly represented country
scenes, but there were a few admirable portraits of charming girls
just in the heyday of youth and happiness. The floor was of polished
oak and had a large pale-blue drugget in the center, which could be
rolled up at any moment if an impromptu dance was desirable. The large
windows had boxes of flowers outside, which were fresh and well kept,
and had evidently been recently watered, for some sparkling drops
which looked almost like summer rain still glistened on them. The room
itself was also decked with flowers in every available corner, and all
these flowers were fresh and beautifully arranged. They were country
flowers--and of course roses, roses everywhere. There were also great
bowls of mignonette and large glass vases filled with sweet peas.

The air of the room was fresh and full of delicate perfume. Mr. Cardew
had to admit to himself that this was a room in which the most refined
young ladies in the world might sit with pleasure and profit. There
was a shelf for books running round the dado, and the books therein
were good of their kind and richly and handsomely bound. There were no
small tables anywhere. Mr. Cardew was glad of that--he detested small
tables; but there was a harp standing close to the magnificent grand
piano, and several music stands, and a violin case on a chair near
by.

The furniture of the room was covered with a cool, fresh chintz. In
short, it was a charming room, quite different from the rooms at
Meredith Manor, which, of course, were old and magnificent and
stately; but it had a refreshing, wholesome look about it which, in
spite of himself, Mr. Cardew appreciated.

He had just taken in the room and its belongings when the door was
opened and a lady of about thirty-five years of age entered. She was
dressed very simply in a long dress made in a sort of Empire fashion.
The color was pale blue, which suited her calm, fair face, her large,
hazel-brown eyes, and her rich chestnut hair to perfection. She came
forward swiftly.

"I am Mrs. Ward," she said, and held out her hand.

Mr. Cardew considered himself a connoisseur as regards all women, and
he was immediately impressed by a certain quality in that face: a
mingling of sweetness and power, of extreme gentleness and extreme
determination. There was a lofty expression in the eyes, too, and
round the mouth, which further appealed to him; and the hands of the
lady were perfect--they were white, somewhat long, with tapering
fingers and well-kept nails. There was one signet ring on the left
hand, worn as a guard to the wedding-ring--that was all.

Mr. Cardew was a keen observer, and he noted these things at a
glance.

"I have come to talk to you, Mrs. Ward," he said; "and, if you will
forgive me, I should like to be quite frank with you."

"There is nothing I desire better," said Mrs. Ward in her exceedingly
high-bred and sympathetic voice.

That voice reminded Cardew of Maggie Howland, and yet he felt at once
that it was infinitely superior to hers.

"Sit down, won't you, Mr. Cardew?" said Mrs. Ward, and she set him the
example by seating herself in a low chair as she spoke.

"I hope I am not taking up too much of your time," he said; "for, if
so, as I said to your servant, I can call again."

"By no means," said Mrs. Ward; "I have nothing whatever to do this
morning. I am, therefore, quite at your service. You will tell me what
you wish?" she said in that magnetic voice of hers.

"The fact is simply this," he said. "My friend Tristram, who is rector
of Meredith, in Warwickshire, is sending his two daughters to your
school."

"Yes," said Mrs. Ward gently. "Molly and Isabel are coming to me next
term."

"I am Tristram's near neighbor," said Mr. Cardew, "I live at Meredith
Manor. At the present moment the Tristram girls have another pupil of
yours staying with them--Miss Howland."

"Yes," said Mrs. Ward very quietly.

"Lady Lysle's niece Aneta is also one of your pupils."

"That is true, Mr. Cardew."

"Lady Lysle is my wife's cousin."

Mrs. Ward bowed very slightly.

"I will come to the point now, Mrs. Ward. I am the father of two
little girls. They are of the same age as Molly and Isabel Tristram;
that is, they are both just sixteen. They are twins. They are my only
children. Some day they will be rich, for we have no son, and they
will inherit considerable property." Mrs. Ward looked scarcely
interested at this. "Hitherto," continued Mr. Cardew, "I have stoutly
opposed school-life for my children, and in consequence they have been
brought up at home, and have had the best advantages that could be
obtained for them in a country life. Things went apparently all right
until two or three days ago, when I discovered that my girl--her name
is Meredith; we call her Merry for short--was exceedingly anxious to
change her home-life for school-life. At the same time, our excellent
daily governess and the music-master who taught the children have been
obliged to discontinue their work. The girls are at an age when
education is essential; and, although I _hate_ schools, I have come
here to talk over the possibility of your receiving them."

"Had you delayed coming to me, Mr. Cardew, until this evening I should
have had no vacancy, for at the present moment I have twelve
applications for the two vacancies which are to be filled at Aylmer
House. But do you really wish me to consider the proposal of taking
your girls when you hate school-life for young ladies?"

Mr. Cardew could not help smiling. "Then you are not anxious to have
them?"

"Certainly not, unless you yourself and Mrs. Cardew most earnestly
desire to send them to me. Suppose, before we go any further, that I
take you over the house."

"Thank you," said Mr. Cardew in a tone of relief.

Mrs. Ward rose immediately, and for the next hour the head-mistress
and the owner of Meredith Manor went from one dainty room to another.
They visited the gymnasium; they entered the studio. All the different
properties of the music-room were explained to the interested visitor.
The excellent playground was also inspected.

By-and-by, when Mr. Cardew returned to the drawing-room, Mrs. Ward
said, "My number of pupils is limited. You have seen for yourself that
sisters are provided with a room together, and that girls who are not
related have rooms to themselves. The house is well warmed in winter,
and at all seasons of the year I keep it bright and cheerful with
flowers and everything that a judicious expenditure of money can
secure. I have my own special plan for educating my girls. I believe
in personal influence. In short, Mr. Cardew, I am not at all ashamed
to tell you that I believe in my own influence. I have never yet met a
girl whom I could not influence."

"If by any chance my Cicely and Merry come to you," said Mr. Cardew,
"you will find them--I may at least say it--perfect ladies in word and
thought and deed."

Mrs. Ward bowed. "I could receive no others within this
establishment," she said. "If," continued Mrs. Ward, "you decide
to entrust your daughters to me, I will leave no stone unturned to
do my best for them, to educate them in a three-fold capacity:
to induce their minds to work as God meant them to work--without
overtoil, without undue haste, and yet with intelligence and
activity; to give them such exercises as will promote health to
their bodies; and to teach them, above all things, to live for
others, not for themselves. Please, Mr. Cardew, give me no answer
now, but think it over. The vacancies at Aylmer House will
remain at your disposal until four o'clock this afternoon. Will
you send me before that hour a telegram saying 'Yes' or 'No'?"

"I thank you," said Mr. Cardew. He wrung Mrs. Ward's hand and left the
house.

The hall was as spacious and nearly as beautiful as the drawing-room,
and the pretty, bright parlor-maid smiled at the gentleman as he went
out. Mrs. Ward remained for a time alone after her visitor had left.

"I should like to have those girls," she said to herself. "Any girls
related to such a splendid, lofty character as Aneta could not but be
welcome to me. Their poor father, he will feel parting with them; but
I have no doubt that I shall receive them next September at this
house."

The thought had scarcely passed through her mind before there came a
brisk ring at the front door, and Lady Lysle and Aneta were
announced.

"Oh, dear Mrs. Ward!" said Lady Lysle, speaking in her quick,
impulsive manner, "have you seen my dear friend and cousin, Mr.
Cardew?"

"And are the girls coming to the school?" asked Aneta.

"I have seen Mr. Cardew," said Mrs. Ward. "He is a very charming man.
He will decide whether he will send his daughters here or not during
the course of to-day."

"But," said Lady Lysle, "didn't you urge him?"

"No, dear friend; I never urge any one to put a girl in my care. I
should feel myself very wrong in doing so. If Mr. Cardew thinks well
of what he has seen here he may send his daughters to me, but I
certainly did nothing to urge him."

"Oh dear!" said Aneta, "I should so like them to come. You can't
think, Mrs. Ward, what nice people the Cardews are; and the
girls--they do want school-life. Don't they, auntie darling?"

"Such a school as this would do them a world of good," said Lady
Lysle.

"Well, I really hope they will come," said Mrs. Ward; "but I quite
understand their father's objections. They are evidently very precious
treasures, and he has the sort of objection which exists in the minds
of many country gentlemen to sending his girls to school."

"Ah," said Aneta, "but there are schools and schools!"

"The girls will be exceedingly rich," said Lady Lysle. "Their mother
was a Meredith and belonged to an old county family. She inherits vast
wealth _and_ the old family place. Their father is what may be termed
a merchant-prince. By-and-by all the money of the parents will go to
these girls. They are very nice children, but know nothing whatever of
the world. It seems to me a cruel thing that they should be brought up
with no knowledge of the great world where they must eventually
live."

"I hope they will come here," said Mrs. Ward. "Great wealth means
great responsibility. They can make magnificent use of their money. I
should be interested to have them."

"I know you would, my dear friend," said Lady Lysle, "and they are
really quite sweet girls. Now, come, Aneta; we must not keep Mrs. Ward
any longer."

When her visitors had left her Mrs. Ward still remained in the
pleasant drawing-room. She sank into a low chair, folded her hands in
her lap, and remained very still. Although she was only thirty-five
years of age, she had been a widow for over ten years. She had married
when quite a young girl, and had lost her husband and child before she
was five-and-twenty. It was in her generous and noble nature to love
most passionately and all too well. For a time after her terrible
trouble she scarcely know how to bear her grief. Then she took it to
the one place where such sorrow can be borne--namely, to the foot of
the throne of God; and afterwards it occurred to her to devote her
life to the education of others. She was quite well-off, and did not
need to work for her living. But work, to a nature such as hers, was
essential. She also needed the sympathy of others, and the love of
others; and so, aided by her friends, her small but most select school
in South Kensington was started.

From the very first it was a success. It was unlike many other
schools, for the head-mistress had broader and nobler views of life.
She loved all her girls, and they all loved her; but it was impossible
for her not to like some girls more than others, and of all the girls
at present at her school Aneta Lysle was the one she really loved
best. There was also, it is sad to relate, a girl there whom she did
not love, and that girl was Maggie Howland. There was nothing whatever
with regard to Maggie that her mistress could lay hold of. She was
quite aware of the girl's fascination, and of her powerful influence
over her schoolfellows. Nevertheless, she never thought of her without
a sense of discomfort.

Maggie was one of the girls who were educated at Aylmer House for a
very low fee; for Mrs. Ward was quite rich enough and generous enough
to take girls who could not afford her full terms for very much less.
Maggie's fees, therefore, were almost nominal, and no one knew this
fact better than Maggie herself and her mother, Mrs. Howland. None of
her schoolfellows knew, for she learned just what they did, and had
precisely the same advantages. She was treated just like the others.
No one could guess that her circumstances were different. And
certainly Maggie would never tell, but none the less did she in her
heart hate her position.

As a matter of fact, Molly and Isabel Tristram were also coming to the
school on specially low terms; but no one would know this. Maggie,
however, suspected it, and intended, if necessary, to make the fact an
added power over her young friends when they all assembled at Aylmer
House.

"Yes," said Mrs. Ward, half-aloud, half to herself, "I don't quite
trust Maggie Howland. But I cannot possibly dismiss her from the
school. I may win her round to a loftier standard of life, but at
present there is no doubt she has not that high ideal in view which I
think my other girls aim at."

Between three and four o'clock that day Mrs. Ward received a telegram
from Mr. Cardew. It contained the following words:

"After consideration, I have made up my mind to do myself the great
honor of confiding my girls to your care. Their mother and I will
write to you fully in a day or two."

Mrs. Ward smiled when she received the telegram. "I will do my best
for those children," she said to herself.




CHAPTER IX.

THE NEWS.


Mr. Cardew arrived at Meredith Manor very late that evening. The long
and happy day had come to an end. The Tristram girls and Maggie
Howland had returned to the rectory. Cicely and Merry were having a
long, confidential chat together. They were in Merry's bedroom. They
had dismissed their maid. They were talking of the pleasures of the
day, and in particular were discussing the delightful fact that their
beautiful cousin Aneta had wired to say she would be with them in two
days' time.

They had not seen Aneta for some years, but they both remembered her
vividly. Her memory shone out before them both as something specially
dazzling and specially beautiful. Maggie Howland, too, had spoken of
Aneta's beauty. Maggie had been told that Aneta was coming, and Maggie
had expressed pleasure. Whatever Maggie's private feelings may have
been, she was very careful now to express delight at Aneta's
appearance at Meredith Manor.

"What a darling she is!" said Merry. "I doubt very much--I suppose
it's rank heresy to say so, Cicely, but I really greatly doubt whether
I shall ever prefer Aneta to Maggie. What are mere looks, after all,
when one possesses such charm as Maggie has? That seems to me a much
greater gift."

"We need not compare them, need we?" said Cicely.

"Oh, certainly not," said Merry; "but, Cicely darling, doesn't it seem
funny that such a lot of girls who are all to meet in September at
Aylmer House should be practically staying with us at the present
moment?"

"Yes, indeed," said Cicely. "I feel almost as though I belonged to it,
which of course is quite ridiculous, for we shall never by any chance
go there."

"Of course not," said Merry, and she sighed.

After a time Cicely said, "I wonder what father went to town for
to-day."

"Well, we don't know, so where's the use of troubling?" said Merry.

"I asked mother," said Cicely, "why he went to town, and she said she
couldn't tell me; but she got rather red as she spoke."

"Cicely," said Merry after a long pause, "when these glorious holidays
come to an end, and the Aylmer House girls have gone to Aylmer House,
what shall you and I do?"

"Do," said Cicely--"do? I suppose what we've always done. A fresh
governess will be found, and another music-master, and we'll work at
our lessons and do the best we can."

Merry gave a deep sigh.

"We'll never talk French like Belle Tristram," she said, "and we'll
never play so that any one will care to listen to us. We'll never,
never know the world the way the others know it. There seems very
little use in being rich when one can't get education."

It was just at that moment that there came a light tap at the girls'
door. Before they could reply, it was opened and Mrs. Cardew came in.
She looked as though she had been crying; nevertheless, there was a
joyful sort of triumph on her face. She said quickly, "I thought,
somehow, you two naughty children would not be in bed, and I told
father that I'd come up on the chance of finding you. Father has come
back from London, and has something important to tell you. Will you
come down with me at once?"

"Oh mother! mother! what is it?" said Merry in a tone of excitement
which was slightly mingled with awe.

"Your father will tell you, my darling," said Mrs. Cardew.

She put her arm round Merry's slight waist and held Cicely's hand, and
they came down to the great drawing-room where Mr. Cardew was waiting
for them.

He was pacing slowly up and down the room, his hands folded behind his
back. His face was slightly tired, and yet he too wore that odd
expression of mingled triumph and pain which Mrs. Cardew's eyes
expressed.

When the mother and the girls entered the room he at once shut the
door. Mr. Cardew looked first of all at Merry. He held out his hand to
her. "Come to me, little girl," he said.

She flew to him and put her arms round his neck. She kissed him
several times. "Oh dad! dad!" she said, "I know I was downright horrid
and unkind and perfectly dreadful yesterday, and I don't--no, I
_don't_--want to leave you and mother. If I was discontented then, I
am not now."

Merry believed her own words at that moment, for the look on her
father's face had struck to her very heart.

He disengaged her pretty arms very gently, and, still holding her
hand, went up to Cicely, who was clinging to her mother. "I have just
got some news for you both," he said. "You know, of course, that Miss
Beverley cannot teach you any longer?"

"Poor old Beverley," said Cicely; "we are so sorry. But you'll find
another good governess for us, won't you, dad?"

"I am afraid I can't," said Mr. Cardew, "So I sent for you to-night
to tell you that I have broken the resolve which I always meant to
keep."

"You have what?" said Merry.

"I have turned my back on a determination which I made when you were
both very little girls, and to-day I went up to town and saw Mrs.
Ward."

"Oh!" said Merry. She turned white and dropped her father's hand, and,
clasping her own two hands tightly together, gazed at him as though
she would devour his face.

"Well, it's all settled, children," said Mr. Cardew, "and: when
September comes you will go with your friends Molly and Belle to
Aylmer House."

This announcement was received at first in total silence. Then Merry
flew to her father and kissed him a great many times, and Cicely
kissed her mother.

Then Merry said, "We can't talk of it to-night; we can't quite realize
it to-night; but--but--we are glad!"

Then she took Cicely's hand, and they went out of the room. Mr. and
Mrs. Cardew watched them as the little figures approached the door.
Merry opened it, and they both passed out.

"I wonder," said Mr. Cardew, looking at his wife, "if they are going
out of our lives."

"Indeed, no," said Mrs. Cardew; "from what you have told me of Mrs.
Ward, she must be a good woman--one of the best."

"She is one of the very, very best, Sylvia; and I think the very
happiest thing for us both would be to run up to town to-morrow, and
for you to see her for yourself."

"Very well, darling; we will do so," said Mrs. Cardew.




CHAPTER X.

ANETA.


So everything was settled. Cicely and Merry scarcely slept at all that
night. They were too much excited; the news was too wonderful. Now
that their wish was granted, there was pain mingled with their joy. It
seems as though perfect joy must have its modicum of pain to make it
perfect.

But when the next morning dawned the regret of the night before seemed
to have vanished. In the first place, Mr. and Mrs. Cardew had gone
early to London; and the mere fact that their father and mother were
not present was a sort of relief to the excited girls. The picnic need
not be postponed, for Mr. and Mrs. Tristram could act as chaperons on
this auspicious occasion.

They were all to meet at the Manor at eleven o'clock; and, punctual to
the hour, a goodly array of happy young people walked up the avenue
and entered the porch of the old-house. Andrew, devoted to Maggie, was
present. Jack, equally Maggie's slave, was also there. Maggie herself,
looking neat and happy, was helping every one. Molly and Belle, all
in white, and looking as charming as little girls could, were full of
expectation of their long and delightful day.

One wagonette could hold the whole party, and as it drove round to the
front door the boys fiercely took possession of the box-seat, fighting
with the coachman, who said that there would be no room for Miss
Howland to sit between them.

"Well then, Mags, if that is the case," said Peterkins, "you get along
in at once, and take this corner close to me; then, whenever we want,
we can do a bit of whispering."

"You won't whisper more than your share," said Jackdaw. "I've a
frightful lot to say to Mags this morning."

"Hush, boys!" said Maggie; "if you quarrel about me I shall not speak
to either of you."

This threat was so awful that the boys glanced at each other, remained
silent and got quietly into their places. Then the hampers were put on
the floor just under their feet.

Presently Cicely and Merry came out to join the group. They were
wearing pretty pink muslins, with pink sashes to match. Merry's
beautiful dark eyes were very bright. Mr. and Mrs. Tristram inquired
for their host and hostess.

"Oh, I have news for you!" said Merry.

"Yes," said Cicely, "Merry will tell."

"Well, it's Just this," said Merry, almost jerking out her words in
excitement: "Father and mother have been obliged to go rather
unexpectedly to town."

"Why?" said Maggie; then she restrained herself, knowing that it was
not her place to speak.

"They have gone to town," said Merry, scarcely looking at Maggie now,
and endeavoring with all her might and main not to show undue
excitement, "because a great and wonderful thing has happened;
something so unexpected that--that Cicely and I can scarcely believe
it."

Maggie glanced at the sweet little faces. She said to herself, "All
right," and got calmly into the wagonette, where she sat close under
the box-seat which contained those obstreperous young heroes Andrew
and Jack. The others clustered round Merry.

"As I said, I can scarcely believe it," said Merry; "but father has
done the most marvelous thing. Oh Belle! oh Molly! it is too
wonderful! For after all--after all, Cicely and I are to go with you
to Aylmer House in September, and--and--that is why father and mother
have gone to town. Father went up yesterday and saw Mrs. Ward, and
he--he settled it; and father and mother have gone up to-day--both of
them--to see her, and to make final arrangements. And we're to go!
we're to _go_!"

"Hurrah!" cried Molly. Immediately the boys, and Maggie and Belle, and
even Mr. and Mrs. Tristram, took up the glad "Hurrah!"

"Well, children," said Mr. Tristram when the first excitement had
subsided, "I must say I am heartily pleased. This is delightful! I
take some credit to myself for having helped on this most excellent
arrangement."

"No one thanks me for anything," thought Maggie; but she had the
prudence to remain silent.

"We had better start on our picnic now," said Mr. Tristram, and
immediately the whole party climbed into the wagonette. The horses
started; the wheels rolled. They were off.

By-and-by Merry felt her hand taken by Maggie. Maggie just squeezed
that hand, and whispered in that very, very rich and wonderfully
seductive voice of hers, "Oh, I am glad! I am very, very glad!"

Merry felt her heart thrill as Maggie uttered those words. She
answered back, turning her face to her young companion, "To be with
you alone would be happiness enough for me."

"Is it true, Cicely," said Mrs. Tristram at the moment, "that your
cousin, Aneta Lysle, is coming to stay with you?"

"Oh yes; but I had half-forgotten it in all this excitement," said
Cicely. "She will arrive to-morrow.--Maggie, you'll be glad, won't
you?"

"More than delighted," said Maggie.

"It is too wonderful," said Cicely. "Why, it will soon come to pass
that half Mrs. Ward's school will be all together during the holidays.
Fancy, we two, and you two"--she touched one of the Tristram
girls--"and you, Maggie, and then dear Aneta; why, that'll make six.
What a lot we shall have to talk about! Maggie, you and Aneta will be
our two heroines; we shall always be applying to you for
information."

The conversation was here interrupted by Jackdaw, who pinched Maggie
on the arm. "You're not attending to us," he said.

"Nonsense, Jackdaw!"

"Well, stand up for a minute; I want to whisper to you."

Maggie, who never lost a chance of ingratiating herself with any one,
obeyed.

"Jack dear, don't be troublesome," said his mother.

"I am not," said Jackdaw. "She loves it, the duck that she is!"

"Be quick, Jackdaw; it's very difficult for me to keep my hold
standing up," said Maggie.

"How many chocolates can you eat at a pinch?" whispered Jackdaw in her
ear.

"Oh, forty," replied Maggie; "but I should be rather ill afterwards."

"We've got some in our pockets. They're a little bit clammy, but you
don't mind that?"

"I don't want any just now, dear boy; and I'll tell you why. I want
to be really starving hungry when the picnic begins."

"That's a good notion, isn't it?" said Jackdaw.--"I say, Andrew, she
wants to be starving hungry when the picnic begins!"

Maggie resumed her seat, and the boys went on whispering together, and
kicking each other at intervals, and rather upsetting that very stolid
personage, Mr. Charles, the Meredith Manor coachman.

The picnic was a perfect success. When people are very happy there is
no room for discontent in their hearts, and all the members of that
party were in the highest spirits. The Cardew girls had no time yet
for that period of regret which must invariably follow a period of
intense excitement. They had no time yet to realize that they must
part with their father and mother for the greater portion of the
year.

To children so intensely affectionate as Cicely and Merry such a
parting must mean considerable pain. But even the beginning of the
pain did not come to them on that auspicious day, and they returned to
the house after the picnic in the highest good-humor.

Mr. and Mrs. Tristram, however, were wise in their generation; and
although Cicely and Merry begged and implored the whole party to come
to the Manor for supper, they very firmly declined. It is to be
regretted that both Jack and Andrew turned sulky on this occasion.

As the rectory girls and Maggie and the boys and Mr. and Mrs. Tristam
were all going homewards the two girls and Maggie fell behind.

"Isn't this real fun? Isn't it magnificent?" said Molly Tristram.

"It's a very good thing indeed for your friends Cicely and Merry,"
said Maggie. Then she added, "Didn't I tell you, girls, that you would
win your bracelets?"

Belle felt herself changing color.

"We don't want them a bit--we really don't," said Molly.

"Of course we don't want them," said Isabel.

"You'll have them all the same," said Maggie. "They are my present to
you. Surely you won't refuse my present?"

"But such a very rich and handsome present we ought not to accept,"
said Molly.

"Nonsense, girls! I shall be unhappy unless you wear them. When I
return to mother--which, alas! I must do before many days are over--I
shall send you the bracelets."

"I wish you wouldn't, Maggie," said Belle Tristram; "for I am certain
father and mother would not like us to wear jewelry while we are so
young."

"Well, then," said Maggie, "I will give them to you when we all meet
at Aylmer House. You must take them; you know you promised you would.
You will hurt me most frightfully if you don't."

As Molly and Isabel certainly did not wish to hurt Maggie, they
remained silent, and during the rest of the walk the three girls
scarcely spoke. Meanwhile Cicely and Merry entered the Manor House and
waited impatiently for the return of their father and mother.

"We must get everything extra nice for them," said Cicely to her
sister. "I do think it is so wonderfully splendid of them to send us
to school."

The sun had already set, and twilight had come on; but it would be
quite impossible for Mr. and Mrs. Cardew to arrive at the Manor until
about ten o'clock. What, therefore, was the amazement of the girls
when they heard carriage-wheels in the distance!

"Father and mother could not possibly have done their business and
caught the early train," said Merry in some excitement. "Who can be
coming now?"

The next moment their doubts were set at rest, for Aneta Lysle entered
the hall.

"I came to-day after all," she said. "Auntie thought it would be more
convenient. You got my telegram, didn't you?"

These words were uttered while her two cousins, in rapture and
delight, were kissing her.

"No, no," said Merry, "we got no telegram; but, oh, Aneta! we are glad
to see you."

"Here's the telegram on the hall-table," said Aneta, and she took up a
yellow envelope. This was addressed to "Cardew, Meredith Manor." "Yes,
I know this must be from me," said Aneta. "But why didn't you open
it?"

"Well, the fact is," said Cicely, "father and mother were in London,
and the rest of us were out on a picnic. But it doesn't matter a bit;
you've come, and the sooner the better. Oh, it is nice to see you
again! But how tall you are, Neta, and how grown up you look!"

"I am seventeen, remember," said Aneta. "I don't feel grown-up, but
auntie says I look it."

"Oh, come into the light--do," said Merry, "and let's see you! We've
heard so very much of you lately, and we want to look at your darling
face again."

"And I want to look at you both," said Aneta in her affectionate
manner.

The servants had conveyed Miss Lysle's luggage into the house, and now
the three girls, with their arms twined round each other, entered the
same big drawing-room where Mr. Cardew had given his wonderful news of
the night before. There was a blaze of electric light, and this,
judiciously softened with rose-colored silk, was most becoming to all
those who came under its influence. But the strongest glare of light
could not disfigure any one so absolutely beautiful as Aneta Lysle.
Her delicate complexion, the wonderful purity and regularity of her
features, her sweet, tender young mouth, her charming blue eyes, and
her great luxuriance of golden hair made people who looked at her
once long to study that charming face again and yet again.

There was no vanity about this young girl; her manner, her expression,
were simplicity itself. There was a certain nobility about her fine
forehead, and the shape of her head was classical, and showed
undoubted talent. Her clear, musical voice was in itself a charm. Her
young figure was the very personification of grace. Beside her, Cicely
and Merry felt awkward and commonplace; not that they were so, but
very few people could attain to Aneta Lysle's incomparable beauty.

"Well, girls," she said, "you do look sweet, both of you!"

"Oh Neta, what a darling you are!" said Merry, who worshipped beauty,
and had never come across any one so lovely as her cousin. "It's two
years since we met," she continued, "and you have altered, and not
altered. You're more grown-up and more--more stately, but your face is
the same. Whenever we want to think of the angels we think of you too,
Neta."

"That is very sweet of you, darlings; but, indeed, I am far from being
an angel. I am just a very human girl; and, please, if you don't mind,
we won't discuss my looks any more."

Cicely and Merry both save their cousin a thoughtful glance. Then they
said eagerly, "You must come to your room and wash your hands, and get
refreshed for supper, for of course you are starving."

"I shall like to have something to eat," said Aneta. "What room am I
to have, girls?"

"Oh, the white room, next to ours; we arranged it all this morning,"
said Cicely.

"Well, come along at once," said Aneta.

Soon the three girls found themselves in the beautiful bedroom which
had been arranged for Aneta's reception. As soon as ever they got
there Cicely clasped one of her cousin's arms and Merry the other.

"We have news for you--news!" they said.

"Yes?" said Aneta, looking at them with her bright, soft eyes.

"Most wonderful--most extraordinary--most--most beautiful!" said
Merry, speaking almost with passion. "We're going to your school; yes,
to yours--to Aylmer House, in September. Could you have believed it?
Think of father consenting, and just because I felt a little
discontented. Oh, isn't he an angel? Father, of all people, who until
now would not hear of our leaving home! But we're going."

"Well," said Aneta, "I am not greatly surprised, for I happen to know
that your father, Cousin Cyril, came to see auntie yesterday, and
afterwards he went to visit Mrs. Ward, and after his visit we saw Mrs.
Ward; and, although he had not quite made up his mind then whether he
would send you or not, we quite thought he would do so. Yes, this is
splendid. I'll he able to tell you lots about the school; but, after
all, it isn't the school that matters."

"Then what matters, Aneta?"

"It's Mrs. Ward herself," said Aneta; "it's she who makes the whole
thing so perfect. She guides us; she enlightens us. Sometimes I can
scarcely talk of her, my love for her and my passion for her are so
deep."

Cicely and Merry looked thoughtful for a minute.

"I'm ready now to come downstairs," said Aneta; and they went down, to
find supper prepared for them, and the old butler waiting to attend on
his young ladies.

After the meal was over the girls retired to the drawing-room, where
they all three sat by one of the windows waiting for Mr. and Mrs.
Cardew's return.

Merry then said, "It is so funny of you, Aneta, to speak as though the
school was Mrs. Ward."

"But it is," said Aneta.

"Surely, surely," said Merry, "it's the girls too."

"You will be surprised, perhaps, Aneta, to hear," said Cicely, "that
our dear, darling friends--our greatest girl-friends, except yourself
perhaps, and you're a sort of sister--Molly and Isabel Tristram are
also going to Aylmer House in September. They are so nice--you will
like them; and then, of course, there's Maggie Howland, one of the
most charming girls we have come across."

"Whom did you say?" asked Aneta.

"Maggie Howland. She is here."

"In this house?" said Aneta.

"No; she is at the rectory. She is a special friend of Molly and
Isabel. She has been at school with them before in Hanover. You know
her, of course? She is one of the girls at Aylmer House."

"I know her--oh yes, I know her," said Aneta.

"And you like her, you feel her charm, you--you almost worship her,
don't you, Neta?"

Aneta was silent.

"Oh, I know she is considered plain," said Merry, "but there's
something about her which prevents one even considering her features.
She is the most unselfish, most fascinating girl we have ever come
across. You love her, don't you, Neta?"

There had come a curious change over Aneta's face. After a brief pause
she said, "I have no right to say it, but you two are my cousins"----

"Yes, yes! What does this mean?" said Cicely with great eagerness.

"Well, I know you will be faithful and not repeat it to any one; but I
don't love Maggie Howland."

"Oh, Neta!"

"And," continued Aneta, "you; as my cousins, I most earnestly hope,
will not make her your special friend at Aylmer House."

"But we have done so already, Neta. Oh, Neta darling! you are mistaken
in her."

"I say nothing whatever against her," said Aneta, "except that
personally I do not care for her. I should be very glad if I found
that I had misjudged her."

"Then why don't you want us to be friends with her? We are friends
with her."

"I cannot control you, darlings. When you come to school you will see
a variety of girls, and most of them--indeed, all of them--nice, I
think."

"Then why shouldn't we like poor Maggie?"

"You do like her, it seems, already."

"Yes; but you are so mysterious, Neta."

"I cannot say any more; you must forgive me," answered Aneta. "And I
hear the sound of wheels. Your father and mother are coming."

"Yes, yes, the darlings!" said Merry, rushing into the hall to meet
her parents.

Aneta and Cicely followed her example, and there was great excitement
and much talk. Mrs. Cardew was now as anxious that the girls should go
to Aylmer House as though she herself had always wished for such an
arrangement, while Mr. Cardew could not say enough in Mrs. Ward's
praise.

"You agree with me, Aneta," said Mrs. Cardew, "that the school is
quite unique and above the ordinary."

"Mrs. Ward is unique and above the ordinary," was Aneta's reply.

When the girls retired to their own rooms that night, Cicely and Merry
met for a brief moment.

"How funny of Aneta not to like Maggie!" said Merry.

"Well, if I were you, Merry," said Cicely, "I wouldn't talk about it.
I suppose Aneta is prejudiced."

"Yes," said Merry; "but against Maggie, of all people! Well, I, for my
part, will never give her up."

"I suppose," said Cicely, who was more conscientious than her sister,
"that we ought to think something of Aneta's opinion."

"Oh, that's very fine," said Merry; "but we ought to think something,
too, of Molly's opinion, and Belle's opinion. They have known Maggie
longer than Aneta has."

"Yes," replied Cicely; "I forgot that. But isn't Aneta herself
delightful? It's a pure joy to look at her."

"It certainly is," said Merry; "and of course I love her dearly and am
very proud of her; but I confess I did not quite like her when she
spoke in that queer way about dear little Maggie. I, at least, am
absolutely determined that nothing will induce me to give Maggie up."

"Of course we won't give her up," said Cicely. But she spoke with
thought.




CHAPTER XI.

TEN POUNDS.


In perfect summer weather, when the heart is brimful of happiness, and
when a great desire has been unexpectedly fulfilled, what can there
possibly be more delightful than an open-air life? This was what the
girls who belonged to the rectory and the girls who belonged to the
Manor now found. Mr. and Mrs. Cardew and Mr. and Mrs. Tristram could
not do enough for their benefit. Maggie could only stay for one week
longer with her friends; but Aneta had changed her mind with regard to
Belgium, and was to go with the young Cardews to the seaside, and Mrs.
Cardew had asked the Tristram girls to accompany them. She had also
extended her invitation to Maggie, who would have given a great deal
to accept it. She wrote to her mother on the subject. Mrs. Howland
made a brief reply: "You know it is impossible, Maggie. You must come
back to me early next week. I cannot do without you, so say no more
about it."

Maggie was a girl with a really excellent temper, and, recognizing
that her mother had a good reason for not giving her the desired
holiday, made the best of things.

Meanwhile Cicely and Merry watched her carefully. As to Aneta, she was
perfectly cordial with Maggie, not talking to her much, it is true,
but never showing the slightest objection to her society.
Nevertheless, there was, since the arrival of Aneta on the scene, a
strange, undefinable change in the atmosphere. Merry noticed this more
than Cicely. It felt to her electrical, as though there might be a
storm brewing.

On the day before Maggie was to return to London to take up her abode
in her mother's dull house in Shepherd's Bush, a magnificent picnic on
a larger scale even than usual was the order of the hour. Some young
girls of the name of Heathfield who lived a little way off were asked
to Meredith Manor to spend the night, and these girls, who were
exceedingly jolly and bright and lively, were a fresh source of
delight to all those whom they happened to meet. Their names were
Susan and Mary Heathfield. They were older than the Tristrams and the
Cardews, and had, in fact, just left school. Their last year of
school-life had been spent in Paris; they were highly educated, and
had an enviable proficiency in the French tongue.

Mr. and Mrs. Heathfield, the parents of these girls, were also guests
at the Manor, so that the picnic on this last day of Maggie's visit to
the rectory was quite a large one. They drove nearly twenty miles to a
beautiful place not far from Warwick. There the usual picnic
arrangements were made with great satisfaction; dinner was eaten
out-of-doors, and presently there was to be a gipsy-tea. This all the
girls looked forward to, and Andrew and Jack were wild with delight
over the prospect of making the kettle boil. This particular task was
given to them, and very proud they were of the trust reposed in them.

But now, dinner being over, the older people took shelter from the
fierce rays of the sun under the wide-spreading trees, and the young
people moved about in groups or in couples. Merry Cardew found herself
alone with Maggie Howland. Without intending to do so, she had
slightly, very slightly, avoided Maggie during the last day or two;
but Maggie now seized her arm and drew her down a shady glade.

"Come with me, Merry," she said; "I have a lot I want to say to you."

Merry looked at her. "Of course I will come with you, Maggie," she
answered.

"I want just to get quite away from the others," continued Maggie,
"for we shall not meet again until we meet in the autumn at Aylmer
House. You don't know, perhaps--do you, Merry--that you owe the great
joy of coming to that lovely school to me?"

"To you!" said Merry in the utmost amazement.

"Yes," replied Maggie in her calmest tone, "to me."

"Oh, dear Maggie!" replied Merry, "you surely must be mistaken."

"I don't intend to explain myself," said Maggie; "I simply state what
is a fact. You owe your school-life to me. It was I who inserted the
thin end of the wedge beneath your father's fixed resolution that you
were to be educated at home. It was I, in short, who acted the part of
the fairy princess and who pulled those silken reins which brought
about the desire of your heart."

"I don't understand you, Maggie," said Merry in a distressful tone;
"but I suppose," she added, "as you say so, it is the case. Only, I
ought to tell you that what really and truly happened was this"----

"Oh, I know quite well what really and truly happened," interrupted
Maggie. "Let me tell you. I know that there came a certain day when a
little girl who calls herself Merry Cardew was very discontented, and
I know also that kind Mr. Cardew discovered the discontent of his
child. Well, now, who put that discontent into your mind?"

"Why, I am afraid it was you," said Merry, turning pale and then red.

Maggie laughed. "Why, of course it was," she said; "and you suppose I
didn't do it on purpose?"

"But, Maggie, you didn't really mean--you couldn't for a minute
mean--that I was to be miserable at home if father didn't give his
consent?"

"Of course not," said Maggie lightly; "but, you see, I meant him to
give his consent--I meant it all the time. I own that there were
several favoring circumstances; but I want to tell you now, Merry, in
the strictest confidence of course, that from the moment I arrived at
the rectory I determined that you and Cicely were to come with Molly
and Isabel to Aylmer House."

"It was very kind of you, Maggie," said Merry; but she felt a certain
sense of distress which she could not quite account for as she spoke.

"Why do you look so melancholy?" said Maggie, turning and fixing her
queer, narrow eyes on the pretty face of her young companion.

"I am not really melancholy, only I would much rather you had told me
openly at the time that you wished me to come to school."

Maggie gave a faint sigh. "Had I done so, darling," she said, "you
would never have come. You must leave your poor friend Maggie to
manage things in her own way. But now I have something else to talk
about."

They had gone far down the glade, and were completely separated from
their companions.

"Sit down," said Maggie; "it's too hot to walk far even under the
shade of the trees."

They both sat down.

Maggie tossed off her hat. "To-morrow," she said, "you will perhaps be
having another picnic, or, at any rate, the best of good times with
your friends."

"I hope so," replied Merry.

"But I shall be in hot, stifling London, in a little house, in poky
lodgings; to-morrow, at this hour, I shall not be having what you call
a good time."

"But, Maggie, you will be with your mother."

"Yes, poor darling mother! of course."

"Don't you love her very much?" asked Merry.

Maggie flashed round an excited glance at her companion. "Love her?
Yes," she said, "I love her."

"But you must love her tremendously," said Merry--"as much as I love
my mother."

"As a rule all girls love their mothers," said Maggie. "We are not
talking about that now, are we?"

"What do you want to say to me in particular, Maggie?" was Merry's
response.

"This. We shall meet at school on the 20th of September. There will
be, as I have told you already, twenty boarders at Aylmer House. You
will arrive at the school as strangers; so will Molly and Isabel
arrive as strangers; but you will have two friends--Aneta Lysle and
myself. You're very much taken, with your cousin Aneta, are you not?"

"Taken with her?" said Merry. "That seems to me a curious expression.
She is our cousin, and she is beautiful."

"Merry, I must tell you something. At Aylmer House there are two
individuals who lead the school."

"Oh," said Merry, "I thought Mrs. Ward led the school."

"Of course, of course, Mrs. Ward is just splendid; but, you see, you,
poor Merry, know nothing of school-life. School-life is really
controlled--I mean the inner part of it--by the girls themselves. Now,
there are two girls at Aylmer House who control the school: one of
them is your humble servant, Maggie Howland; the other is your cousin,
Aneta Lysle. Aneta does not love me; and, to be frank with you, I hate
her."

Merry found herself turning very red. She remembered Aneta's words on
the night of her arrival.

"She has already told you," said Maggie, "that she doesn't like me."

Merry remained silent.

"Oh, you needn't speak. I know quite well," said Maggie.

Merry felt more and more uncomfortable.

"The petition I have to make to you is this," continued Maggie: "that
at school you will, for a time at least--say for the first month or
so--be _neutral_. I want you and Cicely and Molly and Isabel to belong
neither to Aneta's party nor to mine; and I want you to do this
because--because I have been the person who has got you to Aylmer
House. Just remain neutral for a month. Will you promise me that?"

"I don't understand you. You puzzle me very much indeed," said Merry.

"You will understand fast enough when you get to Aylmer House. I wish
I were not going away; I wish I hadn't to return to mother. I wish I
could go with you all to Scarborough; but I am the last girl on earth
to neglect my duties, and my duty is to be with poor dear mother. You
will understand that what I ask is but reasonable. If four new girls
came to the school, and altogether went over to Aneta's side, where
should I be? What chance should I have? But I do not ask you to come
to my side; I only ask you to be neutral. Merry, will you promise?"

"You distress me more than I can say," replied Merry. "I feel so
completely in the dark. I don't, of course, want to take any side."

"Ah, then you will promise?" said Maggie.

"I don't know what to say."

"Let me present a picture to you," continued Maggie. "There are two
girls; they are not equally equipped for the battle of life. I say
nothing of injustice in the matter; I only state a fact. One of them
is rich and highly born, and endowed with remarkable beauty of face.
That girl is your own cousin, Aneta Lysle. Then there is the other
girl, Maggie Howland, who is ugly."

"Oh no--no!" said Merry affectionately.

"Yes, darling," said Maggie, using her most magnetic voice, "really
ugly."

"Not in my eyes," said Merry.

"She is ugly," repeated Maggie, speaking with great calm;
"and--yes--she is poor. I will tell you as a great secret--I have
never breathed it to a soul yet--that it would be impossible for this
girl to be an inmate of Aylmer House if Mrs. Ward, in the kindness of
her great heart, had not offered her very special terms. You will
never breathe that, Merry, not even to Cicely?"

"Oh, poor Maggie!" said Merry, "are you really--really as poor as
that?"

"Church mice aren't poorer," said Maggie. "But never mind; I have got
something which even your Aneta hasn't got. I have talent, and I have
the power--the power of charming. I want most earnestly to be your
special friend, Merry. I have a very affectionate heart, and I love
you and Cicely and Molly and Isabel more than I can say; but of all
you four girls I love you the best. You come first in my heart; and to
see you at my school turning away from me and going altogether to
Aneta's side would give me agony. There, I can't help it. Forgive me.
I'll be all right in a minute."

Maggie turned her face aside. She had taken out her handkerchief and
was pressing it to her eyes. Real tears had filled them, for her
emotions were genuine enough.

"Don't you think," she said after a pause, "that you, who are so rich
in this world's goods, might be kind and loving to a poor little plain
girl who loves you but who has got very little?"

"Indeed, indeed, I shall always love you, dear Maggie," said Merry.

"Then you will do what I want?"

"I don't like to make promises, and I am so much in the dark; but I
can certainly say this--that, whatever happens, I shall be your friend
at school. I shall look to you to help me in a hundred ways."

"Will you indeed, darling Merry?"

"Of course I shall. I always intended to, and I think Cicely will do
just the same."

"I don't want you to talk to Cicely about this. She doesn't care for
me as much as you do."

"Perhaps not quite," said honest Merry.

"Oh, I am sure--certain of it. Then you will be my friend as I shall
be yours, and when we meet at Aylmer House you will talk of me to
others as your friend?"

"Of course I shall."

"That's what I require. The thought of your friendship when I love you
so passionately makes sunshine in my heart. I sha'n't be miserable at
all to-morrow after what you have said. I shall think of our pleasant
talk under this great oak-tree; I shall recall this lovely, perfect
day. Merry, you have made me very happy!"

"But please understand," said Merry, "that, although I am your friend,
I cannot give up Aneta."

"Certainly not, dear; only, don't take what you call sides. It is
quite reasonable to suppose that girls who have only just come to
school would prefer to be there at first quite free and untrammeled;
and to belong to a certain set immediately trammels you."

"Well, I, for one, will promise--at any rate at first--that I won't
belong to any set," said Merry. "Now, are you satisfied, Maggie?"

"Oh, truly I am! Do let me kiss you, darling."

The girls kissed very affectionately.

Then Maggie said, "Now I am quite happy." After a pause, she continued
as though it were an after-thought, "Of course you won't speak of this
to any one?"

"Unless, perhaps, to Cicely," said Merry.

"No, not even to Cicely; for if you found it hard to understand, she
would find it impossible."

"But," said Merry, "I never had a secret from her in my life. She is
my twin, you know."

"Please, please," said Maggie, "keep this little secret all to
yourself for my sake. Oh, do think how important it is to me, and how
much more you have to be thankful for than I have!"

"If you feel it like that, poor Maggie," said Merry, "I will keep it
as my own secret."

"Then I have nothing further to say." Maggie sprang to her feet.
"There are the boys running to meet us," she said. "I know they'll
want my help in preparing the fire for the gipsy-kettle."

"And I will join the others. There's Susan Heathfield; she is all
alone," said Merry. "But one moment first, please, Maggie. Are you
going to make Molly and Isabel bind themselves by the same promise?"

"Dear me, no!" said Maggie. "They will naturally be my friends without
any effort; but you are the one I want, for you are the one I truly
love."

"Hallo! there you are," called Andrew's voice, "hobnobbing, as usual,
with Merry Cardew."

"I say, Merry," cried Jack, "it is unfair of you to take our Maggie
away on her last day."

The two boys now rushed up.

"I am going to cry bottles-full to-morrow," said Andrew; "and,
although I am a boy, about to be a man, I'm not a bit ashamed of it."

"I'll beat you at that," said Jackdaw, "for I'll cry basins-full."

"Dear me, boys, how horrid of you!" said Maggie. "What on earth good
will crying do to me? And you'll both be so horribly limp and damp
after it."

"Well, come now," said Jackdaw, pulling her by one arm while Peterkin
secured the other.--"You've had your share of her, Merry, and it's our
turn."

Maggie and her devoted satellites went off in the direction where the
bonfire was to be made; and Merry, walking slowly, joined Susan
Heathfield.

Susan was more than two years older than Merry, and on that account
the younger girls looked up to her with a great deal of respect. Up to
the present, however, they had had no confidential talk.

Susan now said, "So you are to be a schoolgirl after all?"

"Yes. Isn't it jolly?" said Merry.

"Oh, it has its pros and cons," replied Susan. "In one sense, there is
no place like school; but in the best sense of all there is no place
like home."

"Were you long at school, Susan?"

"Of course; Mary and I went to a school in Devonshire when we were
quite little girls. I was eleven and Mary ten. Afterwards we were at a
London school, and then we went to Paris. We had an excellent time at
all our schools; but I think the best fun of all was the thought of
the holidays and coming home again."

"That must be delightful," said Merry. "Did you make many friends at
school?"

"Well, of course," said Susan. "But now let me give you a word of
advice, Merry. You are going to a most delightful school, which, alas!
we were not lucky enough to get admitted to, although mother tried
very hard. It may be different at Aylmer House from what it is in the
ordinary school, but I would strongly advise you and Cicely not to
join any clique at school."

"Oh dear, how very queer!" said Merry, and she reddened deeply.

"Why do you look like that?" said Susan.

"Nothing, nothing," said Merry.

Susan was silent for a minute or two. Then she said, "That's a
curious-looking girl."

"What girl?" said Merry indignantly.

"I think you said her name was Howland--Miss Howland."

"She is one of the most delightful girls I know," replied Merry at
once.

"Well, I don't know her, you see, so I can't say. Aneta tells me that
she is a member of your school."

"Yes; and I am so delighted!" said Merry.

Again Susan Heathfield was silent, feeling a little puzzled; but Merry
quickly changed the conversation, for she did not want to have any
more talk with regard to Maggie Howland. Merry, however, had a very
transparent face. Her conversation with her friend had left traces of
anxiety and even slight apprehension on her sweet, open face. Merry
Cardew was oppressed by the first secret of her life, and it is
perhaps to be regretted, or perhaps the reverse, that she found it
almost impossible to keep a secret.

"Well," Cicely said to her as they were hurrying from the shady woods
in the direction of the picnic-tea, "what is wrong with you, Merry?
Have you a headache?"

"Oh no; I am perfectly all right," said Merry, brightening up. "It's
only--well, to say the truth, I am sorry that Maggie is going
to-morrow."

"You are very fond of her, aren't you?" said Cicely.

"Well, yes; that is it, I am," said Merry.

"We'll see plenty of her at school, anyway," said Cicely.

"I wish she were rich," said Merry. "I hate to think of her as poor."

"Is she poor?" asked Cicely.

"Oh yes; she was just telling me, poor darling!"

"I don't understand what it means to be poor," said Cicely. "People
say it is very bad, but somehow I can't take it in."

"Maggie takes it in, at any rate," said Merry. "Think of us to-morrow,
Cicely, having more fun, being out again in the open air, having
pleasant companions all round us, and our beautiful home to go back
to, and our parents, whom we love so dearly; and then, next week, of
the house by the sea, and Aneta and Molly and Isabel our companions."

"Well, of course," said Cicely.

"And then think of poor Maggie," continued Merry. "She'll be shut up
in a musty, fusty London lodging. I can't think how she endures it."

"I don't know what a musty, fusty lodging is," said Cicely; "but she
could have come with us, because mother invited her."

"She can't, because her own mother wants her. Oh dear! I wish we could
have her and her mother too."

"Come on now, Merry, I don't think we ought to ask father and mother
to invite Mrs. Howland."

"Of course not. I quite understand that," replied Merry.
"Nevertheless, I am a little sad about dear Maggie."

Merry's sadness took a practical form. She thought a great deal about
her friend during the rest of that day, although Maggie rather avoided
her. She thought, in particular, of Maggie's poverty, and wondered
what poverty really meant. The poor people--those who were called poor
at Meredith--did not really suffer at all, for it was the bounden duty
of the squire of the Manor to see to all their wants, to provide them
with comfortable houses and nice gardens, and if they were ill to give
them the advice of a good doctor, also to send them nourishing food
from the Manor. But poor people of that sort were quite different from
the Maggie Howland sort. Merry could not imagine any lord of the manor
taking Maggie and Mrs. Howland in hand and providing them with all the
good things of life.

But all of a sudden it darted through her eager, affectionate little
heart that she herself might be lord of the manor to Maggie, and might
help Maggie out of her own abundance. If it were impossible to get
Maggie Howland and her mother both invited to Scarborough, why should
not she, Merry, provide Maggie with means to take her mother from the
fusty, dusty lodgings to another seaside resort?

Merry thought over this for some time, and the more she thought over
it the more enamored she was of the idea. She and Cicely had, of
course, no special means of their own, nor could they have until they
came of age. Nevertheless, they were allowed as pocket-money ten
pounds every quarter. Now, Merry's ten pounds would be due in a week.
She really did not want it. When she got it she spent it mostly on
presents for her friends and little gifts for the villagers; but on
this occasion she might give it all in one lump sum to Maggie Howland.
Surely her father would let her have it? She might give it to Maggie
early to-morrow morning. Maggie would not be too proud to accept it
just as a tiny present.

Merry had as little idea how far ten pounds would go toward the
expenses of a visit to the seaside as she had of what real poverty
meant. But it occurred to her as a delightful way of assuring Maggie
of her friendship to present Maggie with her quarter's pocket-money.

On their way home that evening, therefore, she was only too glad to
find herself by her father's side.

"Well, little girl," he said, "so you're forsaking all your young
companions and wish to sit close to the old dad?"

The old dad, it may be mentioned, was driving home in a mail-phaeton
from the picnic, and Merry found herself perched high up beside him as
he held the reins and guided a pair of thoroughbred horses.

"Well, what is it, little girl?" he said.

"I wonder, father, if you'd be most frightfully kind?"

"What!" he answered, just glancing at her; "that means that you are
discontented again. What more can I do for you, Merry?"

"If I might only have my pocket-money to-night."

"You extravagant child! Your pocket-money! It isn't due for a week."

"But I do want it very specially. Will you advance it to me just this
once, dad?"

"I am not to know why you want it?"

"No, dad darling, you are not to know."

Mr. Cardew considered for a minute.

"I hope you are not going to be a really extravagant woman, Merry," he
said. "To tell the truth, I hate extravagance, although I equally hate
stinginess. You will have no lack of money, child, but money is a
great and wonderful gift and ought to be used to the best of best
advantages. It ought never to be wasted, for there are so many people
who haven't half enough, and those who are rich, my child, ought to
help those who are not rich."

"Yes, darling father," said Merry; "and that is what I should so
awfully like to do."

"Well, I think you have the root of the matter in you," said Mr.
Cardew, "and I, for one, am the last person to pry on my child. Does
Cicely also want her money in advance?"

"Oh no, no! I want it for a very special reason."

"Very well, my little girl. Come to me in the study to-night before
you go to bed, and you shall have your money."

"In sovereigns, please, father?"

"Yes, child, in sovereigns."

"Thank you ever so much, darling."

During the rest of the drive there was no girl happier than Merry
Cardew. Mr. Cardew looked at her once or twice, and wondered what all
this meant. But he was not going to question her.

When they got home he took her away to his study, and, opening a
drawer, took out ten sovereigns.

"I may as well tell you," he said as he put them into her hand, "that
when you go to school I shall raise your pocket-money allowance to
fifteen pounds a quarter. That is quite as large a sum as a girl of
your age ought to have in the year. I do this because I well
understand that at Mrs. Ward's school there will be special
opportunities for you to act in a philanthropic manner."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, father!" said Merry.




CHAPTER XII.

SHEPHERD'S BUSH.


While Merry was in a state of high rejoicing at this simple means of
helping her friend, Maggie Howland herself was not having quite such a
good time. She had been much relieved by her conversation with Merry,
but shortly after the picnic-tea Aneta had come up to her.

"Would you like to walk with me," said Aneta, "as far as the giant
oak? It isn't a great distance from here, and I'll not keep you
long."

"Certainly I will come with you, Aneta," said Maggie; but she felt
uncomfortable, and wondered what it meant.

The two girls set off together. They made a contrast which must have
been discernible to the eyes of all those who saw them: Aneta the very
essence of elegance; Maggie spotlessly neat, but, compared to her
companion, downright plain. Aneta was tall and slim; Maggie was short.
Nevertheless, her figure was her good point, and she made the most of
it by having perfectly fitting clothes. This very fact, however, took
somewhat from her appearance, and gave her the look of a grown-up
girl, whereas she was still only a child.

As soon as ever the girls got out of earshot, Aneta turned to Maggie
and said gravely, "My cousins the Cardews are to join us all at Aylmer
House in September."

Maggie longed to say, "Thank you for nothing," but she never dared to
show rudeness to Aneta. No one had ever been rude to the stately young
lady.

"Yes," she said. Then she added, "I am so glad! Aren't you?"

"For some reasons I am very glad," said Aneta.

"But surely for all, aren't you?"

"Not for all," replied Aneta.

How Maggie longed to give her companion a fierce push, or otherwise
show how she detested her!

"I will tell you why I regret it," said Aneta, turning her calm,
beautiful eyes upon Maggie's face.

"Thank you," said Maggie.

"I regret it, Maggie Howland, because you are at the school."

"How very polite!" said Maggie, turning crimson.

"It is not polite," said Aneta, "and I am sorry that I have to speak
as I do; but it is necessary. We needn't go into particulars; but I
have something to say to you, and please understand that what I say I
mean. You know that when first you came to the school I was as anxious
as any one else to be kind to you, to help you, to be good to you. You
know the reason why I changed my mind. You know what you did. You know
that were Mrs. Ward to have the slightest inkling of what really
occurred you would not remain another hour at Aylmer House. I haven't
told any one what I know; but if you, Maggie, tamper with Cicely and
Merry Cardew, who are my cousins and dear friends--if you win them
over to what you are pleased to call your side of the school--I shall
consider it my duty to tell Mrs. Ward what I have hitherto kept back
from her."

Maggie was trembling very violently.

"You could not be so cruel," she said after a pause.

"I have long thought," continued Aneta, speaking in her calm, gentle
voice, "that I did wrong at the time to keep silent; but you got my
promise, and I kept it."

"Yes, yes," said Maggie, "I got your promise; you wouldn't dare to
break it?"

"You are mistaken," said Aneta. "If the circumstances to which I have
just alluded should arise I would break that promise. Now you
understand?"

"I think you are the meanest, the cruellest--I think you are----There,
I hate you!" said Maggie.

"You have no reason to. I will not interfere with you if you, on your
part, leave those I love alone. Cicely and Merry are coming to the
school because I am there, because my aunt recommends the school,
because it is a good school. Leave off doing wrong, and join us,
Maggie, in what is noble and high; but continue your present course at
your peril. You would do anything for power; you go too far. You have
influenced one or two girls adversely already. I am convinced that
Mrs. Ward does not trust you. If you interfere with Cicely or Merry,
Mrs. Ward will have good reason to dislike you, for I myself shall
open her eyes."

"You will be an informer, a tell-tale?"

"You can call me any names you like, Maggie; I shall simply do what I
consider my duty."

"Oh, but----I hate you!" said Maggie again.

"I am sorry you hate me, for it isn't necessary; and if I saw you in
the least like others I should do all in my power to help you. Now,
will you give me your promise that you won't interfere with Cicely and
Merry?"

"But does this mean--does this mean," said Maggie, who was almost
choking with rage, "that I am to have nothing to do with the
Cardews?"

"You are on no account to draw the Cardews into the circle of your
friends, who are, I am thankful to say, limited. If you do, you know
the consequences, and I am not the sort of girl to go back when I have
firmly made up my mind on a certain point."

Maggie suddenly clutched hold of her companion's arm.

"I am miserable enough already," she said, "and you make my life
unendurable! You don't know what it is to have a mother like mine, and
to be starvingly poor."

"I am very sorry you are poor, Maggie, and I am very sorry for you
with regard to your mother, although I do not think you ought to speak
unkindly of her. But your father was a very good man, and you might
live up to his memory. I saw you and Merry together to-day. Beware how
you try to influence her."

"Oh, I can't stand you!" said Maggie.

"I have said my say. Shall we return to the others?" said Aneta in her
calm voice.

"If she would only get into a rage and we might have a hand-to-hand
fight I should feel better," thought Maggie. But she was seriously
alarmed, for she well remembered something which had happened at
school, which Aneta had discovered, and which, if known, would force
Mrs. Ward to dismiss her from the establishment. Such a course would
spell ruin. Maggie had strong feelings, but she had also self-control;
and by the time the two joined the others her face looked much as
usual.

On the following morning early a little girl ran swiftly from the
Manor to the rectory. Maggie was to leave by the eleven o'clock train.
Merry appeared on the scene soon after nine.

"I want you, Maggie, all quite by yourself," said Merry, speaking with
such excitement that Molly and Belle looked at her in unbounded
amazement.

"You can't keep her long," said Peterkins and Jackdaw, "for it is our
very last day, and Spot-ear and Fanciful want to say good-bye to her.
You can't have the darling more than three minutes at the most."

"I am going to keep Maggie for ten minutes, and no longer.--Come along
at once, Maggie," said Merry Cardew.

They went out into the grounds, and Merry, putting her hand into her
pocket, took out a little brown leather bag. She thrust it into her
companion's hand.

"What is it?" said Maggie.

"It is for you--for you, darling," said Merry. "Take it, as a loan, if
you like--only take it. It is only ten pounds. I am afraid you will
think it nothing at all; but do take it, just as a mere loan. It is my
pocket-money for the next quarter. Perhaps you could go from the
musty, fusty lodgings to some fresher place with this to help you.
Do--do take it, Maggie! I shall so love you if you do."

Maggie's narrow eyes grew wide. Maggie's sallow face flushed. There
came a wild commotion in her heart--a real, genuine sense of downright
love for the girl who had done this thing for her. And ten pounds,
which meant so very little to Merry Cardew, held untold possibilities
for Maggie.

"You will hurt me frightfully if you refuse," said Merry.

Maggie trembled from head to foot. Suppose, by any chance, it got to
Aneta's ears that she had taken this money from Merry; suppose it got
abroad in the school! Oh, she dared not take it! she must not!

"What is it, Maggie? Why don't you speak?" said Merry, looking at her
in astonishment.

"I love you with all my heart and soul," said Maggie; "but I just
can't take the money."

"Oh Maggie! but why?"

"I can't, dear; I can't. It--it would not be right. You mustn't lower
me in my own estimation. I should feel low down if I took your money.
I know well I am poor, and so is dear mother, and the lodgings are
fusty and musty, but we are neither of us so poor as that. I'll never
forget that you brought it to me, and I'll love you just more than I
have ever done; but I can't take it."

"Do come on, Maggie!" shouted Jackdaw. "Fanciful is dying for his
breakfast; and as to Peterkins, he has got Spot-ear out of his cage.
Peterkins is crying like anything, and his tears are dropping on
Spot-ear, and Spot-ear doesn't like it. Do come on!"

"Yes, yes; I am coming," said Maggie--"Good-bye, darling Merry. My
best thanks and best love."

That evening, or in the course of the afternoon, Maggie appeared at
Shepherd's Bush. She had been obliged to travel third-class, and the
journey was hot and dusty.

She lay back against the cushions with a tired feeling all over her.
For a time she had been able to forget her poverty. Now it had fully
returned to her, and she was not in the mood to be good-natured. There
was no need to show any charm or any kindliness to her neighbors, who,
in their turn, thought her a disagreeable, plain girl, not worth any
special notice.

It was, therefore, by no means a prepossessing-looking girl who ran up
the high flight of steps which belonged to that lodging-house in
Shepherd's Bush where Mrs. Howland was staying. Maggie knew the
lodgings well, although she had never spent much time there. As a
rule, she contrived to spend almost all her holidays with friends;
but on this occasion her mother had sent for her in a very summary
manner; and, although Maggie had no real love for her mother, she was
afraid to disobey her.

Mrs. Howland occupied the drawing-room floor of the said lodgings.
They were kept by a Mrs. Ross, an untidy and by no means too
clean-looking woman. Mrs. Ross kept one small "general," and the
general's name was Tildy. Tildy had bright-red hair and a great many
freckles on her round face. She was squat in figure, and had a
perpetual smut either on her cheek or forehead. In the morning she was
nothing better than a slavey, but in the afternoon she generally
managed to put on a cap with long white streamers and an apron with a
bib. Tildy thought herself very fine in this attire, and she had
donned it now in honor of Miss Howland's arrival. She had no
particular respect for Mrs. Howland, but she had a secret and
consuming admiration for Maggie.

Maggie had been kind to Tildy once or twice, and had even given the
general a cast-off dress of her own. Maggie was plain, and yet people
liked her and listened to her words.

"Oh miss," said Tildy when she opened the front door, "it's me that's
glad to see you! Your ma is upstairs; she's took with a headache, but
you'll find her lyin' down on the sofy in the drawin'-room."

"Then I'll run up at once, Matilda," said Maggie. "And how are you?"
she added good-naturedly. "Oh, you've got your usual smut."

"Indicate the spot, miss, and it shall be moved instancious," said
Tildy. "Seems to me as if never could get rid of smuts, what with the
kitchen-range, and missus bein' so exacsheous, and Tildy here, Tildy
there; Tildy do this, Tildy do t'other, soundin' in my hears all day
long."

"You are a very good girl," said Maggie, "and if I were in your place
I'd have a hundred smuts, not one. But take it off now, do; it's on
the very center of your forehead. And bring me some tea to the
drawing-room, for I'm ever so thirsty."

"You've been in a blessed wondrous castle since, haven't you, missie?"
said Matilda in a voice of suppressed awe.

"I know some young ladies who live in a castle; but I myself have been
at a rectory," said Maggie. "Now, don't keep me. Oh, here's a shilling
for the cabman; give it to him, and get my box taken upstairs."

Maggie flew up the steep, badly carpeted stairs to the hideous
drawing-room. Her spirits had been very low; but, somehow, Tildy had
managed to revive them. Tildy was plain, and very much lower than
Maggie in the social scale; but Tildy admired her, and because of that
admiration made her life more or less endurable in the fusty, musty
lodgings. She had always cultivated Tildy's good will, and she thought
of the girl now with a strange sense of pity.

"Compared to her, I suppose I am well off," thought Maggie. "I have
only five weeks at the most to endure this misery; then there will be
Aylmer House."

She opened the drawing-room door and entered. Mrs. Howland was lying
on a sofa, which was covered with faded rep and had a broken spring.
She had a handkerchief wrung out of aromatic vinegar over her
forehead. Her eyes were shut, and her exceedingly thin face was very
pale. When her daughter entered the room she opened a pair of faded
eyes and looked at her, but no sense of pleasure crossed Mrs.
Howland's shallow face. On the contrary, she looked much worried, and
said, in a cross tone, "I wish you would not be so noisy, Maggie.
Didn't Tildy tell you that I had an acute headache?"

"Yes, mother; and I didn't know I was noisy," replied Maggie. "I came
upstairs as softly as possible. That door"--she pointed to the door by
which she had entered--"creaks horribly. That is not my fault."

"Excusing yourself, as usual," said Mrs. Howland.

"Well, mother," said Maggie after a pause, "may I kiss you now that I
have come back against my will?"

"I knew you'd be horribly discontented," said Mrs. Howland; "but of
course you may kiss me."

Maggie bent down and touched her mother's cheek with her young lips.

"I was having a beautiful time," she said, "and you don't seem glad
now that I have come back. What is the matter?"

"I have something to communicate to you," said Mrs. Howland. "I did
not think I could write it; therefore I was obliged to have you with
me. But we won't talk of it for a little. Have you ordered tea?"

"Yes, mother. Tildy is bringing it."

"That's right," said Mrs. Howland. "What a hot day it is!" she
continued.

"This room is stifling," replied Maggie. "Do you mind if I pull down
the Venetian blinds? That will keep some of the sun out."

"The blinds are all broken," said Mrs. Howland. "I have spoken to that
woman Ross till I am tired, but she never will see to my wishes in any
way."

"I can't imagine why we stay here, mother."

"Oh! don't begin your grumbles now," said Mrs. Howland. "I have news
for you when tea is over."

Just then the drawing-room door was opened by means of a kick and a
bump, and Tildy entered, weighed down by an enormous tea-tray. Maggie
ran to prepare a table for its reception, and Tildy looked at her with
eyes of fresh admiration. Mrs. Howland raised herself and also looked
at the girl.

"Have you kept the cakes downstairs, and the muffins that I ordered,
and the gooseberries?"

"No, um," said Tildy. "I brought them up for Miss Maggie's tea."

"I told you they were not to be touched till Mr. Martin came."

"Yes, um," said Tildy; "but me and Mrs. Ross thought as Miss Maggie
'u'd want 'em."

Mrs. Howland glanced at her daughter. Then all of a sudden, and quite
unexpectedly, her faded face grew red. She perceived an expression of
inquiry in Maggie's eyes which rather frightened her.

"It's all right," she said. "Now that you've brought the things up,
Tildy, leave them here, and go. When Mr. Martin comes, show him up.
Now leave us, and be quick about it."

Tildy departed, slamming the door behind her.

"How noisy that girl is!" said Mrs. Howland. "Well, I am better now;
I'll just go into our bedroom and get tidy. I'll be back in a few
minutes. I mustn't be seen looking this fright when Mr. Martin
comes."

"But who is Mr. Martin?" said Maggie.

"You will know presently," said Mrs. Howland. "It's about him that I
have news."

Maggie felt her heart thumping in a very uncomfortable manner. The
bedroom which she and her mother shared together--that is, when Maggie
was with her mother--was at the back of the drawing-room. Mrs. Howland
remained there for about five minutes, and during that time Maggie
helped herself to a cup of tea, for she was feverishly hot and
thirsty.

Her mother returned at the end of five minutes, looking wonderfully
better, and in fact quite rejuvenated. Her dress was fairly neat. She
had a slight color in her pale cheeks which considerably brightened
her light-blue eyes. Her faded hair was arranged with some neatness,
and she had put on a white blouse and a blue alpaca skirt.

"Oh mother," said Maggie, hailing this change with great relief, "how
much better you look now! I am a comfort to you, am I not, mums? I
sha'n't mind coming back and giving up all my fun if I am a real
comfort to you."

"I wouldn't have sent for you but for Mr. Martin," said Mrs. Howland.
"It was he who wished it. Yes, I am much better now, though I cannot
honestly say that you are the cause. It's the thought of seeing Mr.
Martin that cheers me up; I must be tidy for him. Yes, you may pour
out a cup of tea for me; only see that you keep some really strong tea
in the teapot for Mr. Martin, for he cannot bear it weak. He calls
weak tea wish-wash."

"But whoever is this mysterious person?" said Maggie.

"I will tell you in a minute or two. You may give me one of those
little cakes. No, I couldn't stand muffins; I hate them in hot
weather. Besides, my digestion isn't what it was; but I shall be all
right by-and-by; so will you too, my dear. And what I do, I do for
you."

"Well, I wish you would tell me what you are doing for me, and get it
over," said Maggie. "You were always very peculiar, mums,
always--even when dear father was alive--and you're not less so now."

"That's a very unkind way for a child to speak of her parent," said
Mrs. Howland; "but I can assure you, Maggie, that Mr. Martin won't
allow it in the future."

Maggie now sprang to her feet.

"Good gracious, mother! What has Mr. Martin to do with me? Is he--is
he--it cannot be, mother!"

"Yes, I can," said Mrs. Howland. "I may as well have it out first as
last. I am going to marry Mr. Martin."

"Mother!"

There was a wailing cry in Maggie's voice. No girl can stand with
equanimity her mother marrying a second time; and as Maggie, with all
her dreams of her own future, had never for an instant contemplated
this fact, she was simply staggered for a minute or two.

"You will have to take it in the right spirit, my dear," said her
mother. "I can't stand this life any longer. I want money, and
comforts, and devotion, and the love of a faithful husband, and Mr.
Martin will give me all these things. He is willing to adopt you too.
He said so. He has no children of his own. I mean, when I say that,
that his first family are all settled in life, and he says that he
wouldn't object at all to a pleasant, lively girl in the house. He
wants you to leave school."

"Leave Aylmer House!" said Maggie. "Oh no, mother!"

"I knew you'd make a fuss about it," said Mrs. Howland. "He has a
great dislike to what he calls fine folks. He speaks of them as
daisies, and he hates daisies."

"But, mother--mother dear--before he comes, tell me something about
him. Where did you meet him? Who is he? A clergyman--a barrister? What
is he, mother?"

Mrs. Howland remained silent for a minute. Then she pressed her hand
to her heart. Then she gave way to a burst of hysterical laughter.

"Just consider for a minute, Maggie," she said, "what utter nonsense
you are talking. Where should I be likely to meet a clergyman or a
barrister? Do clergymen or barristers or people in any profession come
to houses like this? Do talk sense when you're about it."

"Well, tell me what he is, at least."

"He is in--I am by no means ashamed of it--in _trade_."

Now, it so happened that it had been duly impressed upon Maggie's mind
that Mr. Cardew of Meredith Manor was also, so to speak, in trade;
that is, he was the sleeping partner in one of the largest and
wealthiest businesses in London. Maggie therefore, for a minute, had a
glittering vision of a great country-house equal in splendor to
Meredith Manor, where she and her mother could live together. But the
next minute Mrs. Howland killed these glowing hopes even in the moment
of their birth.

"I want to conceal nothing from you," she said. "Mr. Martin keeps the
grocer's shop at the corner. I may as well say that I met him when I
went to that shop to get the small articles of grocery which I
required for my own consumption. He has served me often across the
counter. Then one day I was taken rather weak and ill in the shop, and
he took me into his back-parlor, a very comfortable room, and gave me
a glass of excellent old port; and since then, somehow, we have been
friends. He is a widower, I a widow. His children have gone into the
world, and each one of them is doing well. My child is seldom or never
with her mother. It is about a week ago since he asked me if I would
accept him and plenty, instead of staying as I am--a genteel widow
with so little money that I am half-starved. His only objection to our
marriage is the thought of you, Maggie; for he said that I was
bringing you up as a fine lady, with no provision whatever for the
future. He hates fine ladies, as he calls them; in fact, he is dead
nuts against the aristocracy."

"Oh mother!" wailed poor Maggie; "and my father was a gentleman!"

"Mr. Martin has quite a gentlemanly heart," said Mrs. Howland. "I
don't pretend for a moment that he is in the same position as my late
lamented husband; but he is ten times better off, and we shall live in
a nice little house in Clapham, and I can have two servants of my own;
he is having the house refurnished and repapered for me--in his own
taste, it is true, for he will not hear of what he calls Liberty
rubbish. But it is going to be very comfortable, and I look forward to
my change of surroundings with great satisfaction."

"Yes, mother," said Maggie, "you always did think of yourself first.
But what about me?"

"You had better not talk to me in that strain before Mr. Martin. He is
very deeply devoted to me," said Mrs. Howland; "and do not imagine
that we have not given you careful consideration. He is willing to
adopt you, but insists on your leaving Aylmer House and coming to
Laburnum Villa at Clapham. From what he says, you are quite
sufficiently educated, and your duty now is to look after your mother
and your new father, to be pleasant to me all day long, and to be
bright and cheerful with him when he comes back from business in the
evening. If you play your cards well, Maggie, he will leave you well
provided for, as he is quite rich--of course, not rich like those
people you are staying near, but rich for his class. I am very much
pleased myself at the engagement. Our banns were called last Sunday in
church, and we are to be married in a fortnight. After that, you had
best stay on here until we desire you to join us at Laburnum Villa."

"I can't, mother," said Maggie. "I can't--and I won't."

"Oh, come, I hear a step on the stairs," said Mrs. Howland. "That is
Mr. Martin. Now, you will restrain yourself for my sake."

There _was_ a step on the stairs--firm, solid, heavy. The
drawing-room door was opened about an inch, but no one came in.

Mrs. Howland said in a low whisper to her daughter, "He doesn't know
you have returned; he is very playful. Just stay quiet. He really is a
most amusing person."

"Bo-peep!" said a voice at the door; and a round, shining, bald head
was popped in and then disappeared.

"Bo-peep!" said Mrs. Howland in response.

She stood up, and there came over her faded face a waggish expression.
She held up her finger and shook it playfully. The bald head appeared
again, followed immediately by a very round body. The playful finger
continued to waggle.

"Ducksie dear!" said Mr. Martin, and he clasped Mrs. Howland in his
arms.

Maggie gave a smothered groan.

"It's the child," said Mrs. Howland in a whisper. "She is a bit upset;
but when she knows you, James, she'll love you as much as I do."

"Hope so," said Mr. Martin. "I'm a duckle, Little-sing; ain't I,
Victoria?" Here he chuckled the good lady under the chin. "Ah, and so
this is Maggie?--How do, my dear? How do, Popsy-wopsy?"

"How do you do?" said Maggie.

"Come, come," said Mr. Martin. "No flights and vapors, no fine airs,
no affected, mincing ways. A little girl should love her new parent. A
little girl should kiss her new parent."

"I won't kiss you, Mr. Martin," said Maggie.

"Oh, come, come--shy, is she? Let me tell you, Popsy-wopsy, that every
man wouldn't want to kiss you.--She is not a bit like you, my dear
Victoria. Wherever did she get that queer little face? She is no
beauty, and that I will say.--Now, your mother, Popsy, is a most
elegant woman; any one can see that she is a born aristocrat; but I
hate 'em, my dear--hate 'em! I am one of those who vote for the
abolition of the House of Lords. Give me the Commons; no bloated Lords
for me. Well, you're a bit took aback, ain't you? Your mother and
me--we settled things up very tidy while you were sporting in the
country. I like you all the better, my dear, for being plain. I don't
want no beauties except my beloved Victoria. She's the woman for
me.--Ain't you, my Little-sing? Eh dear! Eh dear! It's we three who'll
have the fun.--I'll take you right into my heart, Popsy-wopsy, and
snug and comfortable you'll find yourself there."

Poor Maggie! The overwhelming contrast between this scene and the
scenes of yesterday! The awful fact that her mother was going to marry
such a being as Mr. Martin overpowered her with such a sense of horror
that for the time she felt quite dumb and stupid.

Mr. Martin, however, was in a radiant humor. "Now then, Little-sing,"
he said, addressing Mrs. Howland, "where's the tea! Poor Bo-peep wants
his tea. He's hungry and he's thirsty, is Bo-peep. Little-sing will
pour out Bo-peep's tea with her own pretty, elegant hands, and butter
his muffins for him, and Cross-patch in the corner can keep herself
quiet."

"May I go into our bedroom, mother?" said Maggie at that juncture.

"No, miss, you may not," said Martin, suddenly rousing himself from a
very comfortable position in the only easy-chair the room afforded. "I
have something to say to you, and when I have said it you may do what
you please."

"Stay quiet, dear Maggie, for the present," said Mrs. Howland.

The poor woman felt a queer sense of shame. Bo-peep and Little-sing
had quite an agreeable time together when they were alone. She did not
mind the boisterous attentions of her present swain; but with Maggie
by there seemed to be a difference. Maggie made her ashamed of
herself.

Maggie walked to the window, and, taking a low chair, sat down. Her
heart was beating heavily. There was such a misery within her that she
could scarcely contain herself. Could anything be done to rescue her
mother from such a marriage? She was a very clever girl; but, clever
as she was, she could see no way out.

Meanwhile Mr. Martin drank his tea with huge gulps, ate a quantity of
muffins, pooh-poohed the gooseberries as not worth his attention, and
then said, "Now, Victoria, my dearest dear, I am ready to propound my
scheme to your offspring.--Come forward, Popsy-wopsy, and listen to
what new pa intends to do for you."

Maggie rose, feeling that her limbs were turned to ice. She crossed
the room and stood before Mr. Martin.

"Well?" she said.

"None of those airs, Popsy."

"I want to know what you mean to do," said Maggie, struggling hard to
keep her temper.

"Well, missie miss, poor Bo-peep means to marry your good ma, and he
wants a nice 'ittle dirl to come and live with ma and pa at Clapham;
pretty house, solid furniture, garden stocked with fruit-trees, a
swing for good 'ittle dirl, a nice room for dear Popsy to sleep in, no
more lessons, no more fuss, no more POVERTY! That's what new pa
proposes to ma's 'ittle dirl. What does 'ittle dirl say?"

There was a dead silence in the room. Mrs. Howland looked with wild
apprehension at her daughter. Mr. Martin had, however, still a jovial
and smiling face.

"Down on its knees ought Popsy-wopsy to go," he said. "Tears might
come in Popsy-wopsy's eyes, and the 'ittle dirl might say, 'Dearest pa
that is to be, I love you with all my heart, and I am glad that you're
going to marry ma and to take me from horrid school.'"

But there was no sign on the part of Maggie Howland of fulfilling
these expectations on the part of the new pa. On the contrary, she
stood upright, and then said in a low voice, "This has been a very
great shock to me."

"Shock!" cried Martin. "What do you mean by that, miss?"

"I must speak," said Maggie. "You must let me, sir; and, mother, you
must let me. It is for the last time. Quite the last time. I will
never be here to offend you any more."

"'Pon my word!" said Martin, springing to his feet, and his red,
good-humored face growing crimson. "There's gratitude for you! There's
manners for you!--Ma, how ever did you bring her up?"

"Let me speak," said Maggie. "I am sorry to hurt your feelings, sir.
You are engaged to my mother."

"Ra-_ther_!" said Mr. Martin. "My pretty birdling hopped, so to speak,
into my arms. No difficulties with her; no drawing back on the part of
Little-sing. She wanted her Bo-peep, and she--well, her Bo-peep wanted
her."

"Yes, sir," said Maggie. "I am exceedingly sorry--bitterly sorry--that
my mother is going to marry again; but as she cares for you"----

"Which I _do_!" said Mrs. Howland, who was now reduced to tears.

"I have nothing more to say," continued Maggie, "except that I hope
she will be happy. But I, sir, am my father's daughter as well as my
mother's, and I cannot for a single moment accept your offer. It is
impossible. I must go on with my own education as best I can."

"Then you _re-fuse_," said Martin, "to join your mother and me?"

"Yes," said Maggie, "I refuse."

"Has she anything to live on, ma?" asked Mr. Martin.

"Oh, dear James," said Mrs. Howland, "don't take all the poor child
says in earnest now! She'll be down on her knees to you to-morrow. I
know she will. Leave her to me, James dear, and I'll manage her."

"You can manage most things, Little-sing," said Mr. Martin; "but I
don't know that I want that insolent piece. She is very different from
you. If she is to be about our pleasant, cheerful home snubbing me and
putting on airs--why, I'll have none of it. Let her go, Victoria, I
say--let her go if she wants to; but if she comes to me she must come
in a cheerful spirit, and joke with me, and take my fun, and be as
agreeable as you are yourself, Little-sing."

"Well, at least," said Mrs. Howland, "give us till to-morrow. The
child is surprised; she will be different to-morrow."

"I hope so," said Mr. Martin; "but if there's any philandering, or
falling back, or if there's any _on_-gratitude, I'll have naught to do
with her. I only take her to oblige you, Victoria."

"You had best leave us now, dear," said Mrs. Howland. "I will talk to
Maggie, and let you know."

Mr. Martin sat quite still for a minute. Then he rose, took not the
slightest notice of Maggie, but, motioning Mrs. Howland to follow him,
performed a sort of cake-walk out of the room.

When he reached the door and had said good-bye, he opened it again and
said, "Bo-peep!" pushing a little bit of his bald head in, and then
withdrawing it, while Mrs. Howland pretended to admire his antics.

At last he was gone; but by this time Maggie had vanished into the
bedroom. She had flung herself on her knees by the bed, and pushed her
handkerchief against her mouth to stifle the sound of her sobs. Mrs.
Howland gently opened the door, looked at her daughter, and then shut
it again. She felt thoroughly afraid of Maggie.

An hour or two later a pale, subdued-looking girl came out of the
bedroom and sat down by her mother.

"Well," said Mrs. Howland, "he is very pleasant and cheerful, isn't
he?"

"Mother, he is horrible!"

"Maggie, you have no right to say those things to me. I want a good
husband to take care of me. I am very lonely, and no one appreciates
me."

"Oh mother!" said poor Maggie--"my father!"

"He was a very good man," said Mrs. Howland restlessly; "but he was
above me, somehow, and I never, never could reach up to his heights."

"And you really tell me, his child, that you prefer that person?"

"I think I shall be quite happy with him," said Mrs. Howland. "I
really do. He is awfully kind, and his funny little ways amuse me."

"Oh mother!"

"You will be good about it, Maggie; won't you?" said Mrs. Howland.
"You won't destroy your poor mother's happiness? I have had such
lonely years, and such a struggle to keep my head above water; and now
that good man comes along and offers me a home and every comfort. I am
not young, dear; I am five-and-forty; and there is nothing before me
if I refuse Mr. Martin but an old age of great poverty and terrible
loneliness. You won't stand in my way, Maggie?"

"I can't, mother; though it gives me agony to think of your marrying
him."

"But you'll get quite accustomed to it after a little; and he is
really very funny, I can assure you; he puts me into fits of laughter.
You will get accustomed to him, darling; you will come and live with
your new father and me at Laburnum Villa?"

"Mother, you must know that I never will."

"But what are you to do, Maggie? You've got no money at all."

"Oh mother!" said poor Maggie, "it costs very little to keep me at
Aylmer House; you know that quite, quite well. Please do let me go on
with my education. Afterwards I can earn my living as a teacher or in
some profession, for I have plenty of talent. I take after father in
that."

"Oh yes, I know I always was a fool," said Mrs. Howland; "but I have a
way with people for all that."

"Mother, you have a great deal that is quite sweet about you, and
you're throwing yourself away on that awful man! Can't we go on as we
did for a year or two, you living here, and I coming to you in the
holidays? Then, as soon as ever I get a good post I shall be able to
help you splendidly. Can't you do it, mother? This whole thing seems
so dreadful to me."

"No, I can't, and won't," said Mrs. Howland in a decided voice. "I am
exceedingly fond of my Bo-peep--as I call him--and greatly enjoy the
prospect of being his wife. Oh Maggie, you have not returned to be a
thorn in our sides? You will submit?"

"Never, never, never!" said Maggie.

"Then I don't know what you are to do; for your new father insists on
my keeping the very little money I have for my own personal use, and
if you refuse to conform to his wishes he will not allow me to spend a
farthing of it on you. You can't live on nothing at all."

"I can't," said Maggie. "I don't know quite what to do. Are you going
to be so very cruel as to take away the little money you have hitherto
spent on me?"

"I must, dear; in fact, it is done already. Mr. Martin has invested it
in the grocery business. He already provides for all my wants, and we
are to be married in a fortnight. I have nothing whatever to spend on
you."

"Well, mother, we'll say no more to-night. I have a headache, but I'll
sleep on the sofa here; it's less hot than the bedroom."

"Won't you sleep with your poor old mother?"

"No, I can't, really. Oh, how dreadfully hot this place is!"

"You are spoilt by your fine life, Maggie; but I grant that these
lodgings are hot. The house at Clapham, however, is very cool and
fresh. Oh Maggie! My dear Bo-peep is getting such a sweet little
bedroom ready for you. I could cry when I think of your cross
obstinacy."

But even the thought of the sweet little bedroom didn't move Maggie
Howland. Tildy presently brought up a meagre supper, of which the
mother and daughter partook almost in silence. Then Mrs. Howland went
to her room, where she fell fast asleep, and Maggie had the
drawing-room to herself. She had arranged a sort of extempore bed on
the hard sofa, and was about to lie down, when Tildy opened the door.

"I say," said Tildy, "ain't he cunnin'?"

"What do you mean, Matilda?" said Maggie.

"Oh my," said Tildy, "wot a 'arsh word! Does you know, missie, that
he's arsked me to go down to Clap'am presently to 'elp wait on your
ma? If you're there, miss, it'll be the 'eight of 'appiness to me."

"I may as well say at once, Matilda, that I shall not be there."

"You don't like 'im, then?" said Tildy, backing a step. "And 'e is so
enticin'--the prettiest ways 'e 'ave--at least, that's wot me and Mrs.
Ross thinks. We always listen on the stairs for 'im to greet your ma.
We like 'im, that we do."

"I have an old dress in my trunk, Tildy, which I will give you. You
can manage to make it look quite nice for your new post as parlor-maid
at Laburnum Villa. But now go, please; for I must be alone to think."

Tildy went. She crept downstairs to the kitchen regions. There she met
Mrs. Ross.

"The blessed young lady's full of ructions," said Tildy.

"And no wonder," replied Mrs. Ross. "She's a step above Martin, and
Martin knows it."

"I 'ope as she won't refuse to jine us at Laburnum Villa," said
Tildy.

"There's no sayin' wot a spirited gel like that'll do," said Mrs.
Ross; "but ef she do go down, Martin 'll be a match for 'er."

"I don't know about that," replied Tildy. "She 'ave a strong,
determined w'y about 'er, has our Miss Maggie."

If Mrs. Howland slept profoundly, poor Maggie could not close her
eyes. She suddenly found herself surrounded by calamity. The
comparatively small trials which she had thought big enough in
connection with Aylmer House and Cicely and Merry Cardew completely
disappeared before this great trouble which now faced her. Her
mother's income amounted to a hundred and fifty pounds a year, and out
of that meagre sum the pair had contrived to live, and, owing to Mrs.
Ward's generosity, Maggie had been educated. But now that dreadful Mr.
Martin had secured Mrs. Howland's little property, and the only
condition on which it could be spent on Maggie was that she should
accept a home with her future stepfather. This nothing whatever would
induce her to do. But what was to be done?

She had no compunction whatever in leaving her mother. They had never
been really friends, for the girl took after her father, whom her
mother had never even pretended to understand. Mrs. Howland, when she
became Mrs. Martin, would be absolutely happy without Maggie, and
Maggie knew well that she would be equally miserable with her. On the
other hand, how was Maggie to live?

Suddenly it flashed across her mind that there was a way out, or at
least a way of providing sufficient funds for the coming term at
Aylmer House. Her mother had, after all, some sort of affection for
her, and if Maggie made her request she was certain it would not be
refused. She meant to get her mother to give her all that famous
collection of jewels which her father had collected in different parts
of the world. In especial, the bracelets flashed before her memory.
These could be sold, and would produce a sum which might keep Maggie
at Aylmer House, perhaps for a year--certainly for the approaching
term.




CHAPTER XIII.

BREAKFAST WITH BO-PEEP.


After Maggie's restless night she got up early. The day promised to be
even hotter than the one before; but as the drawing-room faced west it
was comparatively cool at this hour.

Tildy brought her favorite young lady a cup of tea, and suggested that
she should go for an outing while Tildy herself freshened up the room.
Maggie thought that a good idea, and when she found herself in the
street her spirits rose a trifle.

A curious sort of fascination drew her in the direction of Martin's
shop. It was a very large corner shop, had several entrances, and at
this early hour the young shopmen and shopwomen were busy dressing the
windows; they were putting appetizing sweetmeats and cakes and
biscuits and all kinds of delectable things in the different windows
to tempt the passers-by.

Maggie felt a hot sense of burning shame rising to her cheeks as she
passed the shop. She was about to turn back, when whom should she see
standing in the doorway but the prosperous owner himself! He
recognized her immediately, and called out to her in his full, pompous
voice, "Come along here, Wopsy!"

The young shop-people turned to gaze in some wonder as the
refined-looking girl approached the fat, loud-mannered man.

"I'm in a hurry back to breakfast with my mother," said Maggie in her
coldest voice.

"Well, then, I will come along with you, my dear; I am just in the
mood. Little-sing, she will give me breakfast this morning. I'll be
back again in the shop soon after nine. It's a fine shop, ain't it,
Popsy?"

"It does seem large," said Maggie.

"It's the sort of shop," responded Martin, "that takes a deal of
getting. It's not done in a day, nor a month, nor a year. It takes a
lifetime to build up premises like these. It means riches, my
dear--riches." He rolled out the words luxuriously.

"I am sure it does," said Maggie, who felt that for her own sake she
must humor him.

"You think so, do you?" said Martin, giving her a keen glance.

"Of course I do," replied Maggie.

Martin gazed at her from head to foot. She was plain. He rather liked
her for that. He admired her, too, for, as he expressed it, standing
up to him. His dear Little-sing would never stand up to him. But this
girl was not the least like her mother. She had a lot of character;
Little-sing had none.

"You'd make an admirable accountant, Popsy," he said. "How would you
like to take that post by-and-by in my shop?"

Maggie was about to reply that nothing would induce her to accept such
a position, when a quick thought darted through her mind. She could
scarcely hope to make anything of her mother, for, alack and alas!
Mrs. Howland was one of those weak characters who slip away from you
even as you try to grasp them. But Martin, with his terrible vulgarity
and awful pleasantry, was at least fairly strong.

"Mr. Martin," said Maggie then, "instead of going in to breakfast with
mother, will you take me to some restaurant and give me a good meal,
and let me talk to you?"

"Well, now," said Martin, chuckling, "you _are_ a girl! You have
cheek! I am not a man to waste my money, and breakfast with
Little-sing won't cost me anything."

"But under the circumstances you will waste a little money in order to
oblige me?" said Maggie.

"There now, I admire your cheek. So be it. You don't deserve anything
from me, for a ruder 'ittle dirl than you were yesterday to poor
Bo-peep could not have been found in the length and breadth of
England."

"You could scarcely expect me to be pleased, sir. The news was broken
to me very suddenly, and I was tired after my long journey, too."

"Yes; and you vented your spite on me, on poor old Bo-peep, who has
the kindest heart in Christendom."

"I may have said some things that I regret," said Maggie; "but, at any
rate, I had the night to think matters over, and if you give me some
breakfast I can talk to you."

"I will take you to Harrison's for breakfast," said Martin. "You'll
get a topper there, I can tell you--eggs, bacon, kidneys, liver,
game-pie, cocoa, coffee, tea, chocolate; anything and everything you
fancy, and the best marmalade in London."

Maggie felt rather hungry, and when the pair entered Harrison's she
was not displeased at the liberal supply of food which her future
stepfather ordered. He pretended to hate the aristocracy, as he called
them, and poor Maggie could certainly never claim this distinction in
her own little person. Nevertheless, she was entirely superior to
Martin, and he felt a sort of pride in her as she walked up the long
restaurant by his side.

"Now, waiter," he said to the man who approached to take orders, "you
look slippy. This young 'oman and me, we want a real comfortable,
all-round, filling meal. You give us the best the house contains; and
look slippy, I say."

The waiter did look "slippy," whatever that word might imply, and
Martin proceeded to treat Maggie to really excellent viands and to
satisfy himself to his heart's content. Maggie ate with a certain
amount of relish, for, as has been said, she was really hungry.

"Like it, don't you?" said Martin as he watched her consuming her eggs
and bacon.

"Oh yes, very much indeed," said Maggie.

"I'm fond of a good table myself," said Martin. "This is the sort of
thing you'll have on all occasions and at every meal at Laburnum
Villa. We'll soon fill your poor mother's thin cheeks out, and get her
rosy and plump, and then she'll be a more charming Little-sing to her
own Bo-peep than ever."

Maggie was silent.

"Come, come," said Martin, patting her hand; "it's all right about
Laburnum Villa, ain't it, my girl?"

"No, Mr. Martin," said Maggie then.

She withdrew her hand and turned and looked at him fixedly. "I want to
tell you all about myself," she said. "I was really rude to you
yesterday, and I am sorry; but I couldn't go to live with you and
mother at Laburnum Villa. I will tell you the principal reason why I
couldn't go."

"Oh, come, come, you're only a child; you must do what you are told.
Your mother has no money to give you, and you can't live on air, you
know. Air is all very well, but it don't keep folks alive. You'll have
to come to me whether you like it or not."

"Before you come to that determination, Mr. Martin, may I tell you
something about myself?"

"Oh dear! I hope it isn't a long story."

"It's very important, and not very long. I am not the least like
mother"----

"My good girl, any one can see that. Your mother's a remarkably pretty
and elegant woman, and you're the plainest young person I ever came
across."

"I am plain," said Maggie; "and, in addition, I am by no means
good-natured."

"Oh, you admit that? For shame!"

"I was born that way," said Maggie. "I'm a very high-spirited girl,
and I have got ideas with regard to my future. You said just now that
perhaps some day you might make me accountant in your shop. That was
kind of you, and I might be a good accountant; but, of course, all
that is for the future. I shouldn't mind that--I mean, not
particularly. But if you were to follow out your plan, and take me to
live with you and mother at Laburnum Villa, you would never have a
happy moment; for, you see, I am much stronger in character than
mother, and I couldn't help making your life miserable; whereas you
and mother would be awfully happy without me. Mother says that she
loves you, and wishes to be your wife"--

"Now, what are you driving at, Popsy? For if you have nothing hanging
on your hands I have a vast lot hanging on mine, and time is
precious."

"I will tell you quite frankly what I want you to do, Mr. Martin. You
are taking mother."

"I am willing to take you too. I can't do any more."

"But then, you see, I don't want to be taken. Until you came forward
and proposed to mother to be your wife she spent a little of her money
on my education. She tells me that she has put it now into your
business."

"Poor thing!" said Martin. "She was making ducks and drakes of it; but
it is safe enough now."

"Yes," said Maggie in a determined voice; "but I think, somehow, that
a part of it does lawfully belong to me."

"Oh, come! tut, tut!"

"I think so," said Maggie in a resolute tone; "for, you see, it was
father's money; and though he left it absolutely to mother, it was to
go to me at her death, and it was meant, little as it was, to help to
educate me. I could ask a lawyer all about the rights, of course."

For some extraordinary reason Martin looked rather frightened.

"You can go to any lawyer you please," he said; "but what for? let me
ask. If I take you, and do for you, and provide for you, what has a
lawyer to say in the matter?"

"Well, that is just it--that's just what I have to inquire into;
because, you see, Mr. Martin, I don't want you to provide for me at
all."

"I think now we are coming to the point," said Martin. "Stick to it,
Popsy, for time's precious."

"I think you ought to allow me to be educated out of mother's money."

"Highty-tighty! I'm sure you know enough."

"I don't really know enough. Mrs. Ward, of Aylmer House, has taken me
as an inmate of her school for forty pounds a year. Her terms for most
girls are a great deal more."

Martin looked with great earnestness at Maggie.

"I want to go on being Mrs. Ward's pupil, and I want you to allow me
forty pounds a year for the purpose, and twenty over for my clothes
and small expenses--that is, sixty pounds a year altogether. I shall
be thoroughly educated then, and it seems only fair that, out of
mother's hundred and fifty a year, sixty pounds of the money should be
spent on me. There's no use talking to mother, for she gets so easily
puzzled about money; but you have a very good business head. You see,
Mr. Martin, I am only just sixteen, and if I get two more years'
education, I shall be worth something in the world, whereas now I am
worth nothing. I hope you will think it over, Mr. Martin, and do what
I wish."

Martin was quite silent for a minute. The waiter came along and was
paid his bill, with a very substantial tip for himself thrown in.
Still Martin lingered at the breakfast-table with his eyes lowered.

"There's one thing--and one thing only--I like about this,
Popsy-wopsy," he said.

"And what is that?" asked Maggie.

"That you came to me on the matter instead of going to your mother;
that you recognized the strength and force of my character."

"Oh, any one can see that," said Maggie.

"You put it straight, too, with regard to your own disagreeable
nature."

"Yes, I put it straight," said Maggie.

"Well, all I can say at present is this: I will think it over. You go
home to your mother now, and tell her that her Bo-peep will be in as
usual to tea; and you, little girl, may as well make yourself scarce
at that hour. Here's a sovereign for you. Go and have a jolly time
somewhere."

"Oh, Mr. Martin, I"----began Maggie, her face crimson.

"You had best not put on airs," said Martin; and Maggie slipped the
sovereign into her pocket.

When she reached her mother's lodgings she felt well assured that she
had done the right thing. Hitherto she had been too stunned and
miserable to use any of her power--that strange power which she
possessed--on Mr. Martin. But she felt well assured that she could do
so in the future. She had gauged his character correctly. He was
hopelessly vulgar, but an absolutely good-natured and straight
person.

"He will do what I wish," she thought. Her uneasiness vanished as soon
as the first shock of her mother's disclosure was over. She entered
the house.

"Why, missie?" said Tildy, "w'erehever 'ave you been? The breakfast's
stony cold upstairs, and Mrs. 'Owland's cryin' like nothin' at all."

"Thank you, Tildy; I'll see mother immediately," said Maggie. "And I
don't want any breakfast, for I've had it already."

"With the haristocracy?" asked Tildy in a low, awed kind of voice.
"You always was one o' they, Miss Maggie."

"No, not with the aristocracy," said Maggie, trying to suppress her
feelings. "Tildy, your smut is on your left cheek this morning. You
can remove the breakfast-things, and I'll go up to mother."

Maggie ran upstairs. Mrs. Howland had eaten a little, very indifferent
breakfast, and was looking weepy and washed-out as she sat in her
faded dressing-gown near the open window.

"Really, Maggie," she said when her daughter entered, "your ways
frighten me most terribly! I do wish poor Mr. Martin would insist on
your coming to live with us. I shall never have an easy moment with
your queer pranks and goings-on."

"I am sure you won't, dear mother," said Maggie. "But come, don't be
cross with me. Here's Matilda; she'll clear away the breakfast-things
in no time, and then I have something I want to say to you."

"Oh dear! my head is so weak this morning," said Mrs. Howland.

"If I were you, Miss Maggie," said Tildy as she swept the cups and
saucers with noisy vehemence on to a tray, "I wouldn't worrit the poor
mistress, and she just on the eve of a matrimonial venture. It's
tryin' to the nerves, it is; so Mrs. Ross tells me. Says she, 'When I
married Tom,' says she, 'I was on the twitter for a good month.' It's
awful to think as your poor ma's so near the brink--for that's 'ow
Mrs. Ross speaks o' matrimony."

"Please be quick, Tildy, and go," said Maggie in a determined voice.

Matilda cleared the table, but before she would take her departure she
required definite instructions with regard to dinner, tea, and
supper.

Mrs. Howland raised a distracted face. "Really, I can't think," she
said, "my head is so weak."

"Well, mum," said Matilda, "s'pose as missus and me does the
'ousekeepin' for you to-day. You ain't fit, mum; it's but to look at
you to know that. It's lyin' down you ought to be, with haromatic
vinegar on your 'ead."

"You're quite right, Matilda. Well, you see to the things to-day. Have
them choice, but not too choice; fairly expensive, but not too
expensive, you understand."

"Yus, 'um," said Tildy, and left the room.

Maggie found herself alone with her mother. "Mother," she said
eagerly, "now I will tell you why I was not home for breakfast this
morning."

"Oh, it doesn't matter, Maggie," said Mrs. Howland; "I am too weak to
be worried, and that's a fact."

"It won't worry you, mother. I breakfasted with Mr. Martin."

"What--what!" said Mrs. Howland, astonishment in her voice, and with
eyebrows raised almost to meet her hair.

"And an excellent breakfast we had," said Maggie. "He isn't a bad sort
at all, mother."

"Well, I am glad you've found that out. Do you suppose your mother
would marry a man who was not most estimable in character?"

"He is quite estimable, mother; the only unfortunate thing against him
is that he is not in your rank in life."

"A woman who lives in these rooms," said Mrs. Howland, "has no rank in
life."

"Well, dear mother, I cannot agree with you. However, as I said, I
breakfasted with him."

"Then you're coming round?" said Mrs. Howland. "You're going to be
good, and a comfort to us both?"

"No, mother, I haven't come round a bit. When I was breakfasting with
Mr. Martin I fully explained to him what a fearful trial I should be
to him; how, day by day and hour by hour, I'd annoy him."

"You did that! Oh you wicked child!"

"I thought it best to be frank, mother. I made an impression on him. I
did what I did as much for your sake as for mine."

"Then he'll break off the engagement--of course he will!" said Mrs.
Howland. She took a moist handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it
to her eyes.

"Not he. He is just devoted to you, mother; you need have no such
apprehension."

"What else did you say to him?"

"Well, mother darling, I said what I thought right."

"Oh, of course you won't confide in me."

"I think not. I will let him do that. He is coming to tea this
afternoon, and he has given me a sovereign"--how Maggie felt inclined
to kick that sovereign!--"to go and have some pleasure somewhere. So I
mean to take the train to Richmond, and perhaps get a boatman to take
me out on the river for a little."

"He is certainly more playful and amusing when you are not here," said
Mrs. Howland, a faint smile dawning on her face.

"I am certain of that," said Maggie; "and what's more, he is very fond
of good living. I mean to go out presently and get some excellent
things for his tea."

"Will you, Maggie? Will you, my child? Why, that will be quite sweet
of you."

"I will do it with pleasure, mother. But now I want you to do
something for me."

"Ah," said Mrs. Howland, "I thought you were coming to that."

"Well, it is this," said Maggie. "When he talks to you about me, don't
oppose him. He will most probably propound a scheme to you, as his own
perhaps; and you are to be quite certain to let him think that it is
his own scheme. And you might make out to him, mother, that I am
really very disagreeable, and that nothing in all the world would make
me anything else. And if you are a very wise little mother you will
tell him that you are happier alone with him."

"Which I am--I am," said Mrs. Howland. "He is a dear, quite a dear;
and so comical and amusing!"

"Then it's all right," said Maggie. "You know I told you yesterday
that nothing would induce me to live at Laburnum Villa; but I will
certainly come to you, mums, in the holidays, if you wish it."

"But, dear child, there is no money to keep you at that expensive
school. There isn't a penny."

"Oh, well, well, mother, perhaps that can be managed. But now we
needn't talk any more about my future until after Mr. Martin has had
tea with you to-day. If you have any news for me when I return from
Richmond you can let me know."

"You are a very independent girl to go to Richmond by yourself."

"Oh, that'll be all right," said Maggie in a cheerful tone.

"Have you anything else to say to me?"

"Yes. You know all that beautiful jewellery that my dear father
brought back with him from those different countries where he spent
his life."

Mrs. Howland looked mysterious and frightened.

"It was meant for me eventually, was it not?" said Maggie.

"Oh, well, I suppose so; only, somehow, I have a life-interest in
it."

"You won't want for jewellery when you are Mr. Martin's wife."

"Indeed no; why, he has given me a diamond ornament for my hair
already. He means to take me out a great deal, he says."

"Out!--oh mother--in his set!"

"Well, dear child, I shall get accustomed to that."

"Don't you think you might give me father's jewellery?" said Maggie.

"Is it worth a great deal?" said Mrs. Howland. "I never could bear to
look at it--that is, since he died."

"You haven't given it to Mr. Martin, have you, mother?"

"No, nor said a word about it to him either."

"Well, suppose, now that we have a quiet time, we look at the
jewellery?" said Maggie.

"Very well," said Mrs. Howland. Then she added, "I was half-tempted to
sell some of it; but your father was so queer, and the things seemed
so very ugly and unlike what is worn, that I never had the heart to
part with them. I don't suppose they'd fetch a great deal."

"Let's look at them," said Maggie.

Mrs. Howland half-rose from her chair, then sank back again.

"No," she said, "I am afraid of them. Your father told me so many
stories about each and all. He courted death to get some of them, and
others came into his hands through such extraordinary adventures that
I shudder at night when I recall what he said. I want to forget them.
Mr. Martin would never admire them at all. I want to forget all my
past life absolutely. You're like your father, and perhaps you admire
that sort of thing; but they are not to my taste. Here's the key of my
wardrobe. You will find the tin boxes which hold the jewels. You can
take them; only never let out a word to your stepfather. He doesn't
know I posses them--no one does."

"Thank you, mother," said Maggie in a low voice. "Will you lie down on
the sofa, mums? Oh, here's a nice new novel for you to read. I bought
it coming up in the train yesterday. You read and rest and feel quite
contented, and let me go to the bedroom to look at the jewels."

"Very well," said Mrs. Howland; "you can have them. I consider them of
little or no importance; only don't tell your stepfather."

"He is not that yet, mums."

"Well, well," said Mrs. Howland, "what does a fortnight matter? He'll
be your stepfather in a fortnight. Yes, take the key and go. I shall
be glad to rest on the sofa. You're in a much more reasonable frame of
mind to-day."

"Thank you, dear mother," said Maggie.

She entered the bedroom and closed the door softly behind her. She
held her mother's bunch of keys in her hand. First of all she unlocked
the wardrobe, and then, removing the tin boxes, laid them on the table
which stood at the foot of the bed. She took the precaution first,
however, to lock the bedroom door. Having done this, she seated
herself at the table, and, selecting the proper keys, unlocked the two
tin boxes. One of them contained the twelve famous bracelets which
Maggie had described to Molly and Isabel Tristram. She would keep her
word: she would give a bracelet to each girl. She recognized at once
the two which she considered suitable for the girls, and then examined
the others with minute care.

Her mother could not admire what was strange in pattern and dimmed by
neglect; but Maggie, with her wider knowledge, knew well that she
possessed great treasures, which, if possible, she would keep, but
which, if necessary, she could sell for sums of money which would
enable her to start in life according to her own ideas.

She put the twelve bracelets back into their case, and then, opening
the second tin box, took from it many quaint curios, the value of
which she had no means of ascertaining. There was a great deal of gold
and silver, and queer beaten-work in brass, and there were pendants
and long chains and brooches and queer ornaments of all kinds.

"Poor father!" thought the girl. She felt a lump in her throat--a
choking sensation, which seemed to make her mother's present conduct
all the more intolerable. How was she to live in the future with the
knowledge that her father's memory was, as she felt, profaned? But at
least she had got his treasures.

She relocked the two tin boxes, and, stowing them carefully away in
her own trunk, transferred the keys from her mother's bunch to her
own, and brought her mother's keys back to Mrs. Howland.

"Have you looked at them? Are they worth anything, Maggie?"

"Memories mostly," said Maggie evasively.

"Oh, then," said Mrs. Howland, "I am glad you have them; for I hate
memories."

"Mother," said Maggie, and she went on her knees to her parent, "you
have really given them to me?"

"Well, of course, child. Didn't I say so? I don't want them. I haven't
looked at the things for years."

"I wonder, mums, if you would write something on a piece of paper for
me."

"Oh dear! oh dear!" said Mrs. Howland. "Mr. Martin doesn't approve of
what he calls documents."

"Darling mother, you're not Mr. Martin's wife yet. I want you to put
on paper that you have given me father's curios. He always meant them
for me, didn't he?"

"He did! he did!" said Mrs. Howland. "One of the very last things he
said--in his letter, I mean, for you know he died in Africa--was:
'The treasures I am sending home will be appreciated by my little
girl.'"

"Oh mother! yes, and they are. Please, mother, write something on this
bit of paper."

"My head is so weak. I haven't an idea what to say."

"I'll dictate it to you, if I may."

"Very well, child; I suppose I can't prevent you."

Maggie brought paper, blotting-pad, and pen, and Mrs. Howland
presently wrote: "I have given, on the eve of my marriage to Mr.
Martin, her father's treasures to my daughter, Margaret Howland."

"Thank you, mother," said Maggie.

The date was affixed. Mrs. Howland added the name she was so soon to
resign, and Maggie almost skipped into the bedroom.

"It's all right now," she said to herself.

She unlocked her trunk, also unlocking one of the tin boxes. In the
box which contained the twelve bracelets she put the piece of paper in
her mother's handwriting. She then relocked the box, relocked the
trunk, and came back to her mother, restored to perfect good-humor.

Maggie was in her element when she was planning things. Yesterday was
a day of despair, but to-day was a day of hope. She sat down by her
mother's desk and wrote a long letter to Molly Tristram, in which she
told Molly that her mother was about to be married again to a very
rich man. She mentioned the coming marriage in a few brief words, and
then went on to speak of herself, and of how delightful it would be to
welcome Molly and Isabel when they arrived at Aylmer House. Not by the
faintest suggestion did she give her friend to understand the step
down in the social scale which Mrs. Howland's marriage with Mr. Martin
meant.

Having finished her letter, she thought for a minute, then wrote a
careful line to Merry Cardew. She did not tell Merry about her
mother's approaching marriage, but said that Molly would have news for
her. In other respects her letter to Merry was very much more
confidential than her letter to Molly. She assured Merry of her deep
love, and begged of her friend to regard this letter as quite private.
"If you feel you must show it to people, tear it up rather than do
so," said Maggie, "for I cannot bear that our great and sacred love
each for the other should be commented on."

When Merry received the letter she neither showed it to any one else
nor tore it up. She could not forget Maggie's face as she parted from
her, and the fact that she had refused to accept the ten pounds which
the little girl had wanted to give her in order to remove her from
musty, fusty lodgings had raised Maggie considerably in her friend's
estimation.

Meanwhile Maggie Howland, having finished her letters, went out and
posted them. She then changed her sovereign, and bought some excellent
and appetizing fruit and cakes for her mother's and Mr. Martin's tea.
She consulted with Tildy as to how these dainties were to be
arranged, and Tildy entered into the spirit of the thing with
effusion, and declared that they were perfect crowns of beauty, and
that most assuredly they would melt in Mr. Martin's mouth.

On hearing this Maggie hastened to change the conversation; but when
she had impressed upon Tildy the all-importance of a snowy cloth being
placed upon the ugly tray, and further begged of her to polish up the
teapot and spoons, Tildy thought that Miss Maggie was more wonderful
than ever.

"With them as is about to step into the life-matrimonial, pains should
be took," thought Tildy, and she mentioned her sentiments to Mrs.
Ross, who shook her head sadly, and replied that one ought to do the
best one could for the poor things.

At three o'clock Maggie put on her hat, drew her gloves on, and,
taking up a parasol, went out.

"Good-bye, darling," she said to her mother.

After all, she did not go to Richmond; it was too far off, and she was
feeling a little tired. Besides, the thought of her father's wonderful
treasures filled her mind. She determined to go to South Kensington
and look at similar jewels and ornaments which she believed she could
find there. It occurred to her, too, that it might be possible some
day to consult the manager of the jewel department with regard to the
worth of the things which her dear father had sent home; but this she
would not do to-day.

Her visit to the South Kensington Museum made her feel positively
assured that she had articles of great value in the tin boxes.

Meanwhile Mrs. Howland waited impatiently for Mr. Martin. She was
puzzled about Maggie, and yet relieved. She wondered much what Maggie
could have said to Mr. Martin that day when she breakfasted with him.
She was not really alarmed. But had she been able to look into Mr.
Martin's mind she would have felt a considerable amount of surprise.
The worthy grocer, although an excellent man of business, knew little
or nothing about law. Maggie's words had made him distinctly
uncomfortable. Suppose, after all, the girl could claim a right in her
father's beggarly hundred and fifty pounds a year? Perhaps the child
of the man who had settled that little income on his wife must have
some sort of right to it? It would be horrible to consult lawyers;
they were so terribly expensive, too.

There was a man in the shop, however, of the name of Howard. He was
the principal shopwalker, and Mr. Martin had a great respect for him.
Without mentioning names, he put the case before him--as he himself
expressed it--in a nutshell.

Howard thought for a few minutes, then said slowly that he had not the
slightest doubt that a certain portion of the money should be spent on
the child--in fact, that the child had a right to it.

Martin did not like this. A heavy frown came between his brows. The
girl was a smart and clever girl, not a bit like Little-sing, and she
could make herself very disagreeable. Her modest request for sixty
pounds a year did not seem unreasonable. He thought and thought, and
the more he thought the more inclined he felt to give Maggie her way.

When he arrived at Mrs. Ross's house he did not look quite as cheerful
as usual. He went upstairs, as Tildy expressed it, "heavy-like"; and
although both she and Mrs. Ross watched for that delightful scene when
he was "Bo-peep" to "Little-sing," Martin entered the drawing-room
without making any exhibition of himself. The room looked quite clean
and inviting, for Maggie had dusted it with her own hands, and there
was a very nice tea on the board, and Mrs. Howland was dressed very
prettily indeed. Martin gave a long whistle.

"I say, Little-sing," he remarked, "whoever has been and done it?"

"What do you mean, James?" said Mrs. Howland.

"Why, the place," said Martin; "it looks sort of different."

"Oh, it's Maggie," said Mrs. Howland. "She went out and bought all
those cakes for you herself."

"Bless me, now, did she?" said Martin. "She's a smart girl--a _ver_-ry
smart girl."

"She's a very clever girl, James."

"Yes, that's how I put it--very clever. She has a way about her."

"She has, James. Every one thinks so."

"Well, Little-sing, give me a good meal, and then we'll talk."

Mrs. Howland lifted the teapot and was preparing to pour out a cup of
tea for Mr. Martin, when he looked at her, noticed her extreme
elegance and grace, and made a spring toward her.

"You haven't give Bo-peep one kiss yet, you naughty Little-sing."

Mrs. Howland colored as she kissed him. Of course she liked him very
much; but somehow Maggie had brought a new atmosphere into the house.
Even Mrs. Howland felt it.

"Let's eat, let's eat," said Martin. "I never deny myself the good
things of life. That girl knows a thing or two. She's a ver-ry clever
girl."

"She is, James; she is."

"Now, what on earth do you call me James for? Ain't I Bo-peep--ain't
I?"

"Yes, Bo-peep, of course you are."

"And you are Little-sing. You're a wonderfully elegant-looking woman
for your years, Victoria."




CHAPTER XIV.

IN THE PARK.


Mrs. Howland did not like to have her years mentioned. Mr. Martin had
been careful never to do so until Maggie appeared on the scene. On
the contrary, he had dropped hints that his birdling, his Little-sing,
his Victoria, was in the early bloom of youth. But now he said that
she was a wonderful woman for her years.

Mrs. Howland bridled slightly. "I am not old, James," she said.

"Come, come," said the good-natured grocer; "no 'Jamesing' of me. I'm
your Bo-peep. What does it matter whether you are old or young,
Victoria, if you suit me and I suit you? This is a first-rate tea, and
that girl's clever--uncommon clever. By the way, how old may she
happen to be?"

"Sixteen her last birthday," said Mrs. Howland. "I was very, very
young, a mere child, when I married, James."

"There you are with your 'James' again! Strikes me, you're a bit huffy
to-day, Little-sing."

"No, I am not; only I've been worried since Maggie came back. She was
so rude to you yesterday. I felt it terribly."

"Did you now? Well, that was very sensible of you. We'll finish our
tea before we begin our talk. Come, Little-sing, eat your cake and
drink your tea, and make yourself agreeable to your Bo-peep."

Mrs. Howland felt cheered. She did enjoy her meal; and, if she liked
it, Mr. Martin liked it immensely also.

"What a useful girl that would be!" he said. "We could make her
housekeeper at Laburnum Villa in no time. She has a head on her
shoulders."

Mrs. Howland was silent. She was dreading inexpressibly the little
scene which she felt must be endured between her and her intended.

"We'll ring the bell now," said Martin, wiping a few crumbs from his
mouth and dusting his trousers with his pocket-handkerchief. "We'll
get Tildy to remove all these things, and then what do you say to my
taking you for a drive to the Park?"

"Oh, I should like that!" said Mrs. Howland in surprise,

"Thought so. Never say that Bo-peep isn't thoughtful.--Ah, here you
be, Tildy. You clear away--smart, my girl, and then whistle for a
'ansom. Do you hear me? A 'ansom, not a four-wheeler. Look as sharp as
you can, my girl, and I'll give you sixpence."

"Thank you, sir," said Tildy. She looked with admiring eyes at the
pair who were so close to the matrimonial venture, and quickly removed
all traces of the meal.

"Now then, Little-sing, go into your room and get dressed for your
drive."

Mrs. Howland did so. She put on an elegant sort of bonnet-hat which
had been presented to her by Martin, a lace fichu over her shoulders,
and a pair of long white gloves. She had also been presented with a
white parasol by Martin. He thought that no one could look more
beautiful than his ladylove when she reappeared in the drawing-room.

"The 'ansom's at the door," he said. "We'll go now and start on our
drive."

Mrs. Howland rose, and Tildy agreed with Martin as to Mrs. Howland's
appearance when she stepped into that hansom. Tildy said she looked
bride-like. Mrs. Ross remarked that as elegant women before now had
become widows in no time. Tildy shuddered, and said that Mrs. Ross
should not say things of that sort. Mrs. Ross replied that she
invariably spoke the truth, and then returned to her dismal kitchen.

Meanwhile Martin and Mrs. Howland were driven swiftly in the direction
of Hyde Park. London society people were fast going out of town, for
it was very nearly the end of July; but still there were a few
carriages about, and some fine horses, and some gaily dressed ladies
and several smart-looking men. Martin provided a couple of chairs for
himself and his future wife, and they sat for some little time
enjoying the fresh air and looking on at the gay scene.

"It is wonderful," said Martin, "what a sight of money is wasted in
this sort of thing."

"But they enjoy it, don't they?" said Mrs. Howland.

"Yes, my pet," he replied, "but not as you and me will enjoy Laburnum
Villa. And now, Little-sing, can you attend to business?"

"I have a very weak head for business, Bo-peep," was the reply.

"Don't I know it, my pet; and I am the last person on earth to allow
you to be worried; but I tell you what it is, Victory, if your head is
weak as regards money matters, your girl has a topping good brain in
that direction. Now, I have a notion in my head about her."

"You can't do anything with her," said Mrs. Howland; "she is quite
impossible. I never thought she would treat you as she did. I could
weep when I think of it. I shouldn't be surprised if, on account of
her rudeness and ingratitude, we broke off the engagement. I shouldn't
really, James."

"What do you take me for?" said James. "It isn't the girl I want to
marry! it's you."

"Oh dear!" said Mrs. Howland; "of course, I know."

"She ain't a patch on you, Little-sing--that is, I mean as regards
looks. But now, don't you fret. If you have been turning things over
in your mind, so have I been turning things over in my mind, and the
sum and substance of it all is that I believe that girl's right after
all."

"Right after all! But dear, dear James, the child can't live on
nothing!"

"Who said she was to live on nothing?" said Martin. "Don't tremble,
Little-sing; it's more than I can stand. I have been thinking that a
sharp young miss like that wants a bit more training. She wants
breaking in. Now, I've no mind to the job. I can manage my
shop-people--not one of them can come round me, I can tell you--but a
miss like your daughter, brought up altogether, I will say, above her
station, is beyond me. What I have been turning over in my mind is
this, that a year or two's training longer will do her no sort of
harm."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Howland. She was trembling exceedingly.

"I think, too," continued Martin, "that Laburnum Villa might not be
agreeable to her at present; and if it ain't agreeable to her she'll
put on the sulks, and that's more than I _can_ abide. Cheerfulness I
must have. My joke I must be allowed to make. My fun in my own way I
must enjoy. You and me--we'll hit it off splendid, and let the girl go
for the present."

"But she must go somewhere," said Mrs. Howland.

"Good gracious, my lady! do you suppose I'd allow the girl to be
destitute? No; I'm ready to do the generous; and now, I'll tell you
something. You mustn't blame her too much. She repented of her
ill-natured manner last night, and came to me as pretty as you please
this morning, and asked me to breakfast with her. I was taken aback,
but she came round me, and we went to Harrison's and had a topping
meal. Then she spoke to me very sensible, and explained that she
wanted more 'parlez-vooing' and more 'pi-annofortying,' and all the
rest of the so-called ladies' accomplishments. She consulted me very
pretty and very proper indeed; and the long and the short of it is
that I am willing to allow her forty pounds a year for her education
at that blessed Aylmer House where all the swells go, and to keep her
there for two years certain; and I am willing, further, to give her
twenty pounds a year to spend on dress. Of course she takes her
holidays with us. Then, if at the end of that time she turns out what
I hope she will, I will make her an accountant in the shop; it will be
a first-rate post for her, and I am sure, from the way she talks, she
has a splendid head for business. Now, what do you say to that,
Little-sing?"

"I say there never was your like, Bo-peep."

Mr. Martin rubbed his hands. "Thought you'd be pleased," he said. "The
girl spoke very proper indeed this morning, and she is a good
girl--plain and sensible, and I couldn't but take notice of her words.
Now then, s'pose we take a fresh 'ansom, and hurry home; and I'll take
you out and give you a right good bit of dinner, and afterwards we'll
go to the play."

"Oh dear!" said Mrs. Howland, "you are good to me, Bo-peep."




CHAPTER XV.

TWO SIDES.


Mrs. Ward's school reopened on the 20th of September. For two or three
days beforehand the immaculate and beautiful house was being made, if
possible, still more immaculate and still more lovely. The
window-boxes were refilled with flowers; the dainty little bedrooms
were supplied with fresh curtains to the windows and fresh drapery for
the beds.

Mrs. Ward herself arrived at the school about a week before her pupils
made their appearance. She had much to settle during this week. She
had, in short, to prepare her plan of campaign for the ensuing term:
to interview her different masters and mistresses, to consult with her
resident English governess (a charming girl of the name of Talbot), to
talk over matters with Fräulein Beck, and to reassure Mademoiselle
Laplage, who was very lively, very conscientious, but at the same time
very nervous with regard to her own powers. "_Les jeunes filles
Anglaises sont bien capables et bien distinguées mais--ma foi! comme
elles me fatiguent les nerfs!_" Mademoiselle Laplage would say; and,
although she had been at Aylmer House for three terms, she always
doubted her powers, and made the same speech over and over again at
the beginning of each term. In addition to Miss Talbot, there was a
very cheery, bright girl of the name of Johnson, who looked after the
girls' wardrobes and helped them, if necessary, with their work, saw
that they were punctual at meals, and occasionally took an English
class. She was a great favorite with all the girls at Mrs. Ward's
school. They called her Lucy, instead of Miss Johnson. She was quite
young--not more than twenty years of age.

These four ladies resided at Aylmer House; but masters and mistresses
for various accomplishments came daily to instruct the girls. Mrs.
Ward loved her teachers almost as much as she loved her girls, and
they each and all adored her.

Miss Talbot was an exceedingly clever woman, close on thirty years of
age. She had taken very high honors at Cambridge, and was a person of
great penetration of character, with a genius for imparting
knowledge.

Unlike most head-mistresses, Mrs. Ward seldom changed her staff of
teachers. She had the gift of selection to a marvellous degree, and
never was known to make a mistake with regard to the choice of those
women who helped her in her great work of education.

Summer was, of course, over when the girls assembled at Aylmer House.
Nevertheless, there was a sort of afterglow of summer, which was
further intensified by the beautiful flowers in the window-boxes and
by the fresh, clean, fragrant atmosphere of the house itself.

The two Cardews and the two Tristrams came up to Aylmer House by an
early train. Mr. Tristram brought them to school, Mr. and Mrs. Cardew
at the last moment feeling unequal to the task of parting with their
darlings in the presence of their companions. The real parting had
taken place the previous night; and that pain which Merry had felt at
intervals during the end of the summer vacation was sharp enough to
cause her to cry when she lay down to sleep on the night before going
to school. But Merry was brave, and so was Cicely; and, although Merry
did hate beyond words the thought of not seeing her beloved father and
her dear mother until Christmas, she thought also that very good
times were before her, and she was resolved to make the best of them.

Molly and Isabel, who were quite accustomed to going to school, had no
pangs of heart at all when they bade their mother good-bye. As to
Peterkins and Jackdaw, as they were also going to school on the
following day, they scarcely observed the departure of their sisters,
only saying, when Belle hugged one and Molly the other, "What a fuss
you girls do make! Now, if Spot-ear and Fanciful were to fret about us
there'd be some reason in it. But mother's going to look after them;
and mother's a brick, I can tell you." The girls laughed very merrily,
and asked what message her two adorers would like to send to Maggie.

The two adorers only vouchsafed the remark, "Don't bother; we're going
to be with boys now, and boys are worth all the girls in creation put
together."

The journey to town was taken without any special adventure, and at
about three o'clock in the afternoon an omnibus containing the four
girls, accompanied by Mr. Tristram, with their luggage piled on the
roof, stopped at Aylmer House.

Aneta had already arrived; and as the girls entered with a new feeling
of timidity through the wide-open doors they caught a glimpse of
Maggie in the distance. There were other girls, absolute strangers to
them, who peeped for a minute over the balusters and then retired from
view. But, whatever the four strangers might have felt with regard to
these interesting occurrences, every other feeling was brought into
subjection by the appearance of Mrs. Ward on the scene.

Mrs. Ward looked quite as stately as Mrs. Cardew, with her beautiful
face still quite young; with her most kind, most gentle, most
protective manner; with the glance of the eye and the pressure of the
hand which spoke untold volumes of meaning. Merry felt her loving
heart rise in sudden adoration. Cicely gave her a quick, adoring
glance. As to Molly and Isabel, they were speechless with pleasure.

"You have come, dears," said Mrs. Ward. "Welcome, all four!--These are
your girls, Mr. Tristram"--she singled out Molly and Isabel without
being introduced to them. "I know them," she said with a smile, "from
their likeness to you. And these are the Cardews. Now, which is Cicely
and which Merry? Ah, I think I can tell. This is Merry, is she not?"
and she laid her hand on the pretty girl's shoulder.

"Yes, I am Merry," replied Meredith Cardew in a voice which almost
choked her.

"And you, of course, are Cicely," said Mrs. Ward. "In this house all
the girls speak to each other by their Christian names; and you will
be Cicely and Merry to me, as Molly and Isabel Tristram will be Molly
and Isabel to me. You know Aneta, of course. She is hovering near,
anxious to take possession of you. Go with her, dears. I think all my
girls have now come.--Is it not so, Miss Talbot?"

"Yes, Mrs. Ward," replied Miss Talbot.

"Miss Talbot, may I introduce my four new pupils to you, Cicely and
Merry Cardew, and Molly and Isabel Tristram?--You will have a good
deal to do with Miss Talbot, girls, for she is our English teacher,
and my very great friend."

Miss Talbot blushed slightly from pleasure. She said a gentle word to
each girl, and a minute afterwards they had, so to speak, crossed the
Rubicon, and were in the heart of Aylmer House; for Aneta had seized
Merry's hand, and Cicely followed immediately afterwards, while Molly
and Belle found themselves one at each side of Maggie Howland.

"Oh, this is delightful!" said Maggie. "We have all met at last. Isn't
the day glorious? Isn't the place perfect? Aren't you in love with
Mrs. Ward?"

"She seems very nice," said Molly in an almost timid voice.

"How nice Merry and Cicely look!" continued Maggie.

"You look nice, yourself, Maggie. Everything is wonderful," said
Molly; "not a bit like the school in Hanover."

"Of course not. Who could compare it?" said Maggie.

Meanwhile Aneta, Cicely, and Merry had gone on in front. But as they
were ascending the broad, low stairs, Merry turned and glanced at
Maggie and smiled at her, and Maggie smiled back at Merry. Oh, that
smile of Merry's, how it caused her heart to leap! Aneta, try as she
would, could not take Merry Cardew quite away from her.

Cicely and Merry had a bedroom together. Two little white beds stood
side by side. The drugget on the floor was pale blue. The room was a
study in pale blue and white. It was all exquisitely neat, fresh,
airy, and the smell of the flowers in the window-boxes came in through
the open windows.

"Why," said Cicely with a gasp, "we might almost be in the country!"

"This is one of the nicest rooms in the whole house," said Aneta. "But
why should I say that," she continued, "when every room is, so to
speak, perfect? I never saw Mrs. Ward, however, more particular than
she was about your bedroom, girls. I think she is very much pleased at
your coming to Aylmer House."

Cicely ran to the window and looked out.

"It is so nice to be in London," she said; "but somehow, I thought it
would be much more noisy."

Aneta laughed.

"Aylmer House," she said, "stands in the midst of a great square. We
don't have huge traffic in the squares; and, really, at night it is as
quiet as the country itself."

"But hark! hark!" said Merry, "there is a funny sound after all."

"What do you take it for?" asked Aneta.

"I don't know," said Merry. "I could almost imagine that we were by
the seaside, and that the sound was the roar of the breakers on the
beach."

"It is the roar of human breakers," said Aneta. "One always hears
that kind of sound even in the quietest parts of London. It is the
great traffic in the thoroughfares not far away."

"It is delightful! wonderful!" said Merry. "Oh, I long to know all the
girls! You will introduce us, won't you, Aneta?"

"Of course; and you must be very quick remembering names. Let me see.
You two, and Molly and Isabel, and Maggie Howland, and I make six.
There are twenty girls in the house altogether, so you have to make
the acquaintance of fourteen others."

"I never can possibly remember their names," said Merry.

"You will have to try. That's the first thing expected of a
schoolgirl--to know the names of her schoolfellows."

"Well, I will do my best."

"You had better do your best; it will be a good occupation for you
during this first evening. Now, are you ready? And shall we go down?
We have tea in the refectory at four o'clock. Mademoiselle Laplage
presides over the tea-table this week."

"Oh, but does she talk English?"

"Of course not--French. How can you learn French if you don't talk
it?"

"I shall never understand," said poor Merry.

"Well, I've no doubt she will let you off very easily during the first
few days," said Aneta. "But afterwards she is just as particular as
woman can be."

The girls went downstairs, where a group of other girls--most of them
wearing pretty white dresses, for they were all still in full summer
attire--met in the wide, pleasant hall. Aneta performed the ceremony
of introduction.

"Henrietta and Mary Gibson, may I introduce my special friends and
cousins, Cicely and Meredith--otherwise Merry--Cardew?"

Two tall, fair, lady-like girls responded to this introduction with a
hearty shake of the hand and a hearty welcome to the new-comers.

"Here is Rosamond Dacre," continued Aneta, as a very dark, somewhat
plain girl appeared in view.--"Rosamond, my friends and cousins,
Cicely and Merry Cardew."

Rosamond shook hands, but stiffly and without any smile. The next
minute a laughing, merry, handsome little girl, with dark-blue eyes,
very dark curling eyelashes, and quantities of curling black hair,
tumbled rather than walked into view.

"Ah Kathleen--Kitty, you're just as incorrigible as ever!" cried
Aneta:--"Girls, this is our Irish romp, as we always call her. Her
name is Kathleen O'Donnell.--Now then, Kathleen, you must be good, you
know, and not too terribly Irish. I have the honor to present to you,
Kathleen, my cousins Cicely and Merry Cardew."

Kathleen did more than smile. She laughed outright. "I am delighted
you have come," she said. "How are you? Isn't school glorious? I do
love it! I have come straight from Glengariff--the most beautiful part
of the whole of Ireland. Do you know Ireland? Have you ever seen
Bantry Bay? Oh, there is no country in all the world like it, and
there is no scenery so magnificent."

"Come, Kitty, not quite so much chatter," said Aneta.--"Ah, there's
the tea-gong."

The girls now followed Aneta into a pleasant room which looked out on
to a small garden. The garden, compared to the great, sweeping lawns
and lovely parterres of Meredith Manor, was insignificant.
Nevertheless, with the French windows of the refectory wide open, and
the beds full of hardy flowers--gay geraniums, late roses, innumerable
asters, fuchsias, etc.--it appeared as a fresh surprise to the country
girls.

"It isn't like London," thought Merry.

At tea she found herself, greatly to her relief, at Maggie's side.
There was also another piece of good fortune--at least so it seemed to
the Cardews, whose conversational French was still almost
_nil_--Mademoiselle Laplage was unexpectedly absent, the good lady
being forced to remain in her room with a sudden, overpowering
headache, and pleasant, good-natured Lucy--otherwise Miss
Johnson--took her place.

"Perfect freedom to-day, girls," said Miss Johnson.

"Ah, good Lucy! thank you, Lucy!" exclaimed Kathleen.

"That's right, Lucy! Hurrah for Lucy!" cried several other voices.

"No discipline at all to-day," continued Lucy. "School doesn't begin
until to-morrow."

Cicely was seated near Aneta, with Kathleen O'Donnell at her other
side. Just for a minute Aneta's eyes traveled across the table and
fixed themselves on Maggie's face. Maggie found herself coloring, and
a resentful feeling awoke in her heart. She could not dare to oppose
Aneta; and yet--and yet--she was determined at any cost to keep the
love of Merry Cardew for herself.

Meanwhile Merry, who was equally delighted to find herself by Maggie's
side, began to talk to her in a low tone.

"You don't look very well, Mags," she said--"not nearly as robust as
when I saw you last; and you never wrote to me after that first
letter."

"I have a great deal I want to tell you," said Maggie in a low tone.
"Lucy is quite right; there are no lessons of any sort this evening.
Mrs. Ward always gives us the first evening to settle and to get
perfectly at home in, so we shall be able to chatter to our heart's
content. This is going to be a glorious night, and we can walk about
in the garden."

"But won't there be a lot of other people in the garden?" asked
Merry.

"Why, of course," said Maggie in a surprised tone. "I suppose we'll
all be there."

"We can't talk any secrets, if that is what you mean," said Merry,
"for the garden is so very small."

Maggie laughed. "That's because you are accustomed to Meredith Manor,"
she said. "Anyhow," she continued, dropping her voice, "I must talk to
you. I have a great, great deal to say, and you'll have to listen."

"Of course I will listen, dear," said Merry.

Rosamond Dacre now joined in, and the conversation became general.
Henrietta and Mary Gibson had a very agreeable way of describing
things. Maggie felt herself reinstated in the life she loved; Merry,
the girl she cared for best, was by her side, and she would not have
had a single thorn in the flesh but for the presence of Aneta.

It has been said that in this school there were two girls who held
considerable sway over their companions. One of them was Aneta Lysle,
the other Maggie Howland. Aneta had, of course, far and away the
greater number of girls under her spell, if such a word could describe
her high and noble influence over them. But Maggie had her own
friends, among whom were Rosamond Dacre, Kathleen O'Donnell, Matty and
Clara Roache, and Janet Burns. All these girls were fairly nice, but
not so high-bred and not so noble in tone as the girls who devoted
themselves to Aneta. Kathleen was, indeed, altogether charming; she
was the romp of the school and the darting of every one. But Rosamond
Dacre was decidedly morose and sulky. She was clever, and on this
account her mistresses liked her; but she was a truly difficult girl
to deal with, being more or less shut up within herself, and
disinclined to true friendship with any one. She liked Kathleen
O'Donnell, however, and Kathleen adored Maggie. Rosamond was,
therefore, considered to be on Maggie's side of the school. Matty and
Clara Roache were quite ordinary, everyday sort of girls, neither very
good-looking nor the reverse, neither specially clever nor specially
stupid. Their greatest friend was Janet Burns, a handsome little girl
with a very lofty brow, calm, clear gray eyes, and a passionate
adoration for Maggie Howland. Matty and Clara would follow Janet to
the world's end, and, as Janet adhered to Maggie, they were also on
Maggie's side.

Maggie naturally expected to add to the numbers of her special
adherents her own two friends, the Tristrams. She felt she could
easily have won Merry also to join, the ranks of adorers; but then it
suddenly occurred to her that her friendship for Merry should be even
more subtle than the ordinary friendship that an ordinary girl who is
queen at school gives to her fellows. She did not dare to defy Aneta.
Merry must outwardly belong to Aneta, but if her heart was Maggie's
what else mattered?

When tea was over several of the girls drifted into the garden, where
they walked in twos, discussing their holidays, their old friends, and
the time which was just coming. There was not a trace of unhappiness
in any face. The whole atmosphere of the place seemed to breathe peace
and goodwill.

Aneta and Cicely, with some of Aneta's own friends, two girls of the
name of Armitage--Anne and Jessie--and a very graceful girl called
Sylvia St. John, walked up and down talking quietly together for some
little time.

Then Cicely looked eagerly round her. "I can't see Merry anywhere,"
she remarked.

"She is all right, dear, I am sure," said Aneta. But Aneta in her
inmost heart did not think so. She was, however, far too prudent to
say a word to make her cousin Cicely uneasy.

Meanwhile Maggie and Merry had found a cosy corner for themselves in
one of the conservatories. They sat side by side in two little
garden-chairs.

"Well, you've come!" said Maggie. "I have carried out my design. My
heart's desire is satisfied."

"Oh, how sweet you are, Maggie!" said Merry. "I have missed you so
much!" she added. "I have so often wished for you!"

"Do you really love me?" asked Maggie, looking at Merry in her queer,
abrupt manner.

"You know I do," said Merry.

"Well," said Maggie, "there are a great many girls in the school who
love me very dearly."

"It is easy to perceive that," said Merry. "Why, Maggie, at tea-time
that handsome little Irish girl--Kathleen you call her--couldn't take
her eyes off you."

"Oh, Kitty," said Maggie. "Yes, she is on my side."

"What do you mean by your side?"

"Well, of course I have told you--haven't I?--that there are two of us
in this school who are more looked up to than the others. It seems
very conceited for me to say that I happen to be one. Of course I am
not a patch on Aneta; I know that perfectly well."

"Aneta is a darling," said Merry; "and she is my own cousin; but"--she
dropped her voice--"Maggie, somehow, I can't help loving you best."

"Oh," said Maggie with a start, "is that true?"

"It is! it is!"

Maggie was silent for a minute. At the end of that time she said very
gently, "You won't be hurt at something I want to tell you?"

"Hurt! No," said Merry; "why should I be?"

"Well, it is just this: Aneta is frightfully jealous of me."

"Oh! I don't believe it," said Merry indignantly. "It isn't in her
nature to be jealous. It's very low-minded to be jealous."

"There is no school," said Maggie, "where jealousy does not abound.
There is no life into which jealousy does not enter. The world itself
is made up of jealous people. Aneta is jealous of me, and I--I am
jealous of her."

"Oh, Maggie dear, you must not, and you ought not to be jealous of
Aneta! She thinks so kindly, so sweetly of every one."

"She loves you," said Maggie. "You just go and tell her how much you
care for me, that you love me better than you love her, and see how
she will take it."

"But I wouldn't tell her that," said little Merry, "for it would hurt
her."

"There!" said Maggie with a laugh; "and yet you pretend that you don't
think her jealous."

"She will never be jealous of me, for I'll never give her cause--dear
Aneta!" said Merry.

Maggie was again silent and thoughtful for a few minutes. "Listen to
me, Merry," she said. "In this school the girls follow the queens. If
I wanted to make Aneta Lysle really mad with jealousy I'd get you over
to me; but--don't speak for a minute--I won't get you over to me. You
shall stay at school and be on Aneta's side."

"I suppose--I suppose I ought," said Merry in a faint voice.

"You must--you must be on Aneta's side of the school, and so must
Cicely; but you can, all the same, love me best."

"Can I?" said Merry, brightening up. "Then, if I can, I sha'n't mind a
bit."

Maggie patted her hand very gently. "You can, Merry; and you can help
me. You will always take my part, won't you?"

"Indeed--indeed I will! But it won't be necessary."

"It may be," said Maggie very earnestly. "Promise that, if the time
comes, you will take my part."

"I promise, of course. What can be the matter with you, Maggie? You
don't look a bit yourself."

Maggie did not at once reply. "I shall have a great deal to do this
term," she said after a pause; "and my party in the school won't be so
weak after all. There'll be Rosamond Dacre----"

"I didn't very much like Rosamond," said Merry, speaking in a low
voice.

"Oh, she is excellent fun when you know her," said Maggie; "but as she
won't be on your side, nor in your form, you are not likely to have
much to do with her. Then Matty and Clara are first-rate, and they're
mine too; and Kathleen O'Donnell is a perfect brick; and Janet Burns,
she's as strong as they make 'em. Of course the Tristrams will belong
to me. Let me see: Tristrams, two; Rosamond, three; Kathleen, four;
Matty and Clara, six; Janet, seven. Ah, well, I am quite in the
minority. Aneta carries off eleven girls as her share."

"Don't be sad about it, Maggie. Surely we might all be one in the
school! Why should there be parties?" said Merry.

"Little you know, Merry, how impossible school-life would be without
parties, and great friends, and medium friends, and favorites, and
enemies. Why, Merry, school is a little world, and the world is made
up of elements such as these."

"Tell me," said Merry after a pause, "what you did after you left
us."

Maggie colored. "Oh, stayed for a time in that horrid Shepherd's
Bush."

"In those fusty, musty lodgings?" said Merry.

"Yes, and they were fusty, musty."

"Oh dear! I am sorry for you. We had such a glorious time!"

"I know it, dear; but glorious times don't come to girls like me."

"Why, are you so very, very sad, Maggie? Oh, now I know--of course I
know. I didn't like to write to you about it, for it seemed to me
quite--you will forgive me, won't you?--quite dreadful that your
mother should have married again. Is she married yet, Maggie?"

Maggie nodded.

"Oh, I can sympathize with you, dear Maggie! It must be so fearful to
have a stepfather!"

"It is," said Maggie.

"Is he a nice man, Maggie? Or would you rather I didn't speak of
him?"

"No; you may speak of him if you like. He is a rich man--he is very
rich."

"I am glad of that at any rate," said Merry. "You will never be in
fusty, musty lodgings any more."

"Oh no, never! My mother's husband--I cannot speak of him as my
stepfather--will see to that."

"What is his name?"

Maggie hesitated. Not for the world would she have let any of her
schoolfellows know the real position; but she could not very well
conceal her stepfather's name.

"Martin," she said.

"Spelt with a 'y'? We know some awfully nice Martyns. They live about
twenty miles away from Meredith Manor. I wonder if your Mr. Martyn is
related to them."

"Oh, very likely," said Maggie.

"Then perhaps you will go to stay with them--your mother, and
your--your mother's husband, and you too; and we'll all meet. They
live at a place-called The Meadows. It isn't as old or as beautiful as
our Manor, but it's a sweet place, and the girls are so nice you'll be
sure to like them."

"Yes, I dare say I shall," said Maggie, who didn't care to contradict
Merry's innocent ideas with regard to her mother's marriage.

"Well, I am glad," said Merry, "that your dear mother has married a
rich gentleman. Has he a country place of his own?"

"Of course he has," said Maggie, who felt that she could at least
utter these words with truth.

"And is it far, far from London, or quite in the country?"

"It is," said Maggie, "in--in the Norwood direction."

This remark made no impression whatever on Merry, who had not the
least idea where the Norwood direction was. But by-and-by, when she
parted from Maggie and joined her sister and Aneta, she said, "I have
a piece of rather good news to tell about dear Maggie Howland. She
won't be poor any more."

"That is a word we never discuss at school," said Aneta.

"Well, we needn't after to-night," said Merry with a slight touch of
irritation in her manner. "But although I haven't the faintest idea
what poverty means, I think poor Maggie knows a good deal about it.
Well, she won't have anything to do with it in future, for her mother
has just married again."

"Oh!" said Aneta, with a show of interest.

"Yes; and a very nice gentleman he must be. He is a cousin of the
Martyns of The Meadows. You know how you liked them when we spent a
day there during these holidays--didn't you, Aneta?"

"Yes," said Aneta, "most charming people. I felt quite sorry that the
Martyn girls were too old for school. I wonder they didn't mention the
fact of their cousin being about to marry Mrs. Howland; for you know
we were talking of Maggie to them, or at least you were, Merry."

"Of course I was," said Merry in a determined voice. "I am very, very
fond of Maggie Howland."

"Perhaps we had better go to bed now," said Aneta. "I may as well tell
you, girls, that we have to get up at half-past six. Lucy comes to us
and wakes us at that hour, and we are expected to be downstairs at
seven. Lucy will tell you, too, girls, that it is expected of us all
that we shall keep our rooms in perfect order. Now, shall we say
good-night?"

The Cardews kissed their cousin and went to their own pleasant room.

As soon as they were there Merry said, "Cicely, I am glad about poor
Maggie."

"And so am I," said Cicely.

"When we write home we must be sure to mention to mother about Mr.
Martyn. I don't think dear Maggie knew anything about The Meadows; so
perhaps, after all, he is a somewhat distant cousin; but it is such a
comfort to know that he is rich and a gentleman."

"Yes," said Cicely. Then she added, "I don't think Aneta wants you to
make too great a friend of Maggie Howland."

"Oh, nonsense!" said Merry, coloring slightly. "I am never going to
give Maggie up, for I love her dearly."

"Of course," said Cicely, "it would be very mean to give her up; but
you and I, as Aneta's cousins, must be on her side in the school. What
I am afraid of is that Maggie will try to induce you to join her
set."

"That shows how little you know her," said Merry, roused to the
defensive. "She explained everything to me this afternoon, and said
that I certainly must belong to Aneta."

"Did she? Well, I call that splendid," said Cicely.




CHAPTER XVI.

BO-PEEP.


When Aneta found herself alone that evening she stayed for a short
time thinking very deeply. She felt a queer sense of responsibility
with regard to the Cardews. If Maggie imagined that it was through her
influence they had come to Aylmer House, Aneta was positive that they
would never have entered the school but for her and her aunt, Lady
Lysle. Besides, they were her very own cousins, and she loved them
both dearly. She was not especially anxious about Cicely, who was a
more ordinary and less enthusiastic girl than Merry; but about Merry
she had some qualms. There was no doubt whatever that the girl was
attracted by Maggie; and, in Aneta's opinion, Maggie Howland was in no
sense of the word a proper companion for her.

Aneta, as she sat calmly by her open window--for it was not necessary
to hurry to bed to-night--thought much over the future which spread
itself immediately in front of her and her companions. She was
naturally a very reserved girl. She was born with that exclusiveness
and reserve which a distinguished class bestows upon those who belong
to it. But she had in her heart very wide sympathies; and, like many
another girl in her position, she could be kind to the poor,
philanthropic to the last degree to those in real distress, denying
herself for the sake of those who wanted bread. Towards girls,
however, who were only a trifle below her in the social scale she
could be arbitrary, haughty, and strangely wanting in sympathy. Maggie
Howland was exactly the sort of girl who repelled Aneta. Nevertheless,
she was a member of the school; and not only was she a member of the
school, but a very special member. Had she even been Janet Burns (who
was so clever, and as far as learning was concerned carried all before
her), or had she been as brilliant and witty as Kathleen O'Donnell,
Aneta would not have troubled herself much over her. But Maggie was
possessed of a curious sense of _power_ which was hers by heritage,
which her father had possessed before her, and which caused him--one
of the least prepossessing and yet one of the most distinguished men
of his day--to be worshipped wherever he went. This power was greater
than beauty, greater than birth, greater than genius. Maggie had it,
and used it to such effect that she and Aneta divided the school
between them. Aneta was never quite certain whether some of her
special friends would not leave her and go over to Maggie's side; but
she felt that she did not greatly care about this, provided she could
keep Merry and Cicely altogether to herself.

After thinking for a little time she sprang to her feet, and going to
the electric bell, sounded it. After a short delay a servant
appeared.

"Mary," said Aneta, "will you have the goodness to ask Miss Lucy if I
may speak to her for a minute?"

"Yes, miss," replied Mary, closing the door behind her in her usual
noiseless fashion.

In a very few minutes Miss Johnson entered Aneta's room.

"I was just thinking of going to bed, dear," said that good-natured
young woman. "Can I do anything for you?"

"I only want to say something to you, Lucy."

"What is it, my love? I do not like to see that our dear Aneta looks
worried, but your face almost wears that expression."

"Well," said Aneta, "it is just this: I am a trifle worried about a
matter which I hope I may set right. It is against the rules for girls
to leave their rooms after they have gone to them for the night, and
it would never do for me to be the first to break a rule at Aylmer
House. Nevertheless, I do want to break it. May I, Miss Lucy?"

"Well, Aneta, I do not think that there'll be the slightest
difficulty, for we don't really begin school till to-morrow. What do
you wish to do, dear?"

"I want to go and visit one of my schoolmates, and stay with her for a
time."

"Of course you may go, Aneta. I give you permission; but don't remain
too long, for we get up early to-morrow, as to-morrow school really
begins."

"I won't remain a minute longer than I can help. Thank you, Lucy,"
said Aneta.

Miss Johnson kissed her pupil and left the room.

A minute later Aneta Lysle was running down the corridor in the
direction of the bedroom occupied by Maggie Howland. It was some
distance from her own room. She knocked at the door. She guessed
somehow that Maggie would be still up.

Maggie said, "Come in," and Aneta entered.

Maggie was in a white dressing-gown, with her thick, handsome hair
falling below her waist. Her hair was her strongest point, and she
looked for the time being almost pretty.

"What do you want, Aneta?" she said.

"To speak to you, Maggie."

"But it's against the rules," said Maggie, drawling out her words a
little, and giving Aneta a defiant glance.

"No," said Aneta. "I asked for permission to come and see you, and I
have obtained it."

"Well, sit down, won't you?" said Maggie.

Aneta availed herself of the invitation, and took a chair.

Maggie remained standing.

"Won't you sit too, Maggie?" said Aneta.

"I don't particularly want to, but I will if you insist on it. To tell
the truth, I am a little sleepy. You won't keep me long, will you?"

"That depends on yourself."

Maggie opened her narrow eyes. Then she contracted them and looked
fixedly at her companion. "Have you come here to talk about Merry
Cardew?"

"Yes, about her, and other matters."

"Don't you trust me at all, Aneta?"

Aneta looked full up at the girl. "No, Maggie," she said.

"Do you think when you say so that you speak kindly?"

"I am afraid I don't, but I can't help myself," said Aneta.

Maggie gave a faint yawn. She was, in reality, far too interested to
be really sleepy. Suddenly she dropped into a sitting position on the
floor. "You have me," she said, "in the hollow of your hand. Do you
mean to crush me? What have I done that you should hate me so much?"

"I never said I hated you," said Aneta. "I don't hate you, but I am
exceedingly anxious that you should not have any influence over my two
young cousins who came here to-day."

"I thought we discussed that when you were staying at Meredith Manor,"
said Maggie. "You made me unhappy enough then, but I gave you my
promise."

"I was sorry to make you unhappy, Maggie; and you did give me your
promise; but I have come here to-day to know why you have broken it."

"Broken it!" said Maggie. "Broken it!"

"Don't you understand me?" said Aneta. "You and Merry were together
the greater part of the evening, and even Cicely wondered where her
sister was. Why did you do it?"

"Merry is my friend," said Maggie.

"I don't wish her to be your friend."

"I am afraid you can't help it," said Maggie. She looked a little
insolent, and round her mouth there came a dogged expression. After a
minute she said, "I did want to talk to Merry to-night; but, at the
same time, I most undoubtedly did not forget my promise to you. I
explained to Merry what I think she already knew: that there were two
girls in the school who greatly influence their fellows; in short,
that you and I are the two queens of the school. But I said that,
compared to you, I had a comparatively small number of subjects. Merry
was interested, and asked questions, and then I most particularly
explained to her that, although I knew well she cared for me, and I
cared for her, she was to be on your side in the school. If you don't
believe me, you have but to ask Merry herself."

"I have no reason not to believe you, Maggie," said Aneta, "and I am
relieved that you have spoken as you did to Merry. But now I want to
say something else. I have thought of it a good deal during the
holidays, and I am firmly convinced that this taking sides, or rather
making parties, in a school is pernicious, especially in such a small
school as ours. I am willing to give up my queendom, if you, on your
part, will give yours up. I want us all to be in unity--every one of
us--all striving for the good of the school and for the happiness and
welfare each of the other. If you will agree to this I will myself
speak to Mrs. Ward to-morrow."

"Mrs. Ward!" said Maggie. "What has she to do with it?"

"I want to consult with her, so that _she_ may be the queen of the
school--not one girl or two girls. She is so clever, so young, so
resourceful, that she will more than make up to us for the little we
lose in this matter. But, of course, there is no manner of use in my
resigning my queendom if you won't resign yours."

"I will never do it," said Maggie--"never! Two queens in the school
means little or nothing at all. All it does mean is that I have
special friends whom I can influence, and whom I love to influence,
and you have special friends whom you love to influence. Well, go on
influencing them as hard as ever you can, and I will do the same with
my friends. Your cousins will belong to you. I could, I believe, have
won Merry Cardew to my side, but I am not going to do so."

"It would be very unwise of you," said Aneta in a low tone. "Very
well, Maggie," she added after a pause, "if you won't give up being
queen in the minds of a certain number of girls, I must, of course,
continue my influence on the other side. It's a great pity, for we
might all work together."

"We never could work together," said Maggie with passion. "It is but
to talk to you, Aneta, to know how you despise and hate me."

"I neither despise nor hate you, Maggie."

"Well, I despise and hate you, so I suppose it comes to the same
thing."

"I am very, very sorry, Maggie. Some day, perhaps, you will know me as
I really am."

"I know you now as you really are--eaten up with pride of birth, and
with no sympathy at all for girls a trifle poorer than yourself."

"You speak with cruelty, and I am sorry."

To Aneta's astonishment, Maggie's face underwent a queer change. It
puckered up in an alarming manner, and the next moment the girl burst
into tears.

The sight of Maggie's tears immediately changed Aneta Lysle's
attitude. Those tears were genuine. Whether they were caused by anger
or by sorrow she did not stop to discriminate. The next minute she was
down on her knees by the other girl and had swept her young arms round
Maggie's neck.

"Maggie, Maggie, what is it? Oh, if you would only understand me!"

"Don't!--don't touch me!" said Maggie. "I am a miserable girl!"

"And I have hurt you, poor Maggie!" said Aneta. "Oh, I am terribly
sorry! Sit here now, and let me comfort you."

"Oh! I can't, Aneta. You don't understand me--not a bit."

"Better than you think, perhaps; and I am terribly sorry you are
troubled. Oh, perhaps I know. I was told to-night that your mother had
married again. You are unhappy about that?"

Maggie immediately dried her fast-falling tears. She felt that she was
in danger. If Aneta found out, or if Mrs. Ward found out, who Maggie's
stepfather was, she would certainly not be allowed to stay at Aylmer
House. This was her dread of all dreads, and she had so managed
matters with her mother that Mrs. Ward knew nothing at all of Mrs.
Howland's change of name.

"Yes, my mother is married again," said Maggie. "She is a rich woman
now; but the fact is, I dearly loved my own father, and--it hurt me
very much to see another put into his place."

"Of course it did," said Aneta, with deep sympathy; "it would have
driven me nearly wild. Does Mrs. Ward know that your mother is married
again, Maggie?"

"Well, I haven't told her; and, please, Aneta, will you promise me not
to do so?"

"But is there any occasion to keep it a secret, dear?"

"I would so much rather she did not know. She received me here as
Maggie Howland. I am Maggie Howland still; my mother having changed
her name makes no difference, except, indeed, that she is very well
off, whereas she was poor."

"Well, that of course is a comfort to you," said Aneta. "Perhaps
by-and-by you will learn to be glad that your mother has secured the
care of a good husband. I am told that she has married one of those
very nice Martyns who live in Warwickshire. Is that true?"

Maggie nodded. She hated herself after she had given that inclination
of her head; but she had done it now, and must abide by it. To own
Martin the grocer as a stepfather was beyond her power.

Aneta did not think it specially necessary to worry about Maggie's
mother and her new husband. She said that the whole thing was Maggie's
own affair; and, after trying to comfort the girl for a little longer,
she kissed Maggie, and went to her own room. When there, she went at
once to bed and fell fast asleep.

But Maggie sat for a long time by her open window. "What an awful and
ridiculous position I have put myself in!" she thought. "The Martyns
of The Meadows and Bo-peep of Laburnum Villa to be connected! I could
almost scream with laughter if I were not also inclined to scream with
terror. What an awful idea to get into people's heads, and now I have,
confirmed it! Of course I shall be found out, and things will be worse
than ever."

Before Maggie went to bed she sat down and wrote a brief note to her
mother. She addressed it when written to Mrs. Martyn (spelt with a
"y"), Laburnum Villa, Clapham. Maggie had seen Laburnum Villa, and
regarded it as one of the most poky suburban residences she had ever
had the pleasure of entering. The whole house was odiously cheap and
common, and in her heart poor Maggie preferred Tildy and Mrs. Ross,
and the fusty, musty lodgings at Shepherd's Bush.

Her note to her mother was very brief:

"I am back at school, and quite happy. Tell Mr. Martin, if he should
happen to write to me, to spell his name with a 'y,' and please spell
your name with a 'y.' Please tell Mr. Martin that I will explain the
reason of this when we meet. He is so good to me, I don't know how to
thank him enough."

Maggie managed the next day to post this letter unknown to her
fellows, and in course of time a remarkable post-card arrived for her.
It was dated from Laburnum Villa, Clapham, and was written in a
sprawly but business-like hand:

"No 'y's' for me, thank you.--Bo-peep."

Very fortunately, Maggie received her card when none of her
schoolfellows were present; but it was certainly the reverse of
reassuring.




CHAPTER XVII.

THE LEISURE HOURS.


School-life began in real earnest, and school-life at Aylmer House was
so stimulating, so earnest, so invigorating, that all that was best in
each girl was brought to the fore. There was an admirable time-table,
which allowed the girls periods for play as well as the most suitable
hours for work. In addition, each day there were what were called the
"leisure hours." These were from five to seven o'clock each evening.
The leisure hours began immediately after tea, and lasted until the
period when the girls went to their rooms to dress for dinner. During
these two hours they were allowed to do precisely what they pleased.

Mrs. Ward was most particular that no teacher should interfere with
her girls during the leisure hours. From the very first she had
insisted on this period of rest and absolute relaxation from all work.
Work was strictly forbidden in the school from five to seven, and it
was during that period that the queens of the school generally
exercised their power. Aneta then usually found herself surrounded by
her satellites in one corner of the girls' own special sitting-room,
and Maggie was in a similar position at the farther end. Aneta's
satellites were always quiet, sober, and well-behaved; Maggie's, it is
sad to relate, were a trifle rowdy. There is something else also
painful to relate--namely, that Merry Cardew cast longing eyes from
time to time in the direction of that portion of the room where Maggie
and her friends clustered.

The girls had been about a fortnight at school, and work was in full
swing, when Kathleen, springing from her seat, said abruptly, "Queen,
I want to propose something."

"Well, what is it?" asked Maggie, who was lying back against a pile of
cushions and supplying herself daintily from a box of chocolates which
her adorers had purchased for her.

"I want us all," said Kathleen, "to give a party to the other queen
and her subjects; and I want it to be about the very jolliest
entertainment that can be found. We must, of course, ask Mrs. Ward's
leave; but she is certain to give it."

"I don't know that she is," said Maggie.

"Oh, she is--certain sure," said Kathleen. "May I go and ask her
now?"

"Do you dare?" said Rosamond Dacre, looking at Kitty's radiant face
with some astonishment.

"Dare!" cried Irish Kitty. "I don't know the meaning of anything that
I don't dare. I am off. I'll bring you word in a few minutes, girls."
She rushed out of the room.

Janet Burns looked after her, slightly raising her brows. Rosamond
Dacre and the two Roaches began to sound her praises. "She is sweet,
isn't she?"

"Yes," said Clara; "and I do so love her pretty Irish brogue."

"Mother tells me," said Janet, who was Scotch, "that Irish characters
are not much good--they're not reliable, I mean."

"Oh, what a shame!" said Matty Roache.

"I don't think we need discuss characters," said Maggie. "I don't know
a great deal about the Irish, but I do know that Kitty is a darling."

"Yes, so she is--one of the sweetest girls in the whole school," said
Molly Tristram, who was quite as excited as Kathleen herself with
regard to the party scheme.

Meantime Kitty found herself tapping at Mrs. Ward's private door. Mrs.
Ward said, "Come in," and the pretty girl, with her great dark-blue
eyes and wild-rose complexion, entered abruptly.

"Well, Kathleen?" said Mrs. Ward in her pleasant tone.

"Oh, please, Mrs. Ward, I've come with such a lovely scheme."

"And you want me to help you?"

"Oh yes, please, do say you will before I let you into the secret!"

"I can't do that, dear; you must just tell me what is in your mind,
and be satisfied with my decision. The only thing that I can assure
you beforehand is that if it is a workable scheme, and likely to give
you great pleasure, I will do my best to entertain it."

"Then we're certain to have it--certain," said Kathleen.

"It was I who thought of it. You will forgive me if I speak out just
as plainly as possible?"

"Of course, Kathleen dear."

"Well, you know you are the head-mistress."

"That is scarcely news to me, my child."

"And people, as a rule," continued Kathleen, "respect their
head-mistress."

"Dear me," said Mrs. Ward with a smile, "have you come here, Kathleen,
to say that you don't respect me?"

"Respect you!" said Kathleen. "We do a jolly lot more than that. We
adore you! We love you! You're--you're a sort of--of mother to us."

"That is what I want to be," said Mrs. Ward with fervor, and she took
the girl's hand and smoothed it gently.

"I often want to hug you, and that's a fact," said Kathleen.

"You may kiss me now if you like, Kitty."

"Oh, Mrs. Ward!" Kitty bent down and bestowed a reverent kiss on that
sweet face.

"I have permitted you to kiss me, Kitty," said Mrs. Ward, "in order to
show you that I sympathize with you, as I do with all my dear girls.
But now, what is the matter?"

"Well, the fact is this. We want, during the 'leisure hours' to give a
party."

"Is that all? Do you all want to give a party?"

"Our side wants to give a party, and we want to invite the other side
to it."

"But what do you mean by 'our side' and 'the other side'?"

"Oh, Mrs. Ward! you know--of course you know--that Aneta and Maggie
divide the school."

"I know," said Mrs. Ward after a pause, "that Aneta has considerable
influence, and that Maggie also has influence."

"Those two girls divide the school," said Kathleen, "the rest of us
follow them. As a matter of fact, we only follow our leaders in the
leisure hours; but as they come every day a good deal can be done in
that time, can't it?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Ward, and her tone was not exactly cheerful. "On
which side are you, Kitty?"

"Oh, dear Mrs. Ward, of course, on Maggie's! Do you think that a girl
like me, with all my spirit and that irresistible sort of fun always
bubbling up in me, could stand the stuck-ups?"

"Kitty, you have no right to speak of any girls in the school by such
an offensive term."

"I am sorry," said Kitty. "I ought not to have said it to you. But
they are stuck-ups; they really are."

"And what do you call yourself?"

"Oh, the live-and-let-live--that's our title. But it's only quite
among ourselves, and perhaps I ought not to have said it."

"I will never repeat what you have told me in confidence, dear. But
now for your request?"

"Well, we of Maggie's set want to invite the Aneta set to a sort of
general party. We should like it to be on the half-holiday, if
possible. We want to give them a right royal entertainment in order to
knock some of their stuck-upness out of them. We wish for your leave
in the matter."

"You must describe your entertainment a little more fully."

"I can't; for we haven't really and truly planned it all out yet. But
I tell you what we'll do. If you give us leave to have the party, we
will ask Queen Aneta and her satellites if possible this very evening,
and then we'll submit our programme to you. Now, may we do this, or
may we not?"

"Who sent you to me, Kathleen?"

"I came of my own very self, but of course the others approved. We
have no intention of doing shabby things in the dark, as they do in
some schools. That would be unfair to you."

Mrs. Ward thought a little longer. "I will give you the required
permission," she said, "on one condition."

"Oh, Mrs. Ward, darling! what is that?"

"You can have your party on Saturday week, and I will give you from
early in the afternoon until bedtime to enjoy it."

"Oh, Mrs. Ward, you are too angelic!"

"Stop a minute. You may not care for it so much when I have finished
what I have got to say."

"What is it, dear Mrs. Ward?"

"It is this: that you ask me too as one of your guests."

"Oh! oh!" said Kathleen. Her expressive face changed from red to white
and then to red again. Her eyes brimmed over with laughter, and then
as suddenly filled with tears. "But would you--would you like it?"

"Yes, and I don't want to destroy your pleasure; but I presume you
will have a sort of supper or an entertainment which will include
refreshments. Let me assist you with the expense of your supper, and
may I be present at it as one of your guests? I will promise to leave
soon after supper, and not to appear until supper. How will that do?"

"Oh, it would be just, heavenly! It will give such distinction. I know
the girls will love it."

"I think I can make myself pleasant to you all," said Mrs. Ward, "and
I should like to be there."

"But as to paying anything, Mrs. Ward, you will come as our guest, and
you know we have most of us plenty of money. Please, please, let us do
the entertaining."

"Very well, dear, I will not press that point. I hope I have made you
happy, Kathleen."

"Oh! you have--very, very happy indeed. And Saturday week is to be the
day?"

"Yes, Kathleen."

Kathleen bent down, took one of Mrs. Ward's hands, and kissed it. Then
she skipped out of the room and flew back to her companions. They were
waiting for her in a state of suppressed eagerness.

"Well, Kathleen--Kitty--Kit, what's the news?" asked Maggie.

Room was made for Kathleen in the center of the group.

"We have won! We may do it!" she said, speaking in a low tone. "Oh,
she's--she's like no one else! I don't know how you will take it,
girls; but if you're not just delighted you ought, to be. Why, what
_do_ you think? She wants to come herself."

"Mrs. Ward!" said Maggie in amazement.

"Yes, just to supper. She says she will come--she wishes to come--that
we're to invite her; in fact, she makes it a _sine quâ non_. She will
go away again after supper, and we're to have the whole glorious day,
next Saturday week, from two in the afternoon until bedtime. Oh,
sha'n't we have fun!"

"Yes, of course," said Maggie. "It's much better even than I thought.
I will write the letters of invitation immediately."

"But why should you write a whole lot of letters?" said Kathleen. "You
are one queen. Write to the other queen and mention that Mrs. Ward is
coming."

There was nothing like the present time for making arrangements; and
Maggie wrote on a sheet of headed note-paper provided for her by her
satellites the following words:

  "Queen Maggie presents her compliments to Queen Aneta, and begs
  for the pleasure of her company with all her subjects on
  Saturday the 15th of October, to an entertainment from three to
  nine o'clock. She hopes that the whole school will be present,
  and writes in the names of her own subjects as well as of
  herself.

  "_P.S._--Mrs. Ward has most kindly promised to attend."

This letter was subjected to the approval of the group of girls who
surrounded Maggie. It was then addressed to "Queen Aneta," and
Kathleen crossed the room with it and dropped it, there and then, into
Aneta Lysle's lap.

It caused very deep amazement in the hearts of all the girls who
belonged to Aneta's party, and it is highly probable that they might
have refused to accept the invitation but for that magical postscript,
"Mrs. Ward has most kindly promised to attend." But there was no
withstanding that patent fact, as Mrs. Ward knew very well when she
made the proposal to Kathleen.

After a lapse of about twenty minutes, Cicely Cardew crossed the room
and laid the answer to Maggie's note in her lap:

"Queen Aneta and her subjects have much pleasure in accepting Queen
Maggie's invitation for the 15th inst."

"Hip, hip, hurrah!" cried Kathleen. "The thing's arranged, and we'll
have about the jolliest flare-up and the most enticing time that girls
ever had at any school." She sprang from her seat, and began tossing a
book which had lain in her lap into the air, catching it again. In
short, the subjects of the two queens broke up on the spot and chatted
gaily together, and Maggie and her subjects could not be induced to
say one word of what was to take place on the 15th of October.

"It is wonderful," thought Aneta to herself. "Why does Mrs. Ward come?
But, of course, as she comes we must all come."




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE TREASURE.


Maggie had by no means forgotten her promise to the Tristram girls to
give them a bracelet apiece. It was easy to do this, for they were her
very special friends in the school. The fact is that Molly and Belle
had a somewhat peculiar position at Aylmer House, for they were not
only Maggie's special friends, but also the undoubted friends and
allies of Cicely, Merry, and also of Aneta. But they were such
good-humored, good-natured, pleasant sort of girls--so lively, so
jolly--that they could take up a position with ease which would
oppress and distress other people.

When Maggie presented them with their bracelets they were in wild
raptures, accepting them gleefully, and on occasions when ornaments
were permitted to be worn--which, as a matter of fact, was only in the
leisure hours--they invariably had them on their arms.

But other girls noticed them, and one and all admired them immensely.

"Oh, I have others," said Maggie in a careless tone; "many more. My
dear father was a great traveler, and these are some of the treasures
he brought from the East."

Maggie had by no means forgotten to bring her two boxes of jewellery
to Aylmer House. These lay at the bottom of her little trunk, which
was, it is true, stowed away in the box-room. But as the girls were at
liberty to go there for anything they especially required, she was not
troubled on this account.

There came a day, shortly after the great party was arranged, when the
rain poured incessantly, and some of the girls were a little restless.
Molly and Isabel were wearing their queer Oriental bracelets. Kathleen
suddenly caught sight of them, and demanded in an eager tone that
Maggie should exhibit her treasures. Maggie, only too pleased to have
anything to do which glorified herself, immediately complied. She ran
to find Miss Lucy in order to obtain the key of the box-room.

"What do you want it for, dear?" said Miss Johnson in her pleasant
voice.

"I have two boxes in the bottom of one of my trunks, Miss Lucy; they
are full of curiosities which my father collected from time to time.
The girls want to see them. Do you mind my showing them?"

"Of course not, Maggie; but if they are of any value you had better
give them to Mrs. Ward to take care of for you."

"Oh, well," said Maggie, "I don't know really whether they are of
value or not." She got rather red as she spoke.

"I should like to see them myself," said Miss Johnson. "I know a
little bit about gems and curios."

"Certainly, Miss Lucy; do come," said Maggie. "We're in our
sitting-room, and I shall be only too delighted to show them to you."

Maggie fetched down her two precious boxes, and soon she was
surrounded, not only by her own special satellites, but by every girl
in the school. They were all loud in their expressions of rapture at
the unique and lovely things which she exhibited to them.

Kathleen, as usual, was quick in suggestion. "Would not Mrs. Ward love
to see them?" she said.

"I am sure she would," remarked Miss Johnson.--"I hadn't the least
idea, Maggie, that you had such treasures in those old tin boxes. They
must be carefully put away in the safe for you. My dear girl, they're
worth a great deal of money."

"Oh, I don't suppose they are," said Maggie, trying to speak
carelessly, although she by no means wished to part with her
treasures.

"I tell you what," said Kathleen. "Can't we make an exhibition of them
on _the_ day?"

"Yes, why not?" said Molly and Isabel. "That would be quite lovely."

"Oh yes, do!--do, Maggie darling!" said Merry Cardew.

Maggie at once agreed; and Miss Johnson said, "Now, if you will put
them all back in their boxes I will take them and lock them into the
safe myself. I shouldn't have an easy moment if I thought such
valuable things were in one of your school-trunks."

"Oh!" said Maggie, looking up with flushed cheeks and bright eyes,
"please--please let me keep them until after our party. Then we will
consult Mrs. Ward, and she will tell me what to do."

"If you must keep them, then, Maggie," said Miss Johnson, "you had
better have them in your own bedroom. They would be at least safe
there. Put them into your locked drawer, dear; I think it will hold
both these boxes."

"Thank you very much," said Maggie. She put the ten bracelets into
their tin box, and the necklets and other curios into the other,
locked each, and took them upstairs. "It would never, never do," she
said to herself, "for me to lose control of these precious things. I
am almost sorry now that I allowed the girls to tempt me to show
them."

After a few minutes she came downstairs. Her stepfather's allowance of
pocket-money was certainly not ample, and she knew that at the party
which was to be so specially distinguished she must give, if she
wished to keep up her prestige in the school, a lion's share towards
the expenses. There was a quaint little brooch in one of her boxes
containing one large ruby and set with diamonds which she intended to
sell in order to provide herself with funds. But what use would any of
her treasures be if they were consigned to the safe at Aylmer House?

After a great deal of consultation, it was resolved that the girls
were to meet in their own special sitting-room at four o'clock, where
tea and light refreshments were to be provided by Queen Maggie and her
subjects. Afterwards they were to play games, have recitations, and
amuse themselves in different ways until five o'clock; when a curtain
which would be put across a portion of the room would be raised, and
tableaux vivants, in which Maggie, Kathleen, and both the Tristram
girls, who were all adaptable for this purpose, were to take special
parts. The tableaux were under the management of Janet Burns, who was
exceedingly clever, and had studied the scenes--which she took from
different episodes in Scott's novels--with great care. The rehearsing
for the tableaux was a little difficult, but this was done each
evening after tea, when Maggie and her subjects had the sitting-room
to themselves.

Immediately after the tableaux there would be that wonderful supper,
at which Mrs. Ward was to be the principal guest, and then the happy
evening would end with all sorts of dances and frolics.

Now, all these things would cost money, and it was arranged, after
brief consultation, that each girl was to subscribe in an equal ratio
towards the proposed entertainment. Janet, who had a head for figures
as well as a taste for tableaux vivants, suggested that, to do the
entertainment properly, they would have to expend something like
fifteen shillings each. This was immediately agreed upon, and even the
Tristrams did not feel embarrassed by the amount which was decided
upon, for Mr. Tristram was wise in his generation, and would not send
his girls to an expensive school if he could not give them a
sufficient supply of pocket-money to make them feel independent. The
only person who was short of funds on this occasion was Maggie, for
her stepfather had arranged that she was to receive her allowance at
the end of the term, not at the beginning. He had given her a few
shillings to go to school with; but these she had already spent on
chocolates, which were considered essential during the leisure hours.
It is true that Mrs. Ward would have advanced a little money to
Maggie, but Maggie could not bear to ask her. She had a great dislike
to the subject of money being mentioned in Mrs. Ward's presence. She
was afraid beyond everything else that the fact of her being received
at such a select school for forty pounds a year might reach the ears
of her fellow-pupils. What more easy than to sell that charming little
Oriental brooch, which was one of the treasures in one of those tin
boxes? But Maggie could not manage this in Miss Lucy's presence, and
it was quite against the rules at Aylmer House for any girl to go
shopping or even to leave the house unaccompanied.

On one or two previous occasions Maggie had, however, managed to evade
this rule without being found out, and she thought she could do so
now. She planned the whole thing rather cleverly. She had a room to
herself; which of course made it easier for her, and there were always
the leisure hours. She made up her mind to feign headache or some
slight indisposition, to go downstairs by the back way, and sell her
brooch on a certain afternoon during the leisure hours. She must do it
quickly, for the girls had proposed to put the necessary money for the
entertainment into a bag on a certain Tuesday. Maggie must, therefore,
go out on Monday in order to sell her brooch. Her absence from the
little party in the girls' sitting-room was explained by Molly
Tristram, who said that Maggie was upstairs lying down. No one
troubled to make any comment with regard to this. Any girl might have
a headache, and Mrs. Ward did not wish her girls to be catechised as
to how they spent their leisure hours. Besides, Janet Burns was
occupying all their attention with the tableaux vivants, Queen Aneta's
girls most good-naturedly leaving them the sitting-room to themselves
for this purpose.

Maggie, in her distant bedroom, felt the quiet in the house. She had
been lying down; now she rose noiselessly. This was the time when the
servants had their tea, when Mrs. Ward was busy writing letters or
resting in her own sitting-room, when Lucy Johnson and the other
governesses were either reposing in their bedrooms, or were out, or
were reading. There was, of course, the chance that Maggie might meet
some one; but, having calculated all possibilities, she thought that
she could most likely get out unobserved.

During her expeditions with Miss Lucy Johnson she had noticed a
jeweller's shop not far away, and resolved to go to him with her
precious brooch. It was a very respectable shop, and she was certain
he would give her fair value. She could be back again before she was
missed, and, in fact, could join her companions in the girls'
sitting-room long before the leisure hours had expired. The days were
now getting very short, but this fact was in Maggie's favor rather
than otherwise.

She ran downstairs unnoticed by any one, opened a side-door which was
used as a tradesmen's entrance, and got into the street. Then, putting
wings to her feet, she quickly turned the corner, left the square
where Aylmer House was situated, and reached the jeweller's shop. She
entered. There were a few people standing by the counter; and the
jeweller, a certain Mr. Pearce, was attending to them. Maggie felt
impatient. She awaited her turn as best she could. How she disliked
those showy-looking people who were purchasing goods of some value,
whereas she only wanted to sell! She could scarcely restrain her great
impatience, and was relieved when another shopman came forward.

He asked her what he could do for her. She immediately showed him the
quaint little brooch set with rubies and diamonds.

"I want to sell this," said Maggie, speaking abruptly and the color
flaming into her cheeks. "What will you give me for it?"

"Oh my!" suddenly exclaimed one of the ladies who was purchasing
jewels in Pearce's shop, "what a lovely curio! Wherever now did you
get it from?"

Maggie turned and said in a low tone, "It belongs to me. It was left
to me by my father."

The man who was attending to Maggie took up the brooch and examined it
carefully. He took it into another room, where he subjected it to
various tests. He then came back to Maggie.

"I will give you five pounds for this, miss, if you can satisfy me
that you have come rightly by it."

"Oh my!" said the American lady, drawing near, and her eyes
glistening.

"What is your address, miss?"

Maggie by no means wished to give her address. "I haven't, stolen that
brooch," she said. "It belongs to me; I have a right to sell it."

"Of course, miss, I shall never trouble you in any way, but I really
must have your address. In purchasing secondhand from young ladies
like yourself it is essential that everything should be above-board
and quite correct."

"Well," said Maggie in a hurried voice, "take the brooch and give me
the money. I must get back as quickly as I can. I am one of Mrs.
Ward's pupils at Aylmer House."

The man looked at Maggie with all respect. "And your own name?"

"Howland," said Maggie. "Miss Howland."

The man entered name and address in his book, and then handed Maggie
five sovereigns. She was hurrying from the shop, when the customer who
had been standing near all the time, and listening with great
attention, followed her.

"I say, young lady," she exclaimed, "I am from New York, and I like
your quaint old English things. That man cheated you, I take it. If
you had offered me that brooch I'd have given you fifteen pounds for
it, not five. If you have any more curios to sell, my address is Miss
H. Annie Lapham, Langham Hotel. I am straight from the States, and
would like to take a collection of beautiful things home with me."

"Thank you," said Maggie in a hurried voice.

She ran back to Aylmer House as quickly as she could. As soon as she
was quite out of sight the lady re-entered the shop.

"Say," she remarked to the shopman, "I witnessed that little
transaction between you and Miss Howland. I want to buy that brooch
for ten pounds."

"I am sorry, madam," said the man, "but it is not for sale just at
present."

"That means," said Miss Lapham, coloring crimson, "that you have
cheated the young lady. You ought to have given her four times as much
for the brooch."

The man shrugged his shoulders.

Miss Lapham grew redder than ever, "I happen to know Miss Howland's
address," she said. Then she went away without giving' him time to add
a word.

When she had left the shop the younger Mr. Pearce turned to his
brother, took the little brooch from the drawer into which he had
carelessly thrown it, and gave it to the elder Mr. Pearce to examine.
"There's a find here," he said; "only, somehow, I feel a bit
uncomfortable. How did one of the young ladies from Aylmer House come
by a treasure of this sort?"

The other man examined the brooch carefully. "It's worth a good bit,"
he said. "What did you give her for it?"

"Five pounds; but somehow I think that I ought not to have taken it
for that sum."

"It is worth at least two hundred," said the elder Mr. Pearce. "Where
did you say she lived?"

"She is one of the young ladies at Aylmer House--Miss Howland."

"What! from Mrs. Ward's school?"

"Yes."

"You had better give me that brooch, Alfred," said his brother. "We'll
have to consider what is to be done. We can't rob the young lady of
it. We had best consult Mrs. Ward."

"Oh, as to that," said the younger Pearce, "that sounds almost as
shabby as giving the schoolgirl too little money."

"Well, lock it up for the present," said the elder Pearce; "but I am
an honest tradesman, and I can't see even a schoolgirl robbed."

"She was up to some little lark," said the younger man, "and evidently
did not know the value of the brooch. Why, I think she'd have taken a
pound for it. But what she did know the value of was her precious
time; she was very much annoyed at being kept waiting and at being
asked for her address. It is plain she got out without leave; and
although the brooch may belong to her--I am sure I hope it does--she
has broken a rule, you mark my words. Those schoolgirls are always up
to larks. Well, I'd never have thought it of one of Mrs. Ward's
girls."

"It is a pity you didn't consult me, Alfred," said his brother. "The
best thing to do now is to put the brooch carefully away. We'll
consider what is best to be done with it; but as to giving the young
lady only five pounds for what we can sell any day at Christie's for a
couple of hundred, that is not to be thought of."




CHAPTER XIX.

THE LETTER.


Maggie got out and came back again without any apparent adventure. She
had five pounds in her pocket, and thought herself rich beyond the
dreams of avarice. What a delightful fairy-gift had been handed down
to her by her dear dead father! She did not miss the brooch in the
least, but she valued the small sum she had obtained for it
exceedingly.

But while Maggie thought herself so secure, and while the pleasant
jingle of the sovereigns as she touched them with her little hand
comforted her inexpressibly, things quite against Maggie Howland's
supposed interests were transpiring in another part of the school.

It was a strange fact that on this special afternoon both the queens
should be prostrated with headache. It is true that Queen Maggie's
headache was only a fiction, but poor Queen Aneta's was real enough.
She was lying down in her pretty bedroom, hoping that quiet might
still the throbbing of her temples, when the door was very softly
opened, and Merry Cardew brought in a letter and laid it by her side.

"May I bring you some tea upstairs, Aneta?" she said. "Is there
anything I can do for you?"

"Oh no, darling," said Aneta. "I can't eat or drink; but if I stay
very still I shall be better by-and-by. Leave me now, dear; all I want
is perfect quiet."

"I am so sorry for you, Aneta," said Merry.

"What are you doing downstairs?" said Aneta as the girl turned away.

"Well, Maggie has a headache too."

"Oh!" said Aneta.

"So we are without our queens," continued Merry; "but Maggie's girls
have taken possession of our sitting-room, and we are all in the
schoolroom. We're having great fun and are very happy, so don't worry
about us at all, Aneta."

"I won't," said Aneta, closing her eyes, while a feeling of drowsy
relief stole over her.

Her anxiety with regard to Maggie was really making her ill. Her sense
of responsibility with reference to the Cardew girls seemed to oppress
her usually calm spirit. She could not conceal the fact from herself
that Merry loved Maggie, most passionately. The knowledge, therefore,
that Maggie was not downstairs gave her such a sense of comfort that
she dropped into a doze, and when she awoke a short time afterwards
her headache was gone.

Yes, her headache had departed, but there lay by her pillow what is a
great treasure to all schoolgirls--an unopened letter. She looked at
the handwriting, and saw that it was from her aunt, Lady Lysle. Aneta
was very fond of Lady Lysle; and, sitting up against her pillows, she
tore open the letter and began to read. She was surprised to see that
it was dated from Meredith Manor.

  "MY DEAR ANETA"--it ran--"I have been staying with the dear
  Cardews for the last week. We have been having a very pleasant
  time; although, of course, the house is vastly different without
  Cicely and Merry. But the dear Cardews are so sensible that they
  never would regret anything that was for the real benefit of
  their children.

  "Your letter assuring me that the children were happy at school
  gave me great delight, and when I told the Cardews they were
  equally pleased. Altogether, this school-venture seems likely to
  turn out most satisfactory, and the dear children will be
  properly equipped for the brilliant life which lies before
  them.

  "But now I have a curious piece of information for you. You
  told me about Miss Howland and her mother's second marriage to
  one of the Martyns of The Meadows. Well, dear, we went there
  yesterday, and I happened incidentally to speak on the subject;
  and, whatever may be the position of Miss Howland's stepfather,
  he certainly is no relation to our dear friends the Martyns.
  They have no uncles or cousins in England at all. All their
  people come from Australia, and they assured me that such a
  marriage as I have described has, in the first place, never
  reached their ears, and, in the next, is impossible, for they
  have no marriageable relations in the country. I mention this to
  show that your friend has made a mistake. At the same time, it
  is strange of her to say that her mother, has married into such
  a well-known and distinguished family. I can add no more
  now.--Yours, with love, and in haste,

                                                     LUCIA LYSLE."

Aneta thought over this letter for some time. Her face was very grave
as she tried to put two and two together. She rose from her bed,
dressed herself with her usual immaculate neatness, and came down to
supper, which took place each evening at half-past seven.

All the girls were present, and each and all were in the best of
good-humor. Maggie was radiant. Why not? She had performed a difficult
task discreetly, and she had five lovely golden sovereigns in her
drawer upstairs. She could put the required money into the bag for the
school-treat, and she would have plenty over to buy chocolates and
little things that she might require for herself. She did not in the
least miss that one small brooch which her father had left her; but
she thought with a feeling of intense satisfaction of her treasures.
She need no longer be a penniless girl. She had but at rare intervals
to visit Pearce the jeweler, and her pocket would be well lined. She
had no romantic feeling with regard to those beautiful things which
her father had collected on his travels. She had been so poor all her
life that money to her represented power. She even thought of getting
a couple of new dresses made by a fashionable dressmaker. She resolved
to consult Lucy on the subject. She was never quite as well dressed as
the other girls, although very plain clothes were the order of the
hour at school.

Immediately after supper those girls who required to look over their
lessons went into the schoolroom and spent a quiet time there; but the
others, as a rule, joined Mrs. Ward in the drawing-room. There those
who could play were requested to do so, and those who could sing did
likewise. Mrs. Ward was very fond of needlework. She could do rare and
wonderful embroideries, and knew some of the tapestry stitches which
were in vogue hundreds of years ago. The girls who cared to be taught
those things she was only too glad to instruct; but she never pressed
any one into her working-party. This was always an hour of relaxation
for those girls who had all their lessons ready for the following
day.

Maggie, who was exceedingly clever and learned with the utmost ease,
was generally a member of the drawing-room coterie. She wore a white
dress on this evening, with a somewhat crude pink sash round her
waist. She hated the crudity of the color, and it occurred to her that
she could get some soft and becoming sashes out of part of the money
which Pearce had given her for the brooch.

By-and-by she found herself near Aneta. Aneta was working a
center-piece which she meant to present to Lady Lysle at Christmas.
Maggie was no good whatever at needlework, and seldom joined the band
of needlewomen. But Aneta now motioned the girl to come and sit by her
side. Maggie did so. Aneta looked full in her face.

"Is your headache better, Maggie?" she asked.

Maggie had to reflect for a time, she had so absolutely forgotten that
she had pretended to have a headache that afternoon! Then she said,
with a slight flush and a suspicious narrowing of her eyes, "Oh yes;
thank you, I am quite all right again." Maggie had not heard of
Aneta's headache. She, therefore, did not ask about it.

"I pity people who have headaches," said Aneta. "I suffer from them
very badly myself. Nothing cures me but perfect rest. I was lying down
all the afternoon. Merry came to see me, and told me that you were
also prostrated with headache. I was sorry for you."

"Oh, thank you so much!" said Maggie. "Mine is quite gone; is yours?"

"Yes, thank you."

Aneta sat quiet and very still. When her face was in repose she never
moved her body. There was an absolute sense of rest about her which
was refreshing to those who really knew her well. But Maggie hated it.
She wanted to leave her; she wanted to go and talk to Merry, who was
playing a solitary game of patience in a distant part of the
drawing-room; she wanted to do anything rather than remain by Aneta's
side.

Then Aneta looked up. "I had a letter this afternoon from my aunt,
Lady Lysle."

"Oh!" said Maggie. She could not quite understand why her heart beat
so fast, but she had undoubtedly a premonition of some sort of trouble
ahead.

"Aunt Lucia is staying with the Cardews," continued Aneta.

"Is she?" said Maggie. "Oh, that sweet and beautiful place!" she
continued.

"Yes," said Aneta, "Meredith Manor will always be lovely. There is no
season of the year when it is not, in my opinion, more charming than
any other place I know."

"Is your aunt going to stay there long?" asked Maggie, who felt that
she need not say anything further with regard to the delights of
Meredith Manor just now.

"I cannot tell you," replied Aneta. "She mentioned something rather
curious. It is connected with you."

"With poor little me?" said Maggie.

"With you," said Aneta. "You remember telling me that your stepfather
is one of the Martyns of The Meadows?"

Maggie's face grew crimson, then turned pale.

"Well," said Aneta, bringing out her words with great calmness, "it
turns out to be a mistake. Your stepfather is no relation whatever to
our friends the Martyns. Aunt Lucia and Mrs. Cardew went to call on
them the other day, and asked the question. You made a mistake in
announcing your stepfather as being a connection of our friends."

"Did I? Perhaps so," said Maggie. "I thought he was, that's all."

"You thought wrong," said Aneta. "I felt I would mention it to you. He
may be just as well connected," she added quietly; "but he is _not_
related to the Martyns of The Meadows."

"You speak in a very disagreeable tone," said Maggie.

"I don't mean to," replied Aneta; "but I thought I would tell you in
order that you should not spread the report any further."

"I am sure I don't want to. My stepfather has just as good connections
as any one else."

"No doubt," said Aneta gently; "only, he is not related to our special
friends. You might let Merry and Cicely know."

"Why?" asked Maggie in a dogged voice.

"You can please yourself. I shall tell them if you don't."

"Why do you hate me so much, Aneta?" said Maggie then.

"I hate subterfuge and untruth," said Aneta. "I don't hate you. If you
would be straight and open and above-board you would find me your best
friend."

"Thank you so much!" said Maggie in a sneering tone. "When I require
you for my best friend it will be time enough for you to offer me that
enviable position." Then she added, speaking in a low tone of intense
dislike, "Is it likely that any girl would wish to make a best friend
of another girl who accused her of subterfuge and want of
truthfulness?"

The delicate pink rose in Aneta's cheeks. She raised her eyes and
looked full up at Maggie. Her clear, calm eyes seemed like mirrors.
Maggie felt that she could not meet them.

It was just at that moment that Cicely Cardew, in a state of
suppressed excitement, came into the room.

"Maggie," she said, coming straight up to Maggie Howland, "there's a
very large parcel addressed to you in the hall. It has been paid for;
we are all dying with curiosity to know what it is."

Maggie rose abruptly.

"I will go and look at it myself," she said. "A large parcel addressed
to me! Who can have sent me anything?"

"It looks like a huge dress-box," said Cicely. "We're all curious
about it."

Before any girl could leave the drawing-room it was necessary that she
should ask Mrs. Ward's permission. So Maggie now went up to that good
lady and asked if she might go and look at her parcel.

"A parcel for you, dear?" said Mrs. Ward. "And you want to see its
contents? But bring it in here; we shall all be delighted to look at
it--sha'n't we, girls?"

Maggie went away, wondering a good deal. Cicely accompanied her. Miss
Johnson also appeared on the scene.

"Why, Maggie," she said, "what can you have got? Such a huge box, and
all covered over with brown paper! I don't suppose Mrs. Ward would
really like that box to be brought into the drawing-room. I'll just go
and ask her."

One of Mrs. Ward's peculiarities, and perhaps one of the reasons why
she was such a favorite and led her girls with such gentle, silken
cords, was her power of entering into their pleasures. She used to
confess with a smile that she was like a child herself over an
unopened parcel; and when Miss Johnson appeared with the information
that the box was large and cumbersome, Mrs. Ward still gave directions
that it was to be brought into the drawing-room.

"You can put some of the brown paper on the floor, if you like, Lucy,"
she said, "and Maggie can show us its contents."

Now, one glance at the parcel told Maggie Howland who had sent it. She
recognized her stepfather's writing. That bold commercial hand was
painfully visible on the label. She would have given worlds not to
have anything selected for her by Martin exhibited in the drawing-room
at Aylmer House. But to refuse to show the contents of the box would
but raise strong suspicion against her. She therefore, although very
unwillingly, followed Miss Johnson into the drawing-room. The box was
laid on the floor. The lid was removed, some tissue-paper was next
extricated, and beneath lay a wardrobe such as poor Maggie even in her
wildest dreams had never imagined. There was a letter lying on the top
which she clutched and put into her pocket. This letter was in her
stepfather's writing. She could not read it before the others. Aneta
and all the girls of her set, also Kathleen O'Donnell, Rosamond Dacre,
Matty and Clara Roache, Janet Barns, the Tristrams, the Cardews, all
clustered round the box.

"Oh, what fun!" said Kathleen. "A box of dresses for you! You lucky
Queen Maggie! How I wish some one would send me some clothes!"

"Take them out, dear, and let us look at them," said Mrs. Ward.

The first dress to be removed was a magenta cachemire. It was made
with a short skirt trimmed with little frills of the same. The bodice
had sleeves to the elbows, and long, coarse cream-colored lace sleeves
below. The front of the dress was also much bedizened by the same
coarse cream lace.

Maggie felt her face nearly purple with rage. "Oh, why must all these
things be looked at here?" she said; and there was a piteous note in
her voice.

"I don't see the necessity, dear," said Mrs. Ward kindly.

"But, oh! please, please," said Kathleen, "we _must_ see the others.
Here's a sage-green dress trimmed with bands of black silk: that will
be quite useful in the winter, won't it, Mags?"

She tried to speak kindly, for the sage-green dress was as little to
her taste as the impossible magenta. Under the two dresses were
ribbons of different shades and hues, some strong, coarse stockings,
some square-toed shoes, and finally, below everything else, an
evening-dress made of voile, and deep blue in tone.

"Some of the things will he very useful," said Miss Johnson. "I will
put them all back again now."

"But whom have they come from?" said Mrs. Ward. "I saw you take a note
and put it into your pocket, Maggie."

"Yes, these are a present from my stepfather," said Maggie.

"Miss Johnson, you will take them upstairs, won't you?" said Mrs.
Ward.--"It is kind of your stepfather to think of you, Maggie."

Maggie looked up and met Aneta's glance. Was Aneta thinking of the
Martyns of The Meadows? The color rushed all over Maggie's face. She
clenched her hands. "I hate the horrid, horrid things!" she said. "I
won't wear one of them."

"Oh, come, dear," said Mrs. Ward kindly; "your stepfather means very
well indeed by you. He has doubtless had very little to do with
dressing a lady before.--We can slightly alter those dresses, can we
not, Miss Johnson?"

Miss Johnson had now placed all the hideous garments back in the box.
She said with a smile, "The sage-green dress can be made quite useful;
but I rather despair of the magenta."

"Well," said Mrs. Ward, "it was meant kindly. Perhaps, Maggie, if you
gave me your stepfather's address I might write to him and tell him
the sort of things that I like my girls to wear."

Maggie turned crimson. That would indeed be the final straw. She
murmured something which Mrs. Ward did not choose to hear. To her
great relief, the hour for bed had arrived, and all the girls went to
their rooms.

Miss Johnson came down again after she had deposited the hideous
dresses in Maggie's wardrobe. "I quite pity poor little Maggie," she
said. "What frightful taste! There is really nothing in the whole of
that box that she can possibly wear."

"I must write to Mr. Martyn," said Mrs. Ward. "Didn't somebody tell me
that he was a country gentleman--a relation of the Martyns of The
Meadows? Such particularly nice people!"

"I know nothing about that," said Miss Johnson. "I only know that the
contents of the box are simply atrocious."

"Well," said Mrs. Ward, "we won't say anything to annoy Maggie
to-night; I could see that the poor dear child was greatly mortified.
I only regret that I had the box opened here; but you know it is one
of our customs to share all our pleasures. Poor little Maggie! The
thing was most unlucky."

Up in her room, Maggie had locked her door. She would unlock it again,
but she must read that frightful letter without any chance of being
disturbed. She opened it, tore it from its envelope, and read the
contents:

  "DEAR POPSY,--I came across a cheap lot of frocks the other day
  at a bankrupt's sale, and thought at once of Little-sing and her
  daughter Popsy-wopsy. I am sending the dresses off to you
  without saying a word to Little-sing. You will be well off now
  for some time, and won't require the five pounds from me for
  dress at Christmas. Hope you're enjoying your fine young ladies
  and fine life. Neither Little-sing nor me miss you a bit; but,
  all the same, your room will be ready for you at Christmas. Take
  care of those good clothes, for I can't often spend as much on
  you.

  "Good-bye for the present.--Your affectionate father,

                                                         "BO-PEEP.

  "_P.S._--I have a good mind to call on that fine-lady
  schoolmistress of yours, Mrs. Ward. There's no saying but that
  Little-sing and me may come along some afternoon when you least
  expect us."

Maggie crushed the letter in her hand. Fresh terrors seemed to
surround her. Dreadful as the impossible clothes were, they were
nothing to what the appearance on the scene would be of the impossible
stepfather and her poor mother. Oh, why had she concealed the position
of the man whom her mother had married? Already Aneta had detected her
little act of deception with regard to the Martyns of The Meadows. But
that, Maggie felt, could be got over. It was easy for a girl to make a
mistake in a matter of that kind, and surely there were other Martyns
in the country high-born and respectable and all that was desirable.
But James Martin who kept a grocer's shop at Shepherd's Bush--James
Martin, with "grocer" written all over him!--rich, it is true; but,
oh, so vulgarly rich! Were he to appear and announce his relationship
to her at the school, she felt that, as far as she was concerned, the
end of the world would have arrived. What was she to do? There was not
a minute to be lost. In one way or another she had seen a good deal of
Bo-peep during the last half of those dreadful summer holidays, and
she knew that he was, as he expressed it, as good as his word.

Her only chance was in writing to her mother. But then, if, by any
chance, Maggie's letter got into the hands of Bo-peep, his wrath would
be so great that he would, in all probability, take her from the
school at once. What was to be done? Poor Maggie felt herself between
two fires. In either direction was danger. On the whole, she resolved
to throw herself on her mother's mercy. Mrs. Martin, as she was now,
would much prefer Maggie to remain at school, and she might be clever
enough to keep Maggie's stepfather from putting in an appearance at
Aylmer House.

Maggie wrote a short and frantic letter. She was in the midst of it
when there came a tap at her room-door.

"It's I, Maggie," said Miss Johnson's voice from without. "Your light
is still burning; you ought to be in bed."

Maggie flew and opened the door. "I am sorry," she said. "I was a good
deal upset about those detestable clothes. I am writing to my mother.
Please, Lucy, let me finish the letter. When it's done--and I won't be
a minute longer--I'll put it in the post-box myself, so that it can go
by the first post in the morning."

"Very well, dear," said Lucy, who was too kind not to be good to any
girl in the school; "only be quick, Maggie," she said, "for you know
you are breaking the rules."

"Yes! oh yes!" said Maggie; "and I will never do it again."

Miss Johnson left her, and Maggie flew back to bend over her paper and
continue her writing:

  "Darling, you must not let him come here. He threatens to come,
  but you must keep him away. All will be up with me if he is seen
  at the school. I beseech of you have a little mercy on me. For
  the sake of my own father, keep him--do keep him--from Aylmer
  House.--Your distracted daughter,

                                                 "MAGGIE HOWLAND."

This letter was addressed to Mrs. Martin (spelt this time with an
"i"), Laburnum Villa, Clapham. Maggie stamped it, and, flying
downstairs, popped it into the box which held the letters.




CHAPTER XX.

THE VILLA.


Laburnum Villa, in the suburb of Clapham, was, in the new Mrs.
Martin's eyes, quite a delightful place. She had never appreciated her
first husband, Professor Howland, but she thoroughly appreciated
Bo-peep, and after her own fashion was fond of him. He gave her
comforts. She had lived so long without comforts that she appreciated
these good things of life to the full. She had never really been much
attached to Maggie, who was too like her own father and too unlike
herself to allow of the existence of any sympathy between them.
Maggie, even before Mrs. Howland met Martin the Shepherd's Bush
grocer, had been more or less a thorn in the flesh to her mother.

Laburnum Villa was furnished, as James Martin expressed it, with an
eye to comfort. There were solid arm-chairs with deep seats and good
springs, and these were covered with maroon-colored leather. There
were thick, maroon-colored curtains to the dining-room windows, and
all the furniture of the room was of solid oak. There was a rich
Turkey carpet on the floor, and prints of different hunting scenes--by
no means bad in their way--hanging on the walls. The paint-work of the
room was of dull red, and the paper was of the same tone. It was a
small room, and the furniture was large and heavy, but it represented
in Martin's eyes the very essence of comfort. The fireplace was
modern, and when it was piled up with goodly lumps of coal it caused a
warmth to pervade the whole room which, as Mrs. Martin expressed it,
was very stimulating. The house had electric light, which both Mr. and
Mrs. Martin considered distinguished.

They spent most of their time in the dining-room, although Mrs.
Martin, with some faint instinct still left of her own life, would
have preferred to use the drawing-room in the evenings; but when she
suggested this Bo-peep said, "No, no, Little-sing; I can smoke here
and sit by the fire, and enjoy the rest which I have rightly earned. I
hate rooms full of fal-lals. You can keep your drawing-room for the
time when I am out, Little-sing."

Mrs. Martin knew better than to oppose her husband. She recognized her
own weakness, and knew that against his fiat she could no more
exercise her puny strength than a babbling stream can disturb a great
rock. She used her drawing-room when Bo-peep was out, and regarded it
with intense satisfaction. It is true that the colors were crude, for
James Martin would have screamed at any Liberty tints. But the carpet
was good of its kind, the pictures on the walls not too atrocious.
Although they were in gilt frames, the large mirrors over the
mantelpiece and at one end of the room were first rate; in short, the
drawing-room was fairly presentable, and Mrs. Martin had some traces
of her old life still lingering about her which gave a look of
domesticity and even repose to the place. Her little work-basket, with
its embroidery, was home-like and pleasant. She had forgotten how to
play, but she always kept the piano open. Bo-peep suggested buying a
pianola, and Mrs. Martin thought it would be a good idea.

"We'll have all the comic operas on it," said Bo-peep; "nothing of the
classic order for me--nothing over-my-head, but the popular tunes,
plenty of them--no stint. What do you say, Little-sing?"

Little-sing replied that it would be charming; but in her heart she
somewhat shuddered, and was glad that the pianola was still a thing to
be purchased.

Tildy had been turned into a very presentable little parlor-maid.
There was also a first-rate cook, for Martin was fond of the pleasures
of the table. On the whole, the little household was comfortable, and
Mrs. Martin enjoyed her life. She had some cards printed with her new
name and address, and the notification that she was "at home" on the
third, fourth, and fifth of each month. Tildy was very much excited
about these At Home days; but the first month after Mrs. Martin's
marriage passed without a single individual calling upon her.

Mrs. Martin had been settled for over six weeks, and the day of Queen
Maggie's great reception at the school in Kensington was drawing on
apace. Mrs. Martin was in a state of subdued excitement. She was
dressed in her best. Her best consisted of a light fawn-colored silk
with velvet trimmings of the same. The silk rustled as she walked. On
her fingers were many rings of much brilliancy, and she wore a small
diamond brooch at her throat. The reason of all this festive attire
was a simple one, a good one, a domestic one. James Martin was coming
home. He had been in Liverpool, engaged on special business, for the
greater part of a week; but he was now returning to his beloved
Little-sing, who had missed him, and he was pleased to feel that he
would be with her again. She knew his tastes to a nicety, and had
desired the cook to prepare a very special dinner for his
delectation.

"Beef-steak pudding, cook," she said, "with mutton kidneys, and plenty
of oysters; and be sure the crust is very light."

Cook replied that if she did not know how to make beef-steak pudding
she ought immediately to leave her "perfession." She was a stout,
red-faced woman, and had a way of frightening Mrs. Martin, who
generally retreated from the kitchen premises as quickly as possible.

"Very well," said Mrs. Martin; "I am glad you quite understand. You
know that my husband is very particular. Then we'll have potatoes and
fried mushrooms, and I think afterwards apple-tart and cream."

The cook, whose name was Horniman, condescended to signify her
willingness to provide this dinner, and Mrs. Martin went up to the
drawing-room.

"You had better light a fire here, Matilda," she said. "It's going to
be a very cold day."

"I'd a sight rayther you called me Tildy, mum. It seems like as though
a lump o' ice got on my 'eart when you say Mat-tilda."

"'Matilda' is more refined and suitable," said Mrs. Martin with
dignity.

"Oh yes, 'um--'course, 'um. When 'ull Miss Maggie be comin' to see us,
'um?"

"Not before Christmas, you silly girl. Miss Maggie is at school."

"So I 'ave 'eard," said Matilda. "You 'aven't give me no 'olidays,
'um, sence I come to yer; and it were understood, sure-_ly_, that I
were to 'ave my day out once a month."

"You shall go out to-morrow, Matilda. I haven't the slightest wish to
keep you indoors against your will."

"To-morrer's cook's day, 'um."

"Well, then, you shall go the next day."

"Thank you, 'um. I thought I'd go and see Miss Maggie ef you'd give me
her address."

"Well, now, that's a very good idea," said Mrs. Martin. "I could write
her a little note, and you could take it to her. That's very
thoughtful of you, Tilda. Yes, I should like you to go and bring me
word how she is."

"It's longin' I am to lay eyes on 'er, mum. She's a bee-utiful way
with 'er," said Matilda.

When she was quite alone Mrs. Martin took that letter of Maggie's,
which she had received during her husband's absence, from her pocket.
She was terrified lest Bo-peep should read it. The letter had offended
her. Maggie had written with great fire and distress: "You must not
let him come here. All will be up with me if he is seen at the school.
For the sake of my own father, keep him from Aylmer House."

Mrs. Martin slipped it back into her pocket, and then sat by her
comfortable drawing-room fire waiting for the arrival of the good
Bo-peep. He was a very playful creature. His one idea of happiness
consisted in endless jokes--practical jokes or otherwise, just as it
suited him at the moment.

He had done a very successful stroke of business in Liverpool, and was
returning to Laburnum Villa in the highest spirits. While he was in
the train he was planning how he could most effectively announce his
return. To ring at his own hall-door, or to open it with a latch-key,
or to walk in in the ordinary fashion of the master of the house did
not content him at all. He must invent a more novel manner of return
than that. He was really fond of Little-sing. She suited him to
perfection. What he called her "fine-lady airs," when they were
displayed to any one but himself, pleased him mightily. He thought of
her as pretty and gracious and sweet. He really loved her after his
own fashion, and would do anything in his power to make her happy. But
he must, as he expressed it, have his joke.

Mrs. Martin was seated by the fire in the drawing-room. It was getting
late--nearly four o'clock; but, according to an expressed wish of
Bo-peep, the window-blinds had not yet been drawn down. He liked, as
he said, to see his home before he entered it. Mrs. Martin, therefore,
with the electric light on, was perfectly visible from the road. Mr.
Martin guessed that this would be the case, and he stopped the cab at
a little distance from the house, paid the fare, shouldered his bag,
and walked softly down the street. He went and stood outside the
window. He looked in. The street was a quiet one, and at that moment
there were no passers-by. Mrs. Martin was seated in her smart dress
which he had given her, with her profile towards him. He thought her
very beautiful indeed. His heart swelled with pride. She belonged to
him. He hated fine ladies, as a rule; but a fine lady who was his very
own was a different matter. He even felt romantic.

She was reading a letter. Who could have been writing to Little-sing?
Suddenly it occurred to him to slip down the area steps and stand
close under the window. He did so, to the terror of cook and Tildy.
Cook was about to scream, "Burglars!" but Tildy recognized her
master.

"It's his joke," she said. "'E's a wonderful man for jokes. Don't let
on to Mrs. Martin that 'e's 'ere for your life. 'E'll do something so
comic in a minute."

The comicality of Martin consisted, in the present instance, of
singing in a harsh baritone the song of the Troubadour:

                       "Gaily the Troubadour
                         Touched his guitar,
                       When he was hastening
                         Home from the war;
                       Singing, 'From Palestine
                         Hither I come.
                       Ladye love! ladye love!
                         Welcome me home.'"

Mrs. Martin gave a shriek. She had the presence of mind to pop her
letter into her pocket. Then she approached the window, trembling and
blushing. Bo-peep uttered a huge laugh of delight, let himself in by
the back way, and ran up the stairs.

"Little-sing!" he said, and clasped his wife in his arms.

During dinner James Martin was in high good humor, and it was not
until dessert was put on the table and he had helped himself liberally
to port wine, and was filling his pipe for his evening smoke, that it
occurred to him to speak to his wife about Maggie.

"By the way," he said, "I did a right good turn for that girl of
yours, Little-sing, before I left for Liverpool. I sent her a box of
clothes--two smart everyday dresses, an evening dress, and no end of
fal-lals. She wrote to thank me, I suppose?"

"She wrote to me, dear," said Mrs. Martin, trembling a good deal. "She
was very much obliged to you."

"And well she ought to be. Did she clearly understand that I sent her
the things--that you had nothing to do with them?"

"Oh yes, yes," said Mrs. Martin. "Won't you have some coffee, James?
I'll tell Matilda to bring it in."

"Coffee--fiddlestick!" said Martin; "and you know I hate to be called
'James.' Where's Bo-peep?"

"You are Bo-peep," said his wife with a funny smile.

"Well, then, no 'Jamesing' of me. I think it is very queer of your
daughter not to reply to me when I send her expensive and handsome
things. What did she say in her letter to you?"

"Oh, she was very grateful, of course, Bo-peep."

"Well--but--where's the letter? I may as well see it. There's stuff in
that girl. I don't despair of her yet. She has a head for business. I
wouldn't have your dear little head muddled with business, but your
daughter's a different person. She has nothing whatever to live on
except what I allow her, and unless she is to starve she has got to
please me."

Mrs. Martin might have said, had she not been afraid, that Maggie was
certainly entitled to her own father's money; but it is to be
regretted that Little-sing had not much courage.

Matilda came in with the coffee, which caused a slight diversion, more
particularly as it was not to Martin's taste, who desired her to take
it away again, and request Horniman to send him something fit to
drink. When the door was closed behind Matilda he renewed the subject
of the letter.

"I saw you reading something as I came along," he said. "When I peeped
in at the window you had a letter in your hand. Who has been writing
to you?"

"Only Maggie."

"And that is the letter you spoke about?"

"Yes, dear James--I mean Bo-peep--yes. The child is very grateful."

"She ought to be. I'd like to see the letter. Where is it?"

"I will go upstairs and fetch it," said Mrs. Martin, who knew well
that it was safe in her pocket all the time.

James Martin roused himself and gave her a studied look.

"Do so," he said. "Bring it back to me at once. If I have to support
that girl, and keep her at school, and pay for her clothing, I'll
allow her to have no secrets from me. You understand that, don't you,
Little-sing?"

"Yes. I will fetch the letter," said Mrs. Martin.

She left the room. Martin was fond of her, but he was no fool. He was
certain now that there was something in the letter which his wife did
not wish him to see, and his curiosity was instantly aroused. He was
determined to read poor Maggie's letter at any cost. He waited
impatiently, drumming his large, fat hand on the highly polished oak
table the while. Tildy came in with fresh coffee.

"Please, sir," she said, "cook wants to see you for a minute."

"I can't see her now. Tell her so," replied Martin.

"Which is no message for a woman of my class," said Horniman, entering
the room and showing a very heated face. "I wishes to give notice that
I leave your service this day month."

"You can go to-morrow," said Martin.

"As you please, sir; wages in full."

"You go to-morrow," said Martin; "and if you say another word you go
to-night. Leave the room."

Tildy breathed a little quickly, felt inclined to pat master on the
back, thought better of it, and left the room.

"Whatever is keeping Little-sing?" thought Martin to himself.

He was not going to worry about cook and her whims, but of
Little-sing and the letter. He grew a little more suspicious, and
consequently a little more angry.

"She has that letter in her pocket; I saw her put it there when I was
acting the part of the Troubadour," he said to himself. "She is
destroying it now; but she sha'n't--not before I get it."

He softly left the dining-room and crept with catlike steps upstairs.
He stopped outside his wife's bedroom. There was a light burning
there. He turned the handle of the door. It was locked.

"Open the door at once," he said; and Mrs. Martin flew to do so.

"Oh Bo-peep, you gave me a fright!"

"Where is that letter, Victoria?"

"It--it--I can't find it," she replied.

"What are those papers lying on the floor?"

Mrs. Martin gave a cry. Mr. Martin was too quick for her. He swept up
the pieces of torn letter, collected them in his great hand, and,
taking Mrs. Martin with the other hand, returned with her to the
dining-room.

"Now, you sit there, Little-sing," he said, "while I piece the letter
together. There is something in it that you want hidden from me; but
you've quite mistook your man. There are to be no secrets between you
and me. I'm not the least bit angry with you, but I am not going to
have that girl ruling you. You're frightened of that girl. Now, let's
see what she has to say."

Poor Mrs. Martin trembled from head to foot. Suddenly she went on her
knees, clasped her hands round Bo-peep's arm, and looked into his
face. "She was naughty. She was a silly child. Oh, forgive her! I
ought to have destroyed the letter. I ought not to have kept it until
you came back. Please--please, don't read it!"

"Nonsense, Little-sing," he replied, restored once more to the height
of good humor. "You have roused my curiosity; nothing will induce me
not to see every word of the letter now."

It took Martin some time to piece together poor Maggie's letter; but
at last the greater part of its meaning was made plain to him. Mrs.
Martin sat, white as death, looking at her lord and master. What was
going to happen? What awful thing lay ahead of her? She felt crushed
beyond words. Once again she struggled to get on her knees to implore
him, to entreat; but Martin put out his great hand and kept her
forcibly in her seat.

When he had quite taken in the meaning of the letter he made no
comment whatever, but carefully deposited the torn fragments in
his pocket-book. Then he said quietly, "I don't blame you,
Little-sing, not one bit. But we've got to punish this girl.
To-morrow I shall be busy in town. The day after will be Friday, and
I shall be busy then; but on Saturday we'll take a half-holiday and
go to visit Miss Margaret Howland at Aylmer House--you and me
together, Little-sing--the grocer and his wife together. Not a word,
my love; not a word."




CHAPTER XXI.

TILDY'S MESSAGE.


Nothing ever kept Mrs. Martin awake; and, notwithstanding her anxiety
with regard to Maggie, she slept soundly that night. Bo-peep was his
own delightful self. His jokes were really too good for anything! She
regarded him as the wittiest man of her acquaintance. She laughed till
the tears ran down her cheeks. He told her that he would take her to
the theater on the following evening, and further said that he would
engage a cook himself in town, send her out in the course of the
morning, and that Horniman could go.

Horniman came up to interview her mistress soon after Martin's
departure. She was penitent now, and willing to stay; but nothing
would induce Martin himself to forgive her, and, in consequence, Mrs.
Martin did not dare to do so. The woman was paid her wages in full,
and dismissed. Then it occurred to Mrs. Martin that here was her
opportunity to send a short note of warning to Maggie. Why she did not
send it by post it is hard to ascertain; but she thought that it would
go more swiftly and surely if Tildy were the messenger.

Accordingly she sent for Tildy and told her what she expected her to
do.

"Matilda," she said, "cook has gone, and I shall be quite content with
tea and toast and a lightly boiled egg for my lunch. After lunch you
can take the train to London and convey a message from me to Miss
Maggie."

"Oh mum, 'ow beauteous!" said Tildy.

"I will have a letter ready which you are, if possible, to put into
her own hands."

"Yes, 'um; and don't I long to see 'er, jest!"

"Well, this is the address," said Mrs. Martin. "Get everything cosy
and comfortable in the house, and bring me my tea by one o'clock. A
train will take you to Victoria at half-past one, which you ought to
catch. You can easily be back here between four and five; by that time
the new cook will have arrived."

"Things ain't dull a bit to-day'," said Tildy. "They're much more
Shepherd's Bushy, and I like 'em a sight better than I did."

"Well, go now, and attend to your business," said Mrs. Martin.

Having secured a messenger, Mrs. Martin next prepared to write to poor
Maggie:

  "MY DEAR CHILD,--Most unfortunately your father has discovered
  the letter you wrote to me. He doesn't say much, but I can see
  that he is furiously angry. He intends to take me with him to
  call on you next Saturday--I presume, some time in the
  afternoon. I will try to make him dress in as gentlemanly a
  manner as possible, and also will endeavor to prevent his
  talking about the shop. You must make the very best of things
  you can, dear; for there's no possible way of keeping him from
  Aylmer House.--Your affectionate mother,

                                                "VICTORIA MARTIN."

When the letter was finished Mrs. Martin put it into an envelope,
addressed to Miss Maggie Howland, Aylmer House, Randal Square, South
Kensington, and put it into Tildy's care. Tildy caught her train all
in good time, arrived at Victoria, and took a bus to South Kensington.
A very little inquiry enabled her to find Randal Square, and at about
half-past two she was standing on the steps of that most refined and
genteel home, Aylmer House. The look of the place impressed her, but
did not give her any sense of intimidation. When the door was opened
to her modest ring, and the pleasant, bright-looking parlor-maid
answered her summons, Tildy gazed at her with great interest but
without a scrap of shyness.

"I've come from 'er 'ome to see Miss Maggie 'Owland," said Tildy; "and
I've a message for 'er from 'er ma."

The girl, whose name was Agnes, stared for a minute at Tildy. She
recognized her "sort" in a moment. Tildy belonged to the lodging-house
sort of girl. What she could have to do with one of Agnes's young
ladies puzzled that young person considerably. It was the rule,
however, at Aylmer House that no one, however poor or humble, should
be treated with rudeness, and certainly a person bringing a message to
one of the young ladies was entitled to respect. Agnes said,
therefore, in a polite and superior tone, "Step in, will you, miss?
and I will find out if Miss Howland is in."

Tildy stepped into the hall, feeling, as she expressed it, "dream-like
and queer all over." She did not dare to sit down, but stood on the
mat, gazing with her bright, inquisitive eyes at the various things in
this new world in which she found herself.

"How beauteous!" she kept repeating at intervals. "Why, Laburnum Villa
ain't a patch on this. How very beauteous! No wonder Miss Maggie 'ave
the hair of a queen."

Now, it so happened that Maggie Howland was out, and would not be back
for some time. This was the day when she and the other girls belonging
to her kingdom had gone forth to purchase all sorts of good things for
the coming feast. Maggie, as queen, had put a whole sovereign into the
bag. There would, therefore, be no stint of first-class provisions.
Every sort of eatable that was not usually permitted at Aylmer House
was to grace the board--jelly, meringues, frosted cake, tipsy cake, as
well as chickens garnished in the most exquisite way and prepared
specially by a confectioner round the corner; also different dainties
in aspic jellies were to be ordered. Then flowers were to be secured
in advance, so as to make the table really very beautiful.

Maggie, Kathleen O'Donnell, and Janet were the people selected to
arrange about the supper. Not a single thing was to be cooked in the
establishment; this would give extra trouble to the servants, and was
therefore not to be permitted. The girls would make their own
sandwiches; and, oh, what troublesome thoughts they had over these!
Maggie was in the highest spirits, and left the house with her
companions--Miss Johnson, of course, in close attendance--half-an-hour
before Tildy with her ominous letter appeared on the scene.

Now, it so happened that Agnes knew nothing at all of the absence of
the young ladies. They usually went out by a side-door which had been
specially assigned to their use when the house was turned into a
school. As Agnes was going upstairs, however, in order to try to find
Maggie, she met Aneta coming down.

"Oh miss," she said, "can you tell me if Miss Howland is in?"

"No," said Aneta, "I happen to know that she is out, and I don't think
she will be in for some little time."

"Very well, miss; the young person will be sorry, I expect."

"What young person?" asked Aneta, eager in her turn to find out why
Maggie was inquired for.

"A girl, miss, who has called, and has asked very particularly to see
Miss Howland. She's rather a common sort of girl, miss, although I
dare say she means well."

"I will go and see her myself," said Aneta; "perhaps I can convey a
message from her to Miss Howland, for I know she won't be back for
some little time."

Agnes, quite relieved in her mind, turned down the back-stairs and
went to attend to her numerous duties. A few minutes after, Aneta, in
all her slim grace, stood in the hall and confronted Tildy. Aneta was
herself going out; she was going out with Mademoiselle Laplage. They
had some commissions to execute. The day was a foggy one, and they
were both rather in a hurry. Nevertheless, Aneta stopped to say a kind
word to Tildy. Tildy gazed at her with open-eyed admiration. Beautiful
as the house was, this young lady was indeed a radiant and dazzling
vision.

"She made me sort o' choky," said Tildy as she related the
circumstance afterwards to Mrs. Martin. "There was a hair about her.
Well, much as I loves our Miss Maggie, she ain't got the hair o' that
beauteous young lady, with 'er eyes as blue as the sky, and 'er walk
so very distinguishified."

"What can I do for you?" said Aneta now, in a kind tone.

Tildy dropped an awkward curtsy. "I've come, miss," she said, "to see
our Miss Maggie."

"Miss Howland is out," said Aneta.

"Oh, miss!" replied Tildy, the corners of her mouth beginning to
droop, "that's crool 'ard on me. Do you think, miss, if I may make so
bold as to inquire, that Miss Maggie 'll be in soon?"

"I do not think so," replied Aneta; "but I can convey any message you
like to her, if you will trust me."

"Oh miss," said Tildy, worshipping Aneta on the spot, "who wouldn't
trust one like you?"

"Well, what is it? What can I do for you?"

"I was maid, miss--maid-of-all-work--at Shepherd's Bush when Miss
Maggie and 'er ma used to live there; and when Mrs. 'Owland married
Martin the grocer they was that kind they took me to live at Laburnum
Villa. It's a very rich and comfortable 'ouse, miss; and the way they
two goes on is most excitin'. It's joke, joke, and play, play, from
morn till night--that's the ma and steppa of Miss Maggie. I've brought
a letter from Mrs. Martin to be delivered straight to Miss Maggie."

"I can give it to her," said Aneta in her calm voice.

"You'll per'aps mention, miss," said Tildy, taking the letter from her
pocket, "as I called, and as I love our dear Miss Maggie as much as I
ever did. You'll per'aps say, miss, with my dutiful respects, that my
'eart is 'ers, and always will be."

"I will give her a kind message," said Aneta, "and safely deliver her
mother's letter to her. I am afraid there's no use in asking you to
stay, as Miss Howland is very much occupied just now."

"Very well, miss, I've delivered my message faithful."

"You have."

As Aneta spoke she herself opened the hall-door.

"Good-day, miss," said Tildy, dropping another curtsy, "and I wishes
you well."

"Good-day," replied Aneta.

Tildy's little form was swallowed up in the fog, which was growing
thicker each moment, and at that instant Mademoiselle Laplage, profuse
in apologies for her brief delay, entered the hall.

"Pardon me, _ma chère_, that I have caused you to wait. I was just
ready to descend, when--see! the lace of my shoe was broken. But what
will you? You will go out in this dreadful fog?"

Aneta replied in French that she did not think the fog was too thick,
and the French governess and the girl went out together into the
street. But all the time Aneta Lysle was thinking hard. She was in
possession of Maggie's secret. Her stepfather, instead of being
related to the Martyns of The Meadows, was a grocer! Aneta belonged to
that class of persons who think a great deal of good birth. She did
not mind Tildy in the least, for Tildy was so far below her as to be
after a fashion quite companionable; but--a grocer! Nevertheless,
Aneta had a heart. She thought of Maggie, and the more she thought of
her the more pitiful she felt towards her. She did not want to crush
or humiliate her schoolfellow. She felt almost glad that the secret
of Maggie's unhappiness had been made known to her. She might at last
gain a true influence over the girl.

Her walk, therefore, with Mademoiselle Laplage took place almost in
silence. They hastily executed their commissions, and presently found
themselves in Pearce's shop, where Aneta had taken a brooch a day or
two ago to have a pin put on.

The shopman, as he handed her the mended brooch, said at the same
time, "If you will excuse me, miss, you are one of the young ladies
who live at Aylmer House?"

"Yes," said Aneta, "that is true."

"Then I wonder, miss, if"----He paused a minute, looked hard at the
girl, and then continued, "Might my brother speak to you for a minute,
miss?"

"But it make so cold!" said mademoiselle, who knew very little of the
English tongue, "and behold--zee fog! I have such fear of it. It is
not to joke when it fogs in your country, _ma chère. Il faute bien
dépêcher_."

"I shall be quite ready to come back with you in a minute or two,"
said Aneta.

Just then the man who had bought the brooch from Maggie appeared. "I
am very sorry, miss," he said, "but I thought that, instead of writing
to Miss Howland, I might send her a message; otherwise I should have
to see Mrs. Ward on the matter."

"But what matter is it?" said Aneta. "You want to see Miss Howland, or
you want me to take her a message?"

"Well, miss, it's no special secret; only my brother and I cannot
afford to buy the brooch which she sold us the other day."

"But I don't understand," said Aneta. "Miss Howland sold you a brooch?
Then if she sold it, you did buy it."

"The fact is, miss," said young Pearce, coloring rather deeply, "I was
not myself quite aware of its value at the time, and I gave the young
lady much too small a sum of money for it. I want her to return me the
money, and I will give her back the brooch. My brother and I have been
talking it over, and we cannot do an injustice to one of the ladies at
Aylmer House--it is quite impossible."

"I will give your message," said Aneta coldly. "Please do not purchase
anything else from Miss Howland. She will doubtless call to see you
to-morrow."

"Thank you, miss; then that is all right," said the man, looking much
relieved.

Aneta hastened home. She felt perplexed and alarmed. She must see
Maggie, and as soon as possible. It was a strange fact that while
Maggie was in no danger at all, while everything seemed to be going
right with her, and as long as she held an undeniable position in the
school as one of the queens, Aneta could scarcely endure her; that now
that Maggie Howland, was, so to speak, at her mercy, this girl, whose
nature was fine and brave and good, felt a strong desire to help
her.

There were, however, very strict rules at Aylmer House, and one of
them was that no girl on any account whatsoever was to sell any of her
possessions in order to make money. This was one of the unwritten
rules of the school; but the idea of an Aylmer House girl really
requiring to do such a thing was never contemplated for an instant.
There were broad lines of conduct, however, which no girl was expected
to pass. Liberty was allowed to a great extent at Aylmer House; but it
was a liberty which only those who struggle to walk in the right path
can fully enjoy. Crooked ways, underhand dealings, could not be
permitted in the school.

Maggie had done quite enough to cause her to be expelled. There had
been times when Aneta almost wished for this; when she had felt deep
down in her heart that Maggie Howland was the one adverse influence in
the school; when she had been certain that if Maggie Howland were
removed all the other girls would come more or less under her own
gentle sway, and she would be queen, not of the greater number of the
girls at Aylmer House, but of all the girls, and very gentle, very
loving, very sympathetic would be her rule. Her subjects should feel
her sympathy, but at the same time they should acknowledge her power.
Maggie's was a counter-influence; and now there was a chance of
putting a stop to it.

Aneta knew well that, kind as Mrs. Ward was to Maggie, she did not in
her heart absolutely trust her. Therefore, if Maggie left it would
also be a relief to Mrs. Ward. Miss Johnson might be sorry, and one or
two of the girls might be sorry; in particular, dear little Merry.
Aneta had a great love for Merry, and was deeply sorry to feel that
Merry was under Maggie's spell; that was the case, although she did
not openly belong to Maggie's party. So Merry too would be saved if
Maggie left the school. Oh! it was most desirable, and Aneta held the
key of the position in her hand. She also had in her pocket Mrs.
Martin's letter. That did not perhaps so greatly matter, for Maggie's
father, whatever her mother had done, was himself a gentleman; but the
fact of Maggie's slipping out of doors alone to sell an ornament was a
sufficiently grave offense to banish her from such a school as Aylmer
House.

Yes, Aneta could send her away, but it might be managed dexterously.
Maggie might stay till the end of the present term and then go,
knowing herself that she would never return, whereas the girls would
know nothing about it until the beginning of the next term, when they
would no longer see her familiar face or hear her pleasant voice. A
few of them might be sorry, but they would quickly forget. The school
would be the better for her absence. The thing could be done, and it
would be done, if Aneta used that knowledge which she now possessed.

The girls all met at tea, and Maggie was in the highest spirits. She
knew nothing whatever of all the information which Aneta had gathered
in her absence. She knew nothing of Tildy's arrival, of Tildy's
departure, nor of the letter which Aneta had put into one of her
drawers. Still less did she know anything of Pearce and his betrayal
of her. She and her companions had had a very pleasant time, and
immediately after tea, in the "leisure hours," they were to meet in
the girl's private sitting-room to discuss matters officially.

The Aneta girls had, by common consent, given up the room to them
during these last important days. There were plenty of nooks and
corners all over the cheerful house where they could amuse themselves
and talk secrets, and have that sort of confidence which schoolgirls
delight in.

As soon as tea was over Maggie jumped up and said, "Now, Kitty"--she
turned to Kathleen O'Donnell as she spoke--"you and I, and Rosamond
and Jane, and Matty and Clara, and the Tristrams will get through our
work as quickly as possible.--I suppose, girls"--here she glanced at
Aneta in particular--"you will let us have the sitting-room as usual
during the leisure hours?"

"Of course we will," said Sylvia St. John in her gentle tone; but she
had scarcely uttered the words before Aneta rose.

"Of course you can have the sitting-room," she said; "but I want to
talk to you, Maggie."

"You can't, I am afraid, just now," said Maggie. "I am much too
busy.--We have to go into accounts, girls," she added. "There are no
end of things to be done, besides, at the rehearsal." Here she dropped
her voice slightly.

"The rest of you can go to the sitting-room and do what is necessary,"
continued Aneta. "I want you, Maggie, and you had better come with
me." She spoke very firmly.

A dogged look came into Maggie's face. She threw back her head and
glanced full at Aneta. "I go with you," she said, "just because you
ask me, forsooth! You forget yourself, Queen Aneta. I also am a queen
and have a kingdom."

"My business with you has something to do with a person who calls
herself Tildy," said Aneta in her gravest voice; and Maggie suddenly
felt as though a cold douche had been thrown over her. She colored a
vivid red. Then she turned eagerly to Kathleen.

"I won't be a minute," she said. "You all go into the sitting-room and
get the accounts in order. You might also go over that tableaux with
Diana Vernon.--Kathleen, you know that you must put a little more life
into your face than you did the other day; and--and--oh dear, how
annoying this is!--Yes, of course I will go with you, Aneta. You won't
keep me a minute?"

Maggie and Aneta left the room.

Merry turned to her sister and said in a troubled voice, "I can't
imagine why it is that Aneta doesn't care for poor Maggie. I love
Aneta, of course, for she is our very own cousin; but I cannot
understand her want of sympathy for dearest Maggie."

"I am not altogether quite so fond of Maggie as you are, Merry; and
you know that," said Cicely.

"I know it," said Merry. "You are altogether taken up with Aneta."

"Oh, and with school generally," said Cicely, "it is all so splendid.
But come, we are alone in the room, and losing some of our delightful
leisure hours."

The Maggie-girls had meanwhile retired into the sitting-room, where
they stood together in groups, talking about the excitement which was
to take place on the following Saturday (it was now Thursday), and
paying very little heed to Maggie's injunctions to put the accounts in
order.

"Don't bother about accounts," said Kitty; "there's heaps of money
left in the bag. Wasn't it scrumptious of old Mags to put a whole
sovereign in? And I know she is not rich, the dear old precious!"

"She is exactly the sort of girl who would do a generous thing," said
Clara Roache, "and of course, as queen, she felt that she must put a
little more money into the bag than the rest of us."

"Well, she needn't," said Kathleen. "I'd have loved her just as much
if she hadn't put a penny in. She is a duck, though! I can't think why
I care so much about her, for she's not beautiful."

"Strictly speaking, she is plain," said Janet Burns; "but in a case
like Maggie's plain face doesn't matter in the least."

"She has got something inside," said Matty, "which makes up for her
plain features. It's her soul shining out of her eyes."

"Yes, of course," said Kathleen O'Donnell; "and it fills her voice
too. She has got power and--what you call charm. She is meant to rule
people."

"I admire her myself more than Aneta Lysle," said Janet Burns,
"although of course all the world would call Aneta beautiful."

"Yes, that is quite true," said Kathleen; "but I call Aneta a little
stiff, and she is very determined too, and she doesn't like poor old
Mags one single bit. Wasn't it jolly of Mags to get up this glorious
day for us? Won't we have fun? Aneta may look to her laurels, for it's
my opinion that the Gibsons and the Cardews will both come over to our
side after Saturday."

While this conversation was going on, and Maggie's absence was
deplored, and no business whatever was being done towards the
entertainment of Saturday, Maggie found herself seated opposite to
Aneta in Aneta's own bedroom. Maggie felt queer and shaken. She did
not quite know what was the matter. Aneta's face was very quiet.

After a time she drew a letter from her pocket and put it into
Maggie's hand.

"Who brought this?" asked Maggie.

"A person who called herself Tildy."

Maggie held the letter unopened in her lap.

"Why don't you read it?" said Aneta.

Maggie took it up and glanced at the handwriting. Then she put it down
again.

"It's from my mother," she said. "It can keep."

"I cannot imagine," said Aneta, "anybody waiting even for one moment
to read a letter which one's own mother has written. My mother is
dead, you know."

She spoke in a low tone, and her pretty eyelashes rested on her softly
rounded cheeks.

Maggie looked at her. "Why did you bring me up here, Aneta, away from
all the others, away from our important business, to give me this
letter?"

"I thought you would rather have it in private," said Aneta.

"You thought more than that, Aneta."

"Yes, I thought more than that," said Aneta in her gentlest tone.

Maggie's queer, narrow, eyes flashed fire. Suddenly she stood up. "You
have something to say. Say it, and be quick, for I must go."

"I don't think you must go just yet, Maggie; for what I have to say
cannot be said in a minute. You will have to give up your leisure
hours to-day."

"I cannot. Our entertainment is on Saturday."

"The entertainment must wait," said Aneta. "It is of no consequence
compared to what I have to say to you."

"Oh, have it out!" said Maggie. "You were always spying and prying on
me. You always hated me. I don't know what I have done to you. I'd
have left you alone if you had left me alone; but you have interfered
with me and made my life miserable. God knows, I am not too
happy"--Maggie struggled with her emotion--"but you have made things
twice as bad."

"Do you really, really think that, Maggie? Please don't say any more,
then, until you hear me out to the end. I will tell you as quickly as
possible; I will put you out of suspense. I could have made things
very different for you, but at least I will put you out of suspense."

"Well, go on; I am willing to listen. I hope you will be brief."

"It is this, Maggie. I will say nothing about your past; I simply tell
you what, through no fault of mine, I found out to-day. You gave the
girls of this school to understand that your mother's husband--your
stepfather--was a gentleman of old family. The person called Tildy
told me about Mr. Martin. He may be a gentleman by nature, but he is
not one by profession."

Maggie clutched one of her hands so tightly that the nails almost
pierced her flesh.

"I won't hurt you, Maggie, by saying much on that subject. Your own
father was a gentleman, and you cannot help your mother having married
beneath her."

Maggie gasped. Such words as these from the proud Aneta!

"But there is worse to follow," continued Aneta. "I happened to go to
Pearce's to-day."

Maggie, who had half-risen, sank back again in her seat.

"And Pearce wants to see you in order to return a brooch which you
sold him. He says that he cannot afford the right price for the
brooch. He wants you to give him back the money which he lent you on
it, and he wants you to have the brooch again in your possession. You,
of course, know, Maggie, that in selling one of your belongings and in
going out without leave you broke one of the fundamental rules of
Aylmer House. You know that, therefore----Why, what is the matter?"

Maggie's queer face was working convulsively. After a time slow, big
tears gathered in her eyes. Her complexion changed from its usual dull
ugliness to a vivid red; it then went white, so ghastly white that the
girl might have been going to faint. All this took place in less than
a minute. At the end of that time Maggie was her old disdainful, angry
self once more.

"You must be very glad," she said. "You have me in your power at last.
My stepfather is a grocer. He keeps a shop at Shepherd's Bush. He is
one of the most horribly vulgar men that ever lived. Had I been at
home my mother would not have consented to marry him. But my mother,
although pretty and refined-looking, and in herself a lady, has little
force of character, and she was quite alone and very poor indeed. You,
who don't know the meaning of the word 'poor,' cannot conceive what it
meant to her. Little Merry guessed--dear, dear little Merry; but as to
you, you think when you subscribe to this charity and the other, you
think when you adopt an East End child and write letters to her, and
give of your superabundance to benefit her, that you understand the
poor. I tell you you _don't_! Your wealth is a curse to you, not a
blessing. You no more understand what people like mother and like
myself have lived through than you understand what the inhabitants of
Mars do--the petty shifts, the smallnesses, the queer efforts to make
two ends meet! You in your lovely home, and surrounded by lovely
things, and your aunt so proud of you--how _can_ you understand what
lodgings in the hot weather in Shepherd's Bush are like? Mother
understood--never any fresh air, never any tempting food; Tildy, that
poor little faithful girl as servant--slavey was her right name; Tildy
at every one's beck and call, always with a smut on her cheek, and her
hair so untidy, and her little person so disreputable; and mother
alone, wondering how she could make two ends meet. Talk of your
knowing what the poor people in my class go through!"

"I don't pretend that I do know, Maggie," said Aneta, who was
impressed by the passion and strength of Maggie's words. "I don't
pretend it for a moment. The poverty of such lives is to me a sealed
book. But--forgive me--if you are so poor, how could you come here?"

"I don't mind your knowing everything now," said Maggie. "I am
disgraced, and nothing will ever get me out of my trouble. I am up to
my neck, and I may as well drown at once; but Mrs. Ward--she
understood what a poor girl whose father was a gentleman could feel,
and she--oh, she was good!--she took me for so little that mother
could afford it. She made no difference between you and me, Aneta, who
are so rich, and your cousins the Cardews, who are so rich too. She
said, 'Maggie Howland, your father was a gentleman and a man of honor,
a man of whom his country was proud; and I will educate you, and give
you your chance.' And, oh, I was happy here! And I--and I should be
happy now but for you and your prying ways."

"You are unkind to me, Maggie. The knowledge that your stepfather was
a grocer was brought to me in a most unexpected way. I was not to
blame for the little person who called herself Tildy coming here
to-day. Tildy felt no shame in the fact that your mother had married a
grocer. She was far more lady-like about it than you are, Maggie. No
one could have blamed you because your mother chose to marry beneath
her. But you were to blame, Maggie, when you gave us to understand
that her husband was in quite a different position from what he is."

"And you think," said Maggie, stamping her foot, "that the girls of
this house--Kathleen O'Donnell, Sylvia St. John, Henrietta and Mary
Gibson, the Cardews, the Tristrams, you yourself--would put up with me
for a single moment if it was known what my mother has done?"

"I think you underrate us all," said Aneta. Then she came close to
Maggie and took one of her hands. "I want to tell you something," she
added.

Maggie had never before allowed her hand to remain for a second in
Aneta's grasp. But there was something at this moment about the young
girl, a look in her eyes, which absolutely puzzled Maggie and caused
her to remain mute. She had struggled for a minute, but now her hand
lay still in Aneta's clasp.

"I want to help you," said Aneta.

"To--help me! How? I thought you hated me."

"Well, as a matter of fact," said Aneta, "I did not love you
until"----

"Until?" said Maggie, her eyes shining and her little face becoming
transformed in a minute.

"Until I knew what you must have suffered."

"You do not mean to say that you love me now?"

"I believe," said Aneta, looking fixedly at Maggie, "that I could love
you."

"Oh!" said Maggie. She snatched her hand away, and, walking to the
window, looked out. The fog was thicker than ever, and she could see
nothing. But that did not matter. She wanted to keep her back turned
to Aneta. Presently her shoulders began to heave, and, taking her
handkerchief from her pocket, she pressed it to her eyes. Then she
turned round. "Go on," she said.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Aneta.

"Say what you want to say. I am the stepdaughter of a grocer, and I
have broken one of the strictest rules in the school. When will you
tell Mrs. Ward? I had better leave at once."

"You needn't leave at all."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," said Aneta, "that if you will tell Mrs. Ward everything--all
about your stepfather, and all about your selling that jewel and going
out without leave--I am positively sure that dear Mrs. Ward will not
expel you from the school. I am also sure, Maggie, that there will not
be one girl at Aylmer House who will ever reproach you. As to your
stepfather being what he is, no girl in her senses would blame you for
that. You are the daughter of Professor Howland, one of the greatest
explorers of his time--a man who has had a book written about him, and
has largely contributed to the world's knowledge. Don't forget that,
please; none of us are likely to forget it. As to the other
thing--well, there is always the road of confession, and I am quite
certain that if you will see Mrs. Ward she will be kind to you and
forgive you; for her heart is very big and her sympathies very wide;
and then, afterwards, I myself will, for your sake, try to understand
your position, and I myself will be your true friend."

"Oh Aneta!" said Maggie.

She ran up to Aneta; she took her hand; she raised it to her lips and
kissed it.

"Give me till to-morrow," she said. "Promise that you won't say
anything till to-morrow."

Aneta promised. Maggie went to her room.




CHAPTER XXII.

ANETA'S PLAN.


The girls downstairs wondered why Maggie Howland did not appear. After
an hour of waiting Kathleen O'Donnell took the lead. The accounts were
left alone, but the tableaux vivants were diligently rehearsed, the
Tristrams and Jane Burns being the three critics; Rosamond Dacre,
Kathleen O'Donnell, and Matty and Clara Roache the performers. But,
somehow, there was no life in the acting, for the moving spirit was
not there; the bright, quick eye was missed, the eager words were
lacking, with the pointed and telling criticism. Then there was the
scene where Maggie herself was to take a part. It was from _The
Talisman_, and a night-scene, which she was able to render with great
precision and even beauty, and the dun light would be in her favor. It
was to be the crowning one, and the last of the tableaux. It was
expected to bring down the house. But Maggie was not there, and the
girls could not help feeling a little disconsolate and a little
surprised.

At supper that evening there were eager inquiries with regard to
Maggie Howland. All the girls came up to ask Aneta where the other
queen was.

"She is not quite well, and has gone to bed," said Aneta. "She does
not wish to be disturbed until the morning."

Aneta's words had a curious effect upon every one who heard her speak.
It was as though she had, for the first time in her life, absolutely
taken Maggie's part. Her eyes, when she spoke of Maggie, were full of
affection. The girls were puzzled; but Merry, as they turned away,
suddenly ran back to Aneta, swept her arm round the girl's neck, and
said, "Oh Neta, I do love you!"

Aneta pressed Merry's hand. For the first time these two understood
each other.

Meanwhile poor Maggie was living through one of the most dreadful
periods of her life. Her mother's intimation that she and her
stepfather were coming without fail to Aylmer House on Saturday--_the_
day, the glorious day when Maggie and her friends were to entertain
Mrs. Ward and the rest of the school--drove the girl nearly wild.
Aneta had discovered her secret, and Aneta had urged, as the one way
out, the painful but salutary road of confession. Maggie writhed at
the thought, but she writhed far more terribly at the news which her
mother's letter contained.

The girl said to herself, "I cannot stand it! I will run away! He has
destroyed my last chance. I will run away and hide. I will go
to-night. There is no use in waiting. Aneta is kind; she is far kinder
than I could ever have given her credit for. She would, I believe,
help me; and dear Mrs. Ward would help me--I am sure of that. And I
don't really mind now that it comes to the point of losing my position
in the school as queen; but for all the school--for the Tristrams, for
Merry Cardew, for Kathleen--to see that man is beyond my power of
endurance. He will call here, and he will bring poor mother, but as I
won't be here I won't feel anything. I will go to-night. I'll slip
downstairs and let myself out. I have some money--thank goodness for
that!--and I have my father's treasures. I can take them out of the
tin box and wear them on my person, and I can sell them one by one.
Yes, I will run away. There's no help for it."

Maggie, at Aneta's suggestion, had got into bed, but even to think of
sleep was beyond her power. She got up again presently, dressed, and
sat by the foggy window. The fog was worse; it was so thick now that
you could not see your way even as far as the trees in the middle of
the square. There were fog-signals sounding from time to time, and
cabs going very slowly, and boys carrying torches to light belated and
lost passengers.

Maggie was safe enough in her room, which had, like all the other
bedrooms at Aylmer House, a small fire burning in the grate. By-and-by
some one tapped at the door. Maggie said, "Don't come in"; but her
words were unheeded. The door was opened an inch or two, and Merry
Cardew entered.

"Oh Merry, you--of all people!" said Maggie.

"And why not?" said Merry. "I am your friend--your own very, very
great friend. What is the matter, Mags? You were so jolly at tea; what
can have happened since?"

"Something most dreadful," said Maggie; "but you will know on
Saturday."

"Oh!" said Merry, coming up to Maggie and dropping on her knees and
fondling one of the girl's cold hands, "why should I wait till
Saturday? Why should I not know now?"

"I can't talk of it, Merry. I am glad you--you--_loved_ me. You won't
love me in the future. But kiss me just this once."

"I am not going to leave you like this," said Merry.

"You must, dear; yes, you must. Please, please go! And--please, be
quick. Some one will see us together. Lucy Johnson will come in. Oh!
don't make matters worse for me. Good-night, Merry, good-night."

Maggie seemed so anxious that Merry should go that the girl felt hurt
and rose to her feet.

"Good-night, Merry dear," said Maggie as Merry was walking towards the
door. Then she added, in a semi-whisper which Merry did not catch,
"And good-bye, Merry dear; we shall never meet again."

Merry left the room, feeling full of apprehension. She thought for a
minute as she stood outside. Then she went and knocked at Aneta's
door.

"Aneta, may I come in?"

"Of course, dear. What is the matter?" said her cousin.

Merry entered at once.

"I have been to see Maggie. She is awfully queer. Oh, I know I broke
the rules. I must tell Miss Johnson in the morning."

"I did beg of you, Merry, not to go to her," said Aneta.

"Yes, I know you did; but I could not help thinking and thinking about
her. She is very queer. Her eyes look so strange."

"I hoped she was in bed and asleep," said Aneta.

"In bed!" said Merry. "Not a bit of it. She was up and sitting by the
window gazing at the fog."

"I will go and see her myself," said Aneta.

"Will you, Neta? And you will be kind to her?"

"Yes, darling, of course."

"Somehow, she used to think that--that you didn't love her," said
Merry.

"Nor did I," said Aneta. "But I will be kind to her; don't be afraid.
I think I can guess what is the matter."

"It is all very queer," said Merry. "She was in such splendid spirits
to-day; all the girls said so when they were out preparing for our
party, and now she looks years older and utterly miserable."

"Go to bed, Merry, and leave your friend in my care."

"Then you don't think it wrong of me to be very fond of her?"

"I do not, Merry. There was a time when I hoped you would not care for
her; now I earnestly want you to be her true friend. There is a very
great deal of good in her, and she has had many sorrows. Pray for her
to-night. Don't be anxious. Everything will come as right as
possible."

"Oh Neta," said Merry, "you are a darling! And when you talk like that
I love you more than I ever did before. You see, dear, I could not
help caring for Maggie from the very first, and nothing nor anybody
can alter my love."

Aneta kissed Merry, who left the room. Then Aneta herself, taking up
her candle, went out. She was wearing a long white wrapper, and her
clouds of golden hair were falling far below her waist. She looked
almost like an angel as she went down the corridor as far as Miss
Johnson's room.

Lucy Johnson was just getting into bed when Aneta knocked.

"What is it, Neta?" said the governess in a tone almost of alarm.

"I want to break a rule, Lucy," said Aneta; "so put me down for
punishment to-morrow."

"Oh, but why? What are you going to do?"

"I am going to do something which I shall be punished for. I am going
to spend to-night, if necessary, with Maggie Howland."

"Is she ill, Neta? Ought we to send for the doctor?"

"Oh no, she is not a bit ill in that way. Good-night, Lucy; I felt I
ought to tell you."

Aneta continued her way until she reached Maggie's room. It was now
past midnight. The quiet and regular household had all retired to bed,
and Maggie had feverishly begun to prepare for departure. She knew how
to let herself out. Once out of the house, she would be, so she felt,
through the worst part of her trouble. She was not unacquainted with
the ways of this cruel world, and thought that she might be taken in
at some hotel, not too far away, for the night. Early in the morning
she would go by train to some seaside place. From there she would
embark for the Continent. Beyond that she had made no plans.

Maggie was in the act of removing her father's treasures from the tin
boxes when, without any warning, the room-door was opened, and Aneta,
in her pure white dress, with her golden hair surrounding her very
fair face, entered the room.

"Oh!" said Maggie, dropping a curiously made cross in her confusion
and turning a dull brick-red. "Whatever have you come about?"

Aneta closed the door calmly, and placed her lighted candle on the top
of Maggie's chest of drawers.

"I hoped you were in bed and asleep," she said; "but instead of that
you are up. I have made arrangements to spend the night with you. It
is bitterly cold. We must build up the fire."

Maggie felt wild.

Aneta did not take the slightest notice. She knelt down and put knobs
of fresh coal on the fire. Soon it was blazing up merrily. "That's
better," she said. "Now, don't you think a cup of cocoa each would be
advisable?"

"I don't want to eat," said Maggie.

"I should like the cocoa," said Aneta; "and I have brought it with me.
I thought your supply might be out. Here's your glass of milk which
you never drank, and here's a little saucepan, and there are cups and
saucers in your cupboard, and a box of biscuits. Just sit down, won't
you? while I make the cocoa."

Maggie felt very strange. Her dislike of Aneta was growing less and
less moment by moment. Nevertheless, she by no means gave up her
primary idea of running away. She felt that she must hoodwink Aneta.
Surely she was clever enough for that. The best plan would be to
acquiesce in the cocoa scheme, afterwards to pretend that she was
sleepy, and go to bed. Then Aneta would, of course, leave her, and
there would still be plenty of time to get out of the house and
disappear into the foggy world of London. The glowing fire, the
beautiful young girl kneeling by it, the preparation for the little
meal which she made with such swiftness and dexterity, caused Maggie
to gaze at her in speechless amazement.

Maggie drank her delicious cocoa and munched her biscuits with
appetite, and afterwards she felt better. The world was not quite so
black and desolate, and Aneta looked lovely with her soft eyes glowing
and the rose-color in her cheeks.

"Why are you doing all this for me?" said Maggie then.

"Why?" said Aneta. "I think the reason is very simple." Then she
paused for a minute and her eyes filled with sudden tears. "I think it
is, Maggie, because quite unexpectedly I have learned to love you."

"You--to love me--me?" said Maggie.

"Yes."

Maggie felt herself trembling. She could not reply. She did not
understand that she returned the love so suddenly given to her--given
to her, too, in her moment of deepest degradation, of her most utter
misery. Once again the feeling that she must go, that she could not
face confession and the scorn of the school, and the awful words of
Bo-peep, and her poor mother as Bo-peep's wife, overpowered her.

"You are--very kind," she said in a broken voice; "and the cocoa was
good; and, if you don't mind--I will--go to bed now, and
perhaps--sleep a little."

"What have you been doing with all those lovely curios?" said Aneta.

"I?" said Maggie. "I--oh, I like to look at them."

"Do pick up that cross which is lying on the floor, and let me examine
it."

Maggie did so rather unwillingly.

"Please bring over all the other things, and let me look at them,"
said Aneta then.

Maggie obeyed, but grudgingly, as though she did not care that Aneta
should handle them.

"Why have you taken them out of their boxes and put them all in a
muddle like this?" said Aneta.

"I--I wanted something to do," said Maggie. "I couldn't sleep."

"Was that the only reason--honor bright?" said Aneta.

Maggie dropped her eyes.

Aneta did not question her any further, but she drew her down to a low
chair by the fire, and put a hand on her lap, and kept on looking at
the treasures: the bracelets, the crosses, the brooches, the quaint
designs belonging to a bygone period. After a time she said, "I am not
at all sure--I am not a real judge of treasures; but I have an uncle,
Sir Charles Lysle, who knows more about these things than any one else
in London; and if he thinks what I am inclined to think with regard to
the contents of these two boxes, you will be"----She stopped
abruptly.

Maggie's eyes were shining. "Aneta," she said, "don't talk of these
any more; and don't talk either of wealth or poverty any more. There
is something I want to say. When you came into my room just now I was
packing up to run away."

"Oh yes, I know that," said Aneta. "I saw that you had that intention
the moment I entered the room."

"And you said nothing!"

"Why should I? I didn't want to force your confidence. But you're not
going to run away now, Mags?" She bent towards her and kissed her on
the forehead.

"Yes," said Maggie, trembling. "I want you to let me go."

"I cannot possibly do that, dear. If you go, I go too."

"I must go," said Maggie. "You don't understand. You found things out
about me to-day, and you have behaved--well, splendidly. I didn't give
you credit for it. I didn't know you. Now I do know you, and I see
that no girl in the school can be compared to you for nobleness and
courage, and just for being downright splendid. But, Aneta, I cannot
bear that which is before me."

"The fact is," said Aneta, "you are in the midst of a terrible battle,
and you mean to give in and turn tail, and let the enemy walk over the
field. That is not a bit what I should have expected at one time from
Maggie Howland."

"I will tell you," said Maggie. "I am not really a bit brave; there is
nothing good in me."

"We won't talk about that," said Aneta. "What we have to think about
now is what lies straight ahead of you; not of your past any more,
but your immediate future. You have a tough time before you; in fact,
you have a very great battle to fight, but I do not think you will
turn tail."

"You want me," said Maggie, "to go to Mrs. Ward and tell her
everything?"

"You must do that, Maggie. There is no second course to pursue. There
is no way out. But I have been thinking since I saw you that perhaps
you might have your day on Saturday. I think it would be best for you
to tell Mrs. Ward to-morrow; and I think she would not prevent you
having your day on Saturday. Perhaps it will be necessary--but she is
the one to decide--that some of your schoolfellows should be told; and
of course your little brooch which you sold to Pearce must be got
back. Even Pearce is far too honest to keep it for the price he paid
you."

"He gave me five pounds, and I have spent one. There are still four
pounds left," said Maggie. "I meant to run away with the help of
these."

"I will lend you a pound," said Aneta, "and we'll get the brooch back
to-morrow."

"But, Aneta, I have not yet told you--it is too fearful--you cannot
conceive what my stepfather is like. It isn't only his being a
grocer--for I have no doubt there are lots of grocers who are quite,
quite tolerable; but you cannot imagine what he is. I had a letter
from him a little time ago--that time, you remember, when he sent me
those perfectly awful dresses--and he said then that he and my mother
were coming to see me, as he wanted to interview Mrs. Ward and to look
at the school for himself. Well, that poor Tildy brought me a letter
to-day from mother. I had written to mother to beg of her not to let
him come; but he got hold of the letter, and he was nearly mad about
it. The end of it is that he and she are coming on _Saturday_, and,
somehow, I can't bear it. I must run away; I _cannot_ endure it!"

"I don't wonder," said Aneta. "Let me think. Lay your head on my
shoulder, Maggie. Oh, how tired you are!"

"Aneta, you seem to me quite new--just as though I had never seen you
before."

"I think you and your story have opened my eyes and done me good,"
said Aneta. "Then what you said about the sufferings of the poor--I
mean your sort of poor--gave me great pain. Will you take off your
things and lie down, and let me lie by your side? Do, Maggie
darling!"

Maggie darling! Such words to come from Aneta Lysle's lips! Maggie
felt subjugated. She allowed her rival queen to undress her, and
presently the two girls were lying side by side in the little bed.
Maggie dropped off into heavy slumber. Aneta lay awake.

It was early morning when Aneta touched her companion.

"Maggie, I have been thinking hard all night, and I am going to do
something."

"You! What can you do? Oh, I remember everything now. Oh, the horror!
Oh, how can I endure it? Why didn't I run away?"

"Maggie, you must promise me faithfully that you will never run away.
Say it now, this minute. I believe in your word; I believe in your
fine nature. I will help you with all my might and main through
school-life, and afterwards. Give me your word now. You will stay at
Aylmer House?"

"I will stay," said poor Maggie.

"I don't ask any more. Thank you, dear. Maggie, do nothing to-day, but
leave matters in my hands. You are not well; your head aches, your
forehead is so hot."

"Yes, I have a headache," owned Maggie.

"I shall be away for the greater part of the day, but I will ask Miss
Johnson to look after you. Don't say anything until I return."

"But what are you going to do?"

"I am going to see your mother and your stepfather."

"Aneta!"

"Yes."

"Oh Aneta, you must not see him!"

"It is probable that I shall seem him, dear; I am not easily alarmed.
I will take Aunt Lucia with me. I am going downstairs now to ask Mrs.
Ward's permission."

"And you will say nothing about me?"

"Something, but nothing of your story. When you feel well enough you
can get up and go on with the preparations for to-morrow. I believe we
shall have our happy day."




CHAPTER XXIII.

AT LABURNUM VILLA.


Aneta went back to her room, where she dressed with her usual
expedition and extreme neatness. When she had finished her toilet she
ran downstairs. It was not yet eight o'clock; but most of the girls
were assembled in the large hall waiting for prayers, which always
took place before breakfast. Mrs. Ward was seen passing to the
library, where prayers were held. Aneta went up to her.

"Prayers first, of course," said Aneta, "and afterwards may I talk to
you?"

Mrs. Ward looked at Aneta. "What is the matter, dear?"

"Something very important indeed. I must see you."

"Well, breakfast follows prayers; come to me the minute breakfast is
over."

"Thank you, dear Mrs. Ward," said Aneta.

At breakfast Merry asked Aneta how Maggie was. Aneta said that Maggie
had a headache, and would not be in school during the morning.

"Then what are we to do about our day?" said Molly Tristram, who
overheard this remark. "We have absolutely more to get through than we
can possibly manage."

"Oh, to-morrow will be quite all right," said Aneta; "and Maggie will
join you presently."

Aneta was so respected in the school, so little given to exaggeration,
so absolutely to be relied on, that these words of hers had a most
calming effect. The girls continued their breakfast, those who were in
the secret of to-morrow occasionally alluding to the subject in
French, which was the only language allowed to be spoken. The others
talked about their different occupations.

As soon as ever breakfast was over, Aneta went to Mrs. Ward's private
room.

"Now, dear, what is it?" said the head-mistress. "I have to take the
class for literature at half-past nine, and have very little time to
spare."

"I won't keep you," said Aneta; "but what I wanted was to beg for a
day's holiday."

"My dear girl! What do you mean? In the middle of term--a day's
holiday! Can you not take it to-morrow?--oh, I forgot, to-morrow
Maggie is having her grand carnival, as I call it. But what is the
matter, Aneta? Have you any trouble?"

"Yes," said Aneta; "and I cannot tell you, dear Mrs. Ward."

"I trust you, of course, Aneta."

"I know you do; and I want you to trust me more than ever. It has
something to do with Maggie."

Mrs. Ward slightly frowned. "I am never sure"--she began.

But Aneta stopped her impulsively. "If you give me that holiday
to-day," she said, "and if you trust me, and if you will also give me
Mrs. Martin's address, which, of course, you must have on your
books"----

"Mrs. Martin's address?" said Mrs. Ward.

"Yes. You know Maggie's mother has married again; she is Mrs.
Martin."

"Of course, of course; I had forgotten for the moment. Yes, I have her
address."

"Well, if you will do all that," continued Aneta, "I think that you
will find a new Maggie in the future, one whom you--will trust,
and--and love, as I love her."

"My dear girl! as you love Maggie Howland?"

Aneta lowered her head for a minute. "It is true I did not love her,"
she said, "in the past, but I have changed my views. I have been
narrow-minded, and small, and silly. She herself has opened my eyes. I
cannot tell you more now. Maggie will come down, and will be able to
go on with her lessons just as usual this afternoon; but I want a day
off, and I want it at once."

"But where are you going, dear?"

"I am going to Aunt Lucia. You will let me have a cab, and I will
drive to Aunt Lucia's house in Eaton Square at once?"

Mrs. Ward looked doubtful. "You have a very grave reason for this?"
she said.

"Very, very grave; and I will tell you all presently."

"I have never had reason to doubt you," said Mrs. Ward, "and I won't
doubt you now. Does Maggie know of this?"

"Yes--oh yes; but please don't question her until I return."

"Very well, dear; you shall have your way. Oh, you want Mrs. Martin's
address. It is Laburnum Villa, Clapham."

Aneta entered the address in a little tablet bound in gold which she
always wore at her waist.

"Thank you ever so much," she said, and then left the room.

A minute or two later she met Miss Johnson. "Give me something stiff
to learn--something that I don't like--to-night, dear Lucy," she said.
"I am off for a whole day's holiday, but I shall be back in the
evening."

"That is very queer," said Miss Johnson. "What does it mean?"

"I cannot explain, but Mrs. Ward knows. Be specially kind to dear
Maggie, and give me something that I don't like to do when I return."

Miss Johnson smiled. "You shall hem some dusters," she said.

Aneta made a wry face. "Thanks ever so much," she replied; then she
ran upstairs to get ready for her visit.

Just before leaving the house she looked in at Maggie. "I'm off, Mags.
It's all right. I shall probably see you about tea-time."

Before Maggie had time even to expostulate Aneta closed the door, and
a minute or two later had stepped into the cab which Agnes had called
for her. The cabman was desired to drive Miss Lysle to Lady Lysle's
house in Eaton Square. This was accordingly done, and soon after ten
o'clock Lady Lysle, who had not yet completed her morning toilet, was
most amazed at being informed by her maid that Miss Lysle was waiting
for her downstairs.

"Aneta! You don't mean Aneta, Purcell?"

"Yes, my lady; and she wants to see you in a very great hurry."

"Then send her up to me."

Purcell disappeared. Lady Lysle wondered what was wrong. Presently
Aneta burst into the room.

"My dear child," said her aunt, "what can be wrong? Why have you left
school? I do hope no illness has broken out there. It would be very
inconvenient for me to have you here at present."

"There is no illness whatever at the school, Aunt Lucia," said Aneta,
going up to her aunt and kissing her; "only there is a girl there, one
of my schoolfellows, in a good bit of trouble, and I want to help her,
and I have got a day off from Mrs. Ward, who doesn't know why she is
giving it to me, but trusts me all the same. And now, auntie, I want
you to come with me at once."

"Oh my dear child, where?"

"To Clapham, auntie."

"Clapham! I never stopped at Clapham in my life. I have driven through
the place, it is true."

"Well, we'll stop there to-day," said Aneta, "at Laburnum Villa,
Clapham. I want to see Mrs. Martin, Maggie's mother."

"Oh, dear child," said Lady Lysle, "you mean Miss Howland when you
speak of Maggie? Now, you know I told you that her stepfather is no
relation whatever to the Martyns of The Meadows. I cannot make out why
she should have given you to understand that he was. A man who lives
at Clapham! Dear Aneta, I would rather be excused."

"There is no excuse, auntie, that I can listen to for a single moment.
I know all about Maggie's stepfather, and I will tell you as we are
driving out to Clapham. You have always let me have my own way, and I
have--yes, I have tried to be a good girl; but there is something
before me to-day more important and more difficult than I ever tackled
yet, and if I can't come to my own aunt--I, who am a motherless
girl--for help at this crisis I shall think the world is coming to an
end."

"What a strange, earnest way you do speak in, Aneta!"

"I am very sorry, darling; but I assure you the case is most urgent.
You are quite well, aren't you?"

"Oh yes, my love; I am never an ailing sort of person."

"Well, then, I will send Purcell back to you, and please order the
carriage, and please be as quick as possible. We have to go somewhere
else after we have done with Mrs. Martin."

"Well, Aneta, I always was wax in your hands, and I suppose I must do
what you wish. But remember your promise that you will tell me the
meaning of this extraordinary thing during our drive to Clapham."

"I promise faithfully to tell you what is necessary, for the fact is I
want your help. Darling auntie! you are doing about the best work of
your life to-day. I knew you would stand by me; I felt certain of it,
and I told Maggie so."

"That girl!" said Lady Lysle. "I don't care for that girl."

"You will change your mind about her presently," said Aneta, and she
ran downstairs to request Davidson, the butler, to bring her something
to eat, for her breakfast had been slight, and she was quite hungry
enough to enjoy some of her aunt's nice food.

By-and-by Lady Lysle, looking slim and beautiful, wearing her becoming
sables and her toque with its long black ostrich plume, appeared on
the scene, and a minute later Davidson announced that the carriage was
at the door.

The two ladies stepped in, Aneta giving very careful directions to the
driver.

He expressed some astonishment at the address. "Laburnum Villa,
Clapham!" he said. "Martin, Laburnum Villa, Clapham! Clapham's a big
place, miss."

"I know that," said Aneta; "but that is all the address I can obtain.
We must call at the post-office, if necessary, to get the name of the
street."

The footman sprang into his place, and Aneta and her aunt drove off in
the comfortable brougham towards that suburb known as Clapham.

"Now, Aneta, I suppose you will tell me what is the meaning of this?"

"Yes, I will," said Aneta. "I made a mistake about Maggie, and I am
willing to own it. She has been placed in a difficult position. I do
not mean for a minute to imply that she has acted in a straight way,
for she has not. But there is that in her which will make her the best
of girls in the future, as she is one of the cleverest and one of the
most charming. Yes, auntie, she has got a great power about her. She
is a sort of magnet--she attracts people to her."

"She has never attracted me," said Lady Lysle. "I have always thought
her a singularly plain girl."

"Ugliness like hers is really attractive," said Aneta. "But, now, the
thing is this: if we don't help her she will be absolutely lost, all
her chance taken from her, and her character ruined for ever. We do a
lot at our school for those poor slum-girls, but we never do anything
for girls in our class. Now, I mean my girl in future to be Maggie
Howland."

"Aneta, you are absurd!"

"I mean it, auntie; her father's daughter deserves help. Her father
was as good a man as ever lived, and for his sake something ought to
be done for his only child. As to her mother"----

"Yes, the woman who has married a person of the name of Martin, and to
whose house I presume we are going"----

"Auntie, I have rather a shock to give you. Poor Maggie did mean to
imply that her stepfather was in a different class of life from what
he is. He is a--grocer!"

Lady Lysle put up her hand to pull the check-string.

"Pray, auntie, don't do that. Maggie isn't the daughter of a grocer,
and she can't help her mother having married this dreadful man. I want
Maggie to have nothing to do with her stepfather in the future, and I
mean to carry out my ideas, and you have got to help me."

"Indeed, I will do nothing of the kind. What a disgraceful girl! She
must leave Aylmer House at once."

"Then I will go too," said Aneta.

"Aneta, I never knew you behave in such a way before."

"Come, auntie darling, you know you are the sweetest and the most
loving and sympathetic person in the world; and why should you turn
away from a poor little girl who quite against her own will finds
herself the stepdaughter of a grocer? Maggie has given me to
understand that he is a dreadful man. She is horrified with him, and
what I am going now to Laburnum Villa about is to try to prevent his
visiting the school with his wife on Saturday. I will do the talking,
dear, and you have only to sit by and look dignified."

"I never was put in such a dreadful position before," said Lady Lysle,
"and really even you, Aneta, go too far when you expect me to do
this."

"But you would visit a poor woman in East London without the smallest
compunction," said Aneta.

"That is different," replied Lady Lysle with dignity.

"It is different," replied Aneta; "but the difference lies in the fact
that the grocer's wife is very much higher up in the social scale than
the East End woman."

"Oh my dear child, this is really appalling! I have always distrusted
that Miss Howland. Does Mrs. Ward know of your project?"

"Not yet, but she will to-night."

"And what am I to do when I visit this person?"

"Just look your dear, sweet, dignified self, and allow me to do the
talking."

"I think you have taken leave of your senses."

"I haven't taken leave of my senses, and I would do more than I am now
doing to help a fine girl round a nasty corner. So cheer up, auntie!
After we have seen Mrs. Martin we have to go on and visit the
grocer."

"Aneta, that I do decline!"

"I am sure you won't decline. But let us think of Mrs. Martin herself
first, and try to remember that by birth she is a lady."

Just at this moment the carriage drew up outside a post-office. There
was a short delay while Laburnum Villa was being inquired for by the
footman. At last the street in which this small suburban dwelling was
situated was discovered, and a few minutes later the carriage, with
its splendid horses and two servants on the box, drew up before the
green-painted door.

The villa was small, but it was exceedingly neat. The little brass
knocker shone, even though yesterday was a day of such fog. The
footman came to the carriage-door to make inquiries.

"I will get out," said Aneta.

"Hadn't James best inquire if the woman is in?" said Lady Lysle.

"No, I think I will," said Aneta.

She went up the narrow path and rang the front-door bell. Tildy opened
the door. The new cook had been peeping above the blinds in the
kitchen. Tildy had hastily put on a white apron, but it is to be
regretted that a smut was once more on her cheek. Somehow, Aneta liked
her all the better for that smut.

"I want to see your mistress, Tildy," she said. "It is something about
Miss Maggie, and I am, as you know, one of her schoolfellows."

"Lor', miss! yes, for certain, miss. Mrs. Martin 'll be that proud,
miss."

"I have brought my aunt with me," said Aneta. "She would like to come
in too in order to see Mrs. Martin."

"Yes, miss; in course, miss. There's no fire lit in the drawin'-room.
But there's the dinin'-room; it do smell a bit smoky, for master 'e
loves 'is pipe. 'E smokes a lot in the dinin'-room, miss."

"Show us into the dining-room," said Aneta. She ran back to fetch Lady
Lysle, and conducted that amazed and indignant woman into the house.

Tildy rushed upstairs to fetch her mistress. "You get into your best
gown in no time, mum. There's visitors downstairs--that most beauteous
young lady who spoke to me yesterday at Aylmer House, and a lady
alongside of 'er as 'u'd make yer 'eart quake. Ef Queen Victoria was
alive I'd say yes, it was 'erself. Never did I mark such a sweepin'
and 'aughty manner. They're fine folks, both of 'em, and no mistake."

"Did they give their names?" asked Mrs. Martin.

"I didn't even arsk, mum. They want to see you about our Miss
Maggie."

"Well, I will go down. What a queer, early hour for visitors! What
dress shall I wear, Tildy?"

"I'd say the amber satin, mum, ef I'd a voice in the choice. You look
elegant in it, mum, and you might 'ave your black lace shawl."

"I don't think I will wear satin in the morning," said Mrs. Martin.

Tildy helped her into a dark-brown merino dress, one of her extensive
trousseau. Mrs. Martin then went downstairs, prepared to show these
visitors that she was "as good as them, if not better." But the
glimpse of the carriage and horses which she got through the
lobby-window very nearly bowled her over.

"Go in, mum, now; you've kept them waitin' long enough. I can serve up
an elegant lunch if you want it."

Tildy felt almost inclined to poke at her mistress in order to hurry
her movements. Mrs. Martin opened the dining-room door and stood just
for a minute on the threshold. She looked at that moment a perfect
lady. Her gentle, faded face and extreme slimness gave her a grace of
demeanor which Lady Lysle was quick to acknowledge. She bowed, and
looked at Aneta to speak for her.

"How do you do, Mrs. Martin," said that young lady. "I am Aneta Lysle,
one of your daughter's schoolfellows. My aunt, Lady Lysle"--Mrs.
Martin bowed--"has kindly come with me to see you. We want to have a
little confidential talk with you."

"Oh, indeed!" said Mrs. Martin. "Has Maggie done anything wrong? She
always was a particularly troublesome girl."

"I quite agree with you," said Lady Lysle. At that moment she had an
idea of Maggie in disgrace and banished from Aylmer House, which
pleased her.

Mrs. Martin stopped speaking when Lady Lysle said this.

"Doubtless you agree with me, Mrs. Martin," continued the lady, "that
your daughter would do better at another school."

"Oh no," said Mrs. Martin; "we wish her--Bo-peep and I--I mean James
and I--to stay where she is."

"And so do I wish her to stay where she is," said Aneta.--"Auntie
darling, you don't quite understand; but Mrs. Martin and I
understand.--Don't we, Mrs. Martin?"

"Well, I am sure," said Mrs. Martin, "I haven't the faintest idea what
you are driving at, Miss--Miss Lysle."

"Well, it is just this," said Aneta. "You sent a letter yesterday to
Maggie."

"I did," said Mrs. Martin; "and great need I had to send it."

"In that letter you informed Maggie that you and your husband were
coming to see her to-morrow."

"Bo-peep wishes--I mean, James wishes--to."

"Really, Aneta, had not we better go?" said Lady Lysle.

"Not yet, auntie, please.--Mrs. Martin, I begged for a holiday to-day
on purpose to come and see you."

"If it's because you think I'll keep James--Bo-peep--I mean
James--from having his heart's wish, I am sorry you have wasted your
time," said Mrs. Martin. "The fact is, he is very angry indeed with
Maggie. He considers her his own child now, which of course is true,
seeing that he has married me, and I really can't go into particulars;
but he is determined to see her and to see Mrs. Ward, and he's not a
bit ashamed of being--being--well, what he is--an honorable
tradesman--a grocer."

"But perhaps you are aware," said Lady Lysle, "that the daughters of
grocers--I mean tradesmen--are not admitted to Aylmer House."

Mrs. Martin turned her frightened eyes on the lady. "Maggie isn't the
real daughter of a tradesman," she said then. "She is only the
stepdaughter. Her own father was"----

"Yes," said Aneta, "we all know what her own father was--a splendid
man, one of the makers of our Empire. We are all proud of her own
father, and we do not see for a moment why Maggie should not live up
to the true circumstances of her birth, and I have come here to-day,
Mrs. Martin, to ask you to help me. If you and your husband come to
Aylmer House there will be no help, for Maggie will certainly have to
leave the school."

"Of course, and the sooner the better," said Lady Lysle.

"But if you will help us, and prevent your husband from coming to our
school to-morrow, there is no reason whatever why she shouldn't stay
at the school. Even her expenses can be paid from quite another
source."

Mrs. Martin looked intensely nervous. A bright spot of color came into
her left cheek. Her right cheek was deadly pale.

"I--I cannot help it," she said. "I never meant Bo-peep to go; I never
wished him to go. But he said, 'Little-sing, I will go'--I--I forgot
myself--of course you don't understand. He is a very good husband to
me, but he and Maggie never get on."

"I am sure they don't," said Aneta with fervor.

"Never," continued Mrs. Martin. "I got on with her only with
difficulty before I married my present dear husband. I am not at all
ashamed of his being a grocer. He gives me comforts, and is fond of
me, and I have a much better time with him than I had in shabby, dirty
lodgings at Shepherd's Bush. I don't want him to go to that school
to-morrow; but I thought it right to let Maggie know he was coming,
for, all the same, go he will. When James puts his foot down he is a
very determined man."

"This is altogether a most unpleasant interview," said Lady Lysle,
"and I have only come here at my niece's request.--Perhaps, Aneta, we
can go now."

"Not yet, auntie darling.--Mrs. Martin, Maggie and I had a long talk
yesterday, and will you put this matter into my hands?"

"Good heavens! what next?" murmured Lady Lysle to herself.

"Will you give me your husband's address, and may I go to see him?"

"You mean the--the--shop?" said Mrs. Martin.

"I don't go into that shop!" said Lady Lysle.

"Yes, I mean the shop," said Aneta. "I want to go and see him there."

"Oh, he will be so angry, and I am really terrified of him when he is
angry."

"But think how much more angry he will be if you don't give me that
address, and things happen to-morrow which you little expect. Oh!
please trust me."

Aneta said a few more words, and in the end she was in possession of
that address at Shepherd's Bush where Martin the grocer's flourishing
shop was to be found.

"Thank you so very much, Mrs. Martin. I don't think you will ever
regret this," said the girl.

Lady Lysle bowed to the wife of the grocer as she went out, but Aneta
took her hand.

"Perhaps you never quite understood Maggie," she said; "and perhaps,
in the future, you won't have a great deal to say to her."

"I don't want to; she never suited me a bit," said the mother, "and I
am very happy with Bo-peep."

"Well, at least you may feel," said Aneta, "that I am going to be
Maggie's special friend."

Mrs. Martin stood silent while Lady Lysle and her niece walked down
the little path and got into the carriage. When the carriage rolled
away she burst into a flood of tears. She did not know whether she was
glad or sorry; but, somehow, she had faith in Aneta. Was she never
going to see Maggie again? She was not quite without maternal love for
her only child, but she cared very much more for Bo-peep, and quite
felt that Maggie would be a most troublesome inmate of Laburnum
Villa.

"Now, Aneta," said her aunt as the carriage rolled away, "I have gone
through enough in your service for one day."

"You haven't been at all nice, auntie," said Aneta; "but perhaps you
will be better when you get to the shop."

"I will not go to the shop."

"Auntie, just think, once and for all, that you are doing a very
philanthropic act, and that you are helping me, whom you love so
dearly."

"Of course I love you, Aneta. Are you not as my own precious child?"

"Well, now, I want you to buy no end of things at Martin's shop."

"Buy things! Good gracious, child, at a grocer's shop! But I get all
my groceries at the Stores, and the housekeeper attends to my
orders."

"Well, anyhow, spend from five to ten pounds at Martin's to-day. You
can get tea made up in half-pound packets and give it away wholesale
to your poor women. Christmas is coming on, and they will appreciate
good tea, no matter where it has been bought from."

"Well, you may go in and give the order," said Lady Lysle; "but I
won't see that grocer. I will sit in the carriage and wait for you."

Aneta considered for a few minutes, and then said in a sad voice,
"Very well."

Lady Lysle looked at her once or twice during the long drive which
followed. Aneta's little face was rather pale, but her eyes were full
of subdued fire. She was determined to carry the day at any cost.




CHAPTER XXIV.

A VISIT TO THE GROCER.


James Martin abhorred the aristocracy--so he said. Nevertheless,
he greatly admired his elegant wife in her faded beauty. He liked to
hear her speak, and he made some effort to copy her "genteel
pronunciation." He also, in his inmost heart, admired Maggie as a
girl of spirit, although not a beautiful one. He had his own ideas
with regard to female loveliness, and, like all men, was impressed
and attracted by it.

On this special foggy day, as he was standing behind his counter
busily engaged attending to a customer who was only requiring a small
order to be made up, he gave a visible start, raised his eyes, dropped
his account-book, let his pencil roll on to the floor, and stared
straight before him. For somebody was coming into the shop--somebody
so very beautiful that his eyes were dazzled and, as he said
afterwards, his heart melted within him. A radiant-looking girl, with
wonderful blue eyes and hair of the color of pure gold, a girl with a
refined face--most beautifully dressed--although Martin could not
quite make out in what fashion she was apparelled--came quickly up to
the counter and then stood still, waiting for some one to attend to
her. The other men in the shop also saw this lovely vision, and an
attendant of the name of Turtle sprang forward to ask what he could
do.

"I want to see Mr. Martin," said the silvery voice.

Martin felt pleased, and said _sotto voce_, "Chuck it, Turtle; you're
out of it, old boy." A minute later he was standing before Aneta,
inquiring in a trembling voice what he could do for her.

"I want to order fifty pounds of tea to be made up in half-pound
packets and sent to my aunt, Lady Lysle, 16B Eaton Square," said
Aneta. "The tea will be paid for on delivery, and please let it be the
very best. I also want a hundred pound-packets of the best currants,
and a hundred pound-packets of the best sugar."

"Demerara, miss, or loaf?" inquired Martin, tremblingly putting down
the order.

"Loaf, I think," said Aneta. "Will you kindly send everything within
the next day or two to Eaton Square, 16B, to Lady Lysle?"

"I will enter her ladyship's name in my book. Yes, it shall be done,"
said Martin.

He looked at Aneta, and Aneta looked straight back at him.

"Mr. Martin," she said suddenly, "I am the school-friend of your
stepdaughter, Maggie Howland. May I have a little conversation with
you in your private room?"

"Ah, I thought there was something!" said Martin. "To be sure, miss,"
he added.--"Turtle, you see that this order is _h_executed. It's for
her ladyship, Lady Lysle, 16B Eaton Square.--Come this way, my lady."

"I am only Miss Lysle," said Aneta.

All the attendants in the shop gazed in wonder as the beautiful girl
and the excited Martin went into the little parlor at the back of the
business establishment. There Martin stood with his hands behind him;
but Aneta sank into a low chair.

"I want to ask you a great favor, Mr. Martin," said the girl. She
looked full up at him as she spoke.

Martin thought that he had never in his life seen such melting and
lovely blue eyes before. "She bowls me over," he kept saying to
himself. "I hate the aristocrats, but somehow she bowls me
over."--"Anything in my power, miss," he said aloud, and he made a low
bow, pressing his hand to his chest.

"I think," said Aneta--"indeed, I am sure--to judge from your most
flourishing shop--that you are a good business man."

"Well, now, there's no doubt on that point, Miss--Miss Lysle."

"But you would like to extend your custom?" said Aneta.

"Business is always business to me," replied Martin.

"Well, the fact is, it lies in my power to induce my aunt, Lady Lysle,
to get her groceries from you. She has a large establishment and sees
a great deal of company. She gets them now at the Army and Navy
Stores, but I haven't the slightest doubt that she would not object to
have them from you."

"You are exceedingly good, Miss Lysle, and I am sure anything that her
ladyship ordered should have my very best attention; in fact, I should
make it my business to get in specially good things for her. If I
might let you into a business secret, miss, the people round here
don't want the very best things; they don't, so to speak, appreciate
them."

"I quite understand that," said Aneta. "Of course Lady Lysle would
require the very best."

"She should have the best, miss; I'd be proud of her custom. Things
should be punctually delivered; just an order overnight, and my cart
would convey them to her ladyship's door at an early hour on the
following day."

"Yes, it could be arranged," said Aneta.

"Then, perhaps, miss," said Mr. Martin, who saw brilliant prospects
opening before him, and the possibility of a West End shop, a genuine
West End shop, being his, as well as the profitable establishment at
Shepherd's Bush, "her ladyship might be so kind as to recommend me to
others."

"It is possible," said Aneta coldly; "but of course I can only speak
for my aunt herself." Then she added, "And even for her I cannot quite
speak, although I believe the matter can be arranged. I have given you
a large order to-day."

"You have, Miss Lysle, and most faithfully will it be attended to."

Martin took out his red silk handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

"Now," said Aneta gently, "I haven't come here all the way from Aylmer
House, and practically given up a day of my school-life, for nothing.
I have come on behalf of another."

"Ho, ho!" said Martin, "so the cat's going to be let out of the bag."

Aneta colored.

Martin saw he had gone too far, and immediately apologized. "You will
forgive my coarse way of expressing myself, miss. I know it isn't done
in your circle."

"It doesn't matter," said Aneta. "I will come to the point at once. I
am interested in Miss Howland."

"Ah! my little stepdaughter. I keep her at a fine, smart school, don't
I? I do the knowing by her, don't I?"

"Well, all I want you to do in future--and I believe her mother will
consent, for I have seen Mrs. Martin this morning"----

"You went to Laburnum Villa this morning? Tasty place, that, eh?"

"Yes, a very comfortable sort of house. My aunt, Lady Lysle, and I
went together."

"Her ladyship and you?"

"We drove there."

"I hope the neighbors saw," said Martin. "They'll come in shoals to
see Little-sing after they've peeped at her ladyship's carriage."

Aneta could scarcely keep back a smile.

"Mr. Martin," she said, "if I do what I intend for you--and it lies in
my power--will you please not come to Aylmer House to-morrow?"

"Ho, hi! And why not? Ashamed of me, eh?"

"Not at all," said Aneta. "I am not ashamed of you in your walk in
life; but I think it would be best for Maggie if you did not come;
therefore I ask you not to do so."

"But the girl's my girl."

"No, she is her mother's daughter; and, to tell the truth, we all
want--I mean, my aunt and I, and others--to have her to ourselves, at
least until she is educated."

"But, come now, miss, that's all very fine. Who pays for her
education?"

"Her father's money."

"So she let that out?" said Martin.

"I know about it," said Aneta. "That is sufficient. Now, Mr. Martin, I
ask you to become grocer to my aunt, Lady Lysle, of Eaton Square, and
to any friends who she may recommend, on the sole condition that you
do not come to Aylmer House, and that you allow Maggie Howland to
spend the holidays with us."

"Oh, my word, I am sure I don't care," said Martin,

"You promise, then?"

"Yes, I promise fast enough. If you're going to take Maggie and bring
her up a fine lady she'll never suit me. All I beg is that she doesn't
come back to me like a bad penny some day."

"That I can absolutely assure you she will never do. I am exceedingly
obliged to you. Will you come with me now and let me say a few words
to my aunt; for as you have made your definite promise to leave Maggie
alone, my aunt must make a definite promise to you."

Lady Lysle was much astonished, as she sat wearily in her carriage,
when a red-faced, bald-looking, stout grocer accompanied her elegant
young niece to the carriage-door.

"Aunt Lucia," said Aneta, "this is Mr. Martin."

Lady Lysle gave the faintest inclination of her head.

"Proud to see your ladyship," said Martin.

"I have been making arrangements with Mr. Martin," said Aneta, "and
on certain conditions he will do what I want. Will you please, in
future, get your groceries from him?"

"I will faithfully attend to you, my lady, if agreeable to you. I will
come weekly for _h_orders. I will do anything to oblige your
ladyship."

"Please, auntie, you've got to do it," said Aneta.

"My dear, it depends on Watson, my housekeeper."

"Oh, I'll manage Watson," said Aneta, springing lightly into the
carriage, her face all beams and smiles.--"It is quite right, Mr.
Martin; and you will get your second order this evening. You won't
forget about the tea and currants and sugar for the poor people.--Now,
auntie, will you drive me back to Aylmer House, or shall we go
straight to Eaton Square?"

"Eaton Square, I think."

"Good-day, Mr. Martin."

The carriage rolled out of sight. Martin stood bareheaded in the
doorway of his shop. There was not a prouder man than he in the whole
of Christendom. When he returned to the sacred precincts of the shop
itself he said to Turtle, "Fresh customer, Turtle--West End, Turtle.
That's a fine young lady--eh, Turtle?"

"The most beautiful young female I ever saw," returned Turtle.

"When I ask you what you think of her personal appearance you can tell
me, Turtle. Now, go and attend to the shop."

Meanwhile Aneta, her heart full of thankfulness, accompanied her aunt
to Eaton Square.

"I have got what I want," she said, "and dear Maggie is practically
saved; and you have done it, auntie. You will feel happier for this to
your dying day."

Lady Lysle said that at the present moment she did not feel specially
elated at the thought of getting her tea and numerous groceries at a
shop in Shepherd's Bush; but Aneta assured her that that was a very
tiny sacrifice to make for so great an end as she had in view.

"It will help Mr. Martin," she said. "He is not a gentleman, and
doesn't pretend to be, but he's a good, honest tradesman; and perhaps
Mrs. Ward, too, will give him some of her custom."

"Well, my dear Aneta, if you're happy, I have nothing to say,"
responded her aunt. "But you must tackle Watson, for I really cannot
attempt it."

Aneta did tackle the old housekeeper to some purpose. At first there
were objections, protests, exclamations; but Aneta was sure of her
ground. Did not Mrs. Watson idolize the girl, having known her from
her earliest days?

About tea-time a tired and triumphant girl returned to Aylmer House.
She had had her way. The great difficulty was overcome. Maggie,
looking pale and tired, was having tea with the others. Aneta sat down
by her side. Maggie turned anxious eyes towards the queen of the
school whom she used to fear and almost hate. But there was no hatred
now in Maggie's eyes. Far, far from that, she looked upon Aneta as a
refuge in the storm. If Aneta could not get her out of her present
trouble no one could.

"You will be very busy during the leisure hours this afternoon," said
Aneta when the meal was coming to an end. "But, first of all, I want
to speak to you just for a minute or two."

"Yes," said Maggie.

"We have done tea now. May Maggie and I go away by ourselves, please,
Miss Johnson, for a few minutes?" said Aneta.

Miss Johnson signified her consent, and the two queens left the room
together. The other girls looked after them, wondering vaguely what
was up.

"Maggie," said Aneta, "I have managed everything."

"Aneta--you haven't"----

"Yes; he isn't coming to-morrow, nor is your mother; and Aunt Lucia
has invited you to spend the Christmas holidays with us. You can see
your mother occasionally; but, somehow or other, Maggie dear, you are
to be my friend in future; and--oh, Maggie!"

"Oh Aneta! how can I ever, ever thank you?"

"Well, the beginning of the way is a little hard," said Aneta. "Come
now, at once, straight to Mrs. Ward, and tell her every single
thing."

"She will expel me if I do," said Maggie.

"That I know she will not. She is too true and dear and kind. Besides,
I will stay with you all the time while you are telling her. Come,
quick. You can get your confession over in a very few minutes."

"Oh Aneta! for you I would do anything. But how did you manage to get
my dreadful stepfather to give up his plan."

"That matters little. He has given it up. Now, come. There's much to
do to prepare for to-morrow; but you must get your confession over
first."

Mrs. Ward always had her tea alone, and she was just finishing it on
this special evening when there came a tap at her door, and, to her
great amazement, Aneta and Maggie entered, holding each other's
hands.

"Mrs. Ward, Maggie has something to say to you."

"Yes," said Maggie; and then in a few broken words, choked by tears of
true repentance, she told her story. She had been ashamed of her
stepfather. She had been deceitful. She had been afraid to confess
that she was taken at a lower fee than the other girls at the school.
She had gone out, without leave, to sell one of her own father's
treasures. Everything was told. Mrs. Ward looked very grave as the
girl, with bent head, related the story of her deceit and
wrong-doing.

"I know you can expel me," said Maggie.

"But you will not," said Aneta. "I feel sure of that, for I, who never
cared for Maggie until now, love her with all my heart. There will be
no rivalry in the school any more, and dear Maggie must not go."

"Oh, if you would keep me! If you would keep me," said Maggie, "and
give me one more chance!"

"Have you asked God to forgive you, Maggie?" said Mrs. Ward.

"I cannot, somehow; my heart is so cold. But if--if you would"----

"We will ask Him together," said Mrs. Ward.

There and then she knelt down, and Aneta and Maggie knelt at each side
of her, and she said a few words of prayer which touched Maggie's
heart as no words had ever touched it before. "Keep from her all
hurtful things, and give her those things which are necessary for her
salvation," pleaded the mistress.

Suddenly Mrs. Ward's hand was taken by Maggie and covered with kisses.
"Oh, I will try!" she said; "I will try hard to be really good! And,"
she added, "I will take any punishment you give me."

Mrs. Ward looked at her with sparkling eyes. She was a very keen
observer of character. She put her hand under the girl's chin and
looked into her downcast face.

"My dear," she said, "full and absolute forgiveness means the doing
away with punishment. You have suffered sorely; I will not add to your
suffering in any way. Now, go and prepare for to-morrow's
entertainment.--Aneta, you will stay with me for a few minutes."

Maggie left the room, but in a short time she returned. She carried in
her arms the two tin boxes which contained her father's treasures.

"I want you to keep these for me, or to sell them, or to do what you
like with them," said Maggie. She then immediately left the room.

Mrs. Ward and Aneta bent over the treasures. Mrs. Ward gave a start of
great surprise when she saw them.

"Why, these," she said, "are a fortune in themselves."

"I thought so," said Aneta, her eyes sparkling. "I felt sure of it. We
must get that brooch back from Pearce."

"Yes, Aneta; I will send Miss Johnson round for it at once. What did
you say he gave Maggie for it?"

"Five pounds, Mrs. Ward."

"It is very honest of him to offer to restore it to her. Ring the
bell, dear, and Lucy Johnson will come."

Miss Johnson was very much interested when she saw the sparkling
treasures.

"Maggie's!" she exclaimed. "I am glad she has given them to you to
take care of for her. I was always terrified at her keeping such
priceless things in her drawer."

Mrs. Ward gave the girl some directions and the necessary money; she
went off to fulfill her errand in considerable amazement. Lucy
returned in less than half-an-hour with the lovely little brooch,
which was immediately added to the collection.

"The best person to see these, as you suggested, Aneta," said Mrs.
Ward, "is Sir Charles Lysle. They are really no good to Maggie, but
ought to be sold for their utmost value for her benefit. She has many
fine points, and considerable strength of character; and if you take
her up, dear, I feel certain that she will be saved from all those
things which would ruin a nature like hers."

"I mean to take her up," said Aneta with spirit.

"Well," said Mrs. Ward, "the first thing to do is to get to-morrow
over. I have no doubt it will be a success. Meanwhile, will you write
a line to your uncle, Sir Charles, and ask him if he can call here to
see these treasures?"

"Yes, I will write to him at once," said Aneta. "He spends most of his
time at the British Museum. Couldn't I send him a wire, Mrs. Ward, and
then he would come to-night?"

"Yes, that is a very good idea. Do so, my love."

The girls had a very spirited rehearsal, and Maggie was her old
vivacious, daring, clever self once more. That inward change which no
doubt had taken place brought an added charm to her always expressive
face.

Between seven and eight that evening Aneta's uncle, Sir Charles,
arrived. He and Mrs. Ward had a long consultation. His opinion was
that the bracelets and other curios were worth at least seven thousand
pounds, and that such a sum could easily be obtained for them.

"In fact, I myself would buy them for that figure," said Sir Charles.
"It is not only that there are in this collection some unique and
valuable stones; but the history, the setting, and the make of these
ancient relics would induce the British Museum to buy many of them.
Doubtless, however, Miss Howland will get the biggest price of all for
them if they are auctioned at Christie's."

Before she went to bed that night Aneta told Maggie that she was by no
means a penniless girl, and that if she would consent to having her
father's treasures sold she would have sufficient money to be well
educated, and have a nice nest-egg in the future to start in any
profession she fancied.

"Oh Aneta, it is all too wonderful!" said poor Maggie--"to think of me
as I am to-night, and of me as I felt last night when I wanted to lose
myself in the London fog. Aneta, I can never love you enough!"

"You want a good long sleep," she said. "Think of to-morrow and all
the excitement which lies before us!"

Maggie did sleep soundly that night, for she was quite worn out, and
when Saturday arrived she awoke without a fear and with a wonderful
lightness of heart. The day of the festival and rejoining passed
without a hitch. The supper was delightful. The tableaux vivants were
the best the school had ever seen. The games, the fun, made the
Cardews at least think that they had entered into a new world.

But perhaps the best scene of all came at the end when Aneta went up
to Maggie and took her hand, and, still holding it, turned and faced
the assembled school.

"Maggie and I don't mean to be rival queens any longer," she said. "We
are joint-queens. All Maggie's subjects are my subjects and all my
subjects are Maggie's. Any girl who disapproves of this, will she hold
down her hand? Any girl who approves, will she hold her hand up in the
air?"

Instantly all the pairs of hands were raised, and there was such a
clapping and so many cheers for the queens who were no longer rival
queens that mademoiselle was heard to exclaim, "But it is charming. It
makes the heart to bound. I do love the English manner, and
Mademoiselle Aneta, _si jolie, si élégante_; and Mademoiselle Maggie,
who has a large charm. I do make homage to them as the two queens. I
would," she continued, turning and clasping Miss Johnson's hands, "be
a schoolgirl myself to be a subject of them."

                  *       *       *       *       *

A few words will suffice to end this story. Lady Lysle might be proud
and perhaps somewhat disdainful, but she was at least as good as her
word, and in a very short time Martin the grocer thought it worth his
while to open a very smart-looking shop in the West End. This shop
Lady Lysle took a curious interest in and recommended to her friends,
so that Martin began to do as sound a business in the neighborhood of
Eaton Square as he did in Shepherd's Bush. Of all things in the world,
he liked best to make money, and he was quite glad to be rid of Maggie
when his own prospects became golden owing to her absence from his
premises.

As to Mrs. Martin, she was content to see her daughter occasionally.

Maggie's curios were all sold, except the little brooch (which she
kept for herself in memory of her father), for a sufficiently large
sum to pay for her education and to leave her enough money to do well
for herself by-and-by. Having no longer anything to conceal, and under
the beautiful, brave influence of Aneta, she became quite a different
girl. That strength of character and that strange fascination which
were her special powers were now turned into useful channels. Maggie
could never be beautiful, but her talents were above the average, and
her moral nature now received every stimulus in the right direction.
Merry Cardew could love her, and gain good, not harm, from her
influence. But, strange to say--although perhaps not strange--Aneta
was her special friend. It was with Aneta that Maggie mostly spent her
holidays. It was Aneta's least word that Maggie obeyed. It was for
Aneta's approval that Maggie lived.

Queens of the school they still remain, each exercising her influence
in her own way, and yet both working in perfect harmony.

"Have they not both the characters beautiful?" said mademoiselle. "I
think there is no girl like the English girl."

Doubtless she is right.

THE END




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